A few weeks ago I ran into the worst mistake I ever made. Literally, since I was running. Which is ironic, as that’s what I should have done the first time I bumped into him.
I’d described him as a white male, early 40s, about 1.6m tall, of average build, with no distinguishing features, when I went to the police station to get a restraining order in 2011. And he still looks like that, just older, greyer and, if humanly possible, even more shifty.
It was a classic girl meets boy story. Girl meets boy, girl dates boy, girl gets a funny feeling about boy, girl tries to break up with boy, girl gets stalked by boy, girl gets a restraining order against boy.
I’ve often wondered who he’s gone on to con and manipulate since then. I wish I could have warned his future victims. When we were dating and things started to turn hairy, I reached out to his ex-wife looking for answers. She refused to speak to me. I guess he was the worst mistake she’d made too. Only with added marriage licence and subsequent ugly divorce.
So, the other morning, when I pulled my cap down to cover my face, picked up my pace (PB achieved!) and hoped like hell he hadn’t seen me, it made me consider my ex-trail.
Our dating history says a lot about us. It's a road map of our younger selves, which we can use to trace our journey. If con-face is anything to go by, I got horribly lost around route-marker 30.
If I had been my own therapist then, I would have tsked, shook my head, billed myself a grand and a half and booked in for a session a week until the apocalypse. But then, if our relationship choices at the time of Christmases past shed some light on our psyche, surely our relationships with these exes can also be a teachable moment?
The guy I’m with now is one of those people who make a point of maintaining friendships with all their exes. He has two beautiful children with one of them, so I get that, but all of them? I’m clearly not as evolved. But can you blame me? Who wants to go for tapas with the guy who broke into their flat and stole their jewellery 10 years ago? Come to think of it, it’s not just the con artist; I don’t speak to any of my exes.
Is that bad? Though I bet myself/psychiatrist would be OK with this. Probably just relieved she’s not going to have to peel those onions too.
What kind of sociopath still goes for dinner with their ex seven years after they broke up?
Fortunately, I haven’t had to go to the police about any of the others (yet), and if we were to walk past each other on the street I’m sure we would smile and greet each other. So maybe I am evolved.
The more I think about it, maybe my guy is the one with issues? What kind of sociopath still goes for dinner with their ex seven years after they broke up? The more I think about it, the more I think that’s the crazy move. Myself/psychiatrist would mutter something about not being able to let go.
However, all this relationship reminiscing got me thinking about my close friends through the decades. And marvelling at the difference between my lifetime of friendship choices versus my lifetime of relationship choices. You couldn’t find two more different ships. All my female friends are loyal, committed, honest, kind, with not an adulterer among them. While my past relationships have been downgraded to junk status (present guy not included, of course. Hi my guy, kisses!).
Wait, what if it’s a gender thing? What if all girlfriends are amazing (me and my friends, cases in point), and it’s just the boyfriends who are nuts? I bounced this theory off my datiest guy-mate, Single-Jase. But he told me about Crazy Stacy, who cut off a piece of his hair one night while he was sleeping. And Joleen, the dental hygienist who introduced him to her parents as an accountant (he’s in film).
OK so it’s got nothing to do with gender. I suppose that means I’m going to have to interrogate myself over why my standards have always been so much higher for the girlfriends than they have been for my boyfriend selections.
It’s a psychology I’d love to delve into, but I’ve already blown all my money on myself/therapist.
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