WHAT I’M WEARING: OASIS ALBA TAILORED BLAZER, OASIS SKINNY STRIPE RIBBED TURTLE
NECK, OASIS COMPACT COTTON TROUSERS, OASIS GILLY POINT LACE UP BLACK WEDGES
Psychologists claim it takes 21 days to form a habit. I believe it. I’ve had so many in life, I’ve caught and tossed habits like a frisbee, I guess that’s simply part of growing up. 6 weeks is 42 days and that is how long I’ve known my boyfriend. Out of nowhere he became a habit like the gym or my juicer or taking walks for Biba in my sweatpants just before sunset. I never ever anticipated this, in fact, I dragged myself to our first ever date. That is what happens after a withdrawn, very long series of dating disasters, you grow hesitant and doubtful and pessimistic. You expect the worst and nothing else. We have all been there, single and happy being alone but somewhat seeking someone at some point somewhere. That was me for a very long time. And then with the beginning of the new year, he arrived unexpectedly and quite suddenly. It was a Friday, we had dinner; I ate half a avocado at a restaurant I didn’t feel well dressed enough to be in. I gulped a glass of wine, silently convinced he was an utter womanizer. Because there I sat and I didn’t even half hate him and that was strange. I wasn’t slipping to the bathroom to send an SOS text to a friend. Funny how these things happen, how very funny. And I half believed it never would, that Barcelona, quite like Paris was a dating minefield. The locals usually are looking for a fellow local and I cannot even convey just how lost some of the expat men are in this city. Little boys with too much facial hair running around Barcelona like sheep because it has a beach, cheap beer and girls in bikinis. Yes, that actually very accurately sums up a large proportion of the expat men here. And attractive to me, they are not. 42 days or so was all it took for me to fall in love. I haven’t been in love since 2012, and you all know the now-best-friend-previous-ex-boyfriend I am referring to. He was that very tall British boy I wrote poems about and drank too much vodka with. 42 days after 4 loveless years and here I am. In love and shocked to even say that, anywhere, to my Mom, to you and especially written down rather permanently right here. I would never go back on those 4 love lacking years, oh no not at all. I grew, I learnt to be okay alone and I mastered how to say goodbye to passing men that I knew would never matter. You see, these sorts of lessons are for life and they are from the soul. They will be with me always and to them I will faithfully hold. And so 2016 feels quite strange to me, here we are in month 2 of 12 and I’m looking ahead and down through the seasons, hoping that the love I feel doesn’t abandon or trick or betray or melt away as the seasons heat up and change. Because, sincerely girls, this man has got me crazy. I’m afraid because I would be undeniably, horribly, terribly sad if he went away. And I’m still learning how to be a good girlfriend, perhaps I never really knew or I forgot, but I forget now that the things I do can affect not 1 but 2. I’m not uncomfortable with the multiplied consequences, not quite, just scared that here I am, 4 years and 42 days later, wildly unexpectedly and hopelessly in love with what I hope is a very great man. Because that’s what love is, no? Adoration dangerously fused with hope. And you girls know me, I always, always have infinite-verging-on-insane hope. That’s how I cope, that’s how I’ll always cope.
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