Why I'm Not Married

If you don't read Coaster Punchman's World, here's a little story of our wacky life on the left coast. I was really annoyed at first because, while I find the story quite funny, his retelling made me feel like I didn't handle it well. But I thought about it a bit more and I thought about the Five Crushes tag, and I realised that, in fact, I've had to handle more than my fair share of whackjobs with a lovejones. I'm entitled to be sick of this, and therefore handling it at ALL is handling it well.

The story of Bodhi explains, tangentally, why I am not married.

I am not a dater, nor do I engage in casual pickups. It is not wise for me to trust men. This is not man-hating...on the contrary, I love men. And men love me. But it's like I'm magnetic north in the world of crazies. I have to be very careful.

My logic has always been that sane men just don't find me that attractive, but actually, that's not true. They do, but I'm intimidating and a bit odd. They usually don't tell me they fancy me until they have given up and moved on to someone who doesn't terrify them and it's all past-tense. The ones who DO profess their devotion, well, they tend to be freakshows, mean bastards or lying. Here is a sampling of the men who HAVE told me they love me.

There was the one who, when I was eight, used to snap my training bra and pull me by the hair. Eventually I got a pixie cut and could get out of his reach before he got hold.

There was the one in junior high who was a year younger than me and had anger management issues. He used to follow me around after school and threaten to beat me up if I didn't go on a date with him. He used to call my house, too, and make the same threat. He stuffed one of my male friends in a trashcan in a jealous rage.

There was the nasty piece of work who cornered me at a high school dance, told me he loved me and then smothered me with tonsil-scraping a kiss. His friends had dared him. For the rest of the year, he would taunt me in the hall and call me sweetheart. The best I can figure is that I was a foxy rebel chick and the jock boys figured I needed to learn my place.

There's the guy who would tell me I was beautiful and then tell me I was disgusting and fat, just to keep me guessing.

There's the one who professed his love and then slept with my friends. There's the bible-thumping jerk at my old office who used to call me to discuss a proposal and then try to talk dirty. Seriously, I had an ongoing working relationship with this person, and he'd ask me to tell him about my panties. And it wasn't a joke.

Need I go on? Cause I can.

Don't get me wrong, I am not a sad-sack-feel-sorry-for-me type. I quite like my life, and being single suits me. There have been some excellent boyfriends in the mix, as well. And the weirdos make for good stories.

But I will admit I am now more cautious than most when I sense someone is attracted to me. And that IS sad, actually, because in my heart I'm a diehard romantic who believes deeply in pure true love and soulmates and finding someone spectacular who makes you gasp when you think how lucky you are. And thus far it eludes me.

I figure some day this will change. Somehow, someday, there will be a nice one who thinks I'm fabulous AND has the balls to tell me so even if I am a little scary, and I'll trust he's not crazy and let us fall in love. Who knows. It could happen.

But it seems more likely some nutter will read this and turn up on my doorstep with the severed head of a kitten. (Note to nutters...this will not get you points. I would hate that. It will get you arrested. Don't be getting any ideas.)