What do you mean you don’t like me?!

On the way back from the beach yesterday, after meeting another group of the the other half’s friends, and after hearing that after peace-keeping mission #2 – a night at the theatre – number one announced that she ‘would never accept’ another woman in her father’s life; the penny finally dropped: there was someone in the world I couldn’t win over.  This finally explained why I’ve been feeling so, well, weird.  What was this?  Obviously this is amongst other more obvious reasons to feel out of sorts – like actually being in a grown-up relationship, that said relationship lasting longer than a mere forty-eight hours, that I have no reason for doubt or to phone watch, and not discovering his secret partner has just given birth – you know, the usual.  And most importantly having to do lady maintenance – every. single. day.  You coupled-up wimmin never even hint at this, in your blissed up FB posts.  Bastards.

Admittedly, along the way there have been people who have probably (read: definitely) hated my guts because I’m weird and/or annoying – many I suspect – but I mean come on apart from that, what’s not to like?  I ask yer…. So accustomed am I to flashing a smile, cracking a funny, being a goon, batting my eyelashes to achieve at least the most basic levels of acceptability, to get on with whatever needs to be got on with at that particular moment: I failed to identify this fundamental problem with number one.

She quite simply does not like me.

BUT. HOW. IS. THIS. ACTUALLY. POSSIBLE?  I’ve pulled out some of my best moves.  The ‘I’m actually just like you on the inside’, ‘I’m on your side’, enthusiastically sharing music I think she’ll like, displaying my knowledge of cinema like a peacocking Mark Kermode, singing at the top of my voice and dancing in the car to (says in hushed voice) ‘modern music’, risking my life at the amusement park, buying a present from my recent trip to the homeland; none of which have been a stretch because as you know, I’m an irresponsible clown.  So basically just being myself.  I’ve asked her for advice and help with my Spanish, not imposed myself, basically stayed out of her way, given her and Pa space.  Blah, blah, blah – you get the picture.  None of it is working.  I’m stumped.  Not even Columbo could crack this mystery.  Or he could, in the first five minutes after arriving on the scene, but would let me sweat it for a whole episode. Also bastard.

So what’s left?  Quite simply time and patience.  I’ve never had to employ those things before, so I’m at a loss.  What kind of timespan are we talking here?  Within my lifetime?  That can’t be right….. surely.

Zen monkey

*And so it is that I have signed up for circus skills classes, joined the communist party of Barcelona and bought a Che Guevara tee and the entire back catalogue of Els Amics De Les Arts.  I’m also about to embark on a meditation course upon which I fully expect to connect with my inner zen-patience-monkey.  Or something.  Maybe I can, at the very least, charm him.


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