The Englishman comes to America.
First, an apology:
Due to a series of unforeseen (no WiFi for ages!) nor unavoidable circumstances (moving to a new apartment and copious amounts of work to do), I was unable to publish my next post in a timely manner. What ought to have been a slight cliff-hanger such as one might find between chapters in a novel turned into a much more dramatic affair such as the cliff-hanger and the end of a novel which means a sequel is coming. Which as you all know can be the worst, for if you liked the book you agonize over waiting and if you were only mildly interested, you quickly forget what all the hubbub was about anyway.
I always seem to be in a constant state of apology on this blog, so once again allow me to say, "I am sorry." I shall try to repent of my neglectful ways. With your forgiveness and permission in stow, allow me to move forward.
The story.
Tinder really is a foolish thing, and I being a somewhat foolish creature (more foolish than most I would say), I wandered onto that blasted app once I had safely arrived in Utah for my summer as an EFY counselor. I happily sorted my way through the bros and the nerds, the Peter Priesthoods and the anti-Mormons, and everything in between. No one was particularly striking at all, and it was all light, healthy flirting until The Englishman and I matched up.
Why did I like The Englishman's profile?
1) He was adorable (sported a hideous Christmas sweater and everything).
2) Our one interest in common was Coldplay (which is a far more important detail than it may seem).
3) He was older (no more recently returned missionaries for me).
4) He still had all his hair (and it was perfect).
5) HE WAS BRITISH.
But really, it all boils down to one simple fact: He was British. Let us take a silent moment of reflection to truly appreciate how this was a dream come true for The Lady. #tindermercy
Needless to say, The Englishman and I hit it off immediately. We talked extensively about our families, England, our goals, music, movies, and other miscellaneous interests at whim. After chatting back and forth for a few days, The Englishman asked me out, but I was tied to EFY night after night and week after week without a break in sight until July (at the time it was the end of May). So we kept texting and he began calling me in the evenings (I may have squealed and/or giggled girlishly when I first heard his gloriously accented voice), and all was going perfectly.
Well it was about as perfect as a relationship (?) can be when you have never met in person and the man you like is not a member of your religion...Yes, you read that correctly, The Englishman was not LDS. Not in the slightest. And here I was at EFY being as Mormon as Mormons can be, and he was being as culturally British as possible. I had no idea what should be done.
Now there just so happens to be a simply baffling phenomenon that occurs when men actually take a liking to me. I do not describe it to boast about how "alluring" I am to men or whatever because I frankly do not understand how and why it happens myself, but nevertheless, it must needs be explained. When men like me, and I mean actually like me, they sail straight past simple interestedness towards courtship and marriage. It happened with Mr. Cowboy, it happened with Dex, and it appeared to be happening with The Englishman.
________________________________________
You have my full permission to use this as an intermission (it's a hideously long post, I know). Go use the loo, pop some popcorn, answer those texts, so on and so forth.
Before I knew it, The Englishman and I were discussing a serious relationship and the possibility of marriage (given we were to actually like each other in real life). Every day I asked myself the self-same question: What is my life?!?!?!? Now The Englishman and I discussed extensively all the ins and outs of what a relationship between us would mean (long distance, strict rules of chastity, and all that jazz) and somehow he was still 100% on board. What is my life? And like I said, we even discussed what marriage would be like:
Him: Would you move with me to England?
Me: When do we leave?
Him: Three kids sound good? Two boys and a girl, so the boys can watch over their sister?
Me: As long as they're British, I'm game for a dozen.
Him: Would your family be disappointed if you didn't get married in the temple?
Me: Disappointed? No. Devastated? Yes.
Him: What if I joined the church?
Me: It's not that simple.
It was disjointed, it was confusing, it was backwards, it was laughable, it was lovely. The Englishman and I talked incessantly, and he even called me when he was away on business to Italy. (Oh, did I mention that he frequently took international trips for work [flying first class mind you] and offered to take me with him during his next trip to Italy in August? Such a small detail, must have slipped my mind.) All in all, everything was perfect and we decided that we needed to put the grand plan and our monumental issues on the shelf for a bit until we saw how we got on in person.
And at long last, we did meet in person, and it was all as it should have been. Except for two small details:
1) He was a bit shorter than me.
2) I was not sure how to hug a one-armed man. Oh, yes, another small detail I failed to mention. He only had one arm.
Now, these physical things really weren't as big a deal to me as you might assume. I didn't feel as though I towered over him, and the one-armed thing...well if I am completely honest, it wasn't that weird. Although I admit that I did not quite know how to react when he first told me, so it took me a solid month to predispose myself to the idea. But like I said, "What is my life?"
The date was just fine, and I had a great time, but there was no hand-holding (not even just the one) or kiss. Which I suppose is fine for a first date, but when you've already discussed marriage with someone, only hugging them feels like a step in the opposite direction. But it was respectful and good, and naturally we hoped to get together again soon.
Unfortunately, EFY immediately took me captive again and The Englishman went off to San Diego. And it was San Diego that was our undoing. Now being as British as he was, The Englishman was quite fond of pubs and drinking, and if you're looking for it, San Diego has plenty to offer. (I actually am only assuming that San Diego involved a decent amount of alcohol because there would have been no reason for what happened to happen had The Englishman been in his right mind because it was not like him at all). Being entirely sloshed (or so I assume), The Englishman had the gall to send me a tasteless photo, and I ended everything then and there. Sometimes the line is very clear.
Alas, perhaps my British fantasy was never to be.
Until next time,
The Lady
3 comments:
Aaaah I love this! I was cracking up so hard.
Okay actually, I was dying. I've missed your wit around here! And quite frankly I loved when we had the same sessions this summer.
Tindermercy! Haaaaa oh that's awesome!
dick pics: not even once
Post a Comment