My Eyes Keep Leaking!

I was dumbfounded a couple of months into my relationship to discover that the squeeze had been looking for a ‘hard hearted bitch’.  That was his definition of the ‘ideal’ woman.  Makes him something of a fool if you ask me; because his married life was a bit like that – and look how that turned out…

Still, it did get me thinking.  Cold hearted.  Was that who he thought I was..?

We had known one another for ten plus years!  How could he not know that I’m a marshmallow?  That I cry over commercials!  Books!  Give me any little reason and I have no problems at all crying.  Hell, when they introduced the TAC ads years ago, I couldn’t watch the “give me back my boy!” one without crying hysterically and running from the room.

A hard hearted bitch…?

Before I went ballistic at the fact that this idiot had started a relationship; made me fall in love with him – and he is actually dating some weirdo dominatrix he has created in his head, I realise that there is a whole host of things about him that I didn’t know either.  When did he ever demonstrate a talent in cooking?  I knew he was into music however; I had no idea I’d have to get my head around some of the stuff he plays.  In fact, yesterday afternoon I had to take “music rights” out of his hands.  It was that or stab him to death.  Having said that, I guess he wasn’t expecting Lady Gaga in his world, either.

So when I delved a little deeper, I realised that I do cover my eccentricities with a bit of bluster.  The guys at work were talking about what an ‘extrovert’ I am the other day.  I actually snorted, because they obviously don’t know the ‘real’ me.  The person they see emerges to cover the person I am.  Borderline agoraphobic.  In short, a scaredy cat - of the highest order.

But the squeeze?  Ten years of friendship in and he still didn’t know who I was?  How does that work?

The first time that we were at the movies and I cried over the shorts for another movie, I thought he would choke he laughed so hard.  Actually, I’m not sure if it was choking with laughter or spluttering “you’ve got to be freaking kidding!!!!”  Either way, suffice to say he was relatively shocked at my display.  Lucky for him it was only leaking eyes – he is yet to see the full shebang of hiccup crying.

Movies…  TV shows… Stories…  Reality TV where they do up a struggling someone’s back yard…  And my eyes start leaking.  See someone else crying – I’m right there with them.  Do I have to know them?  No.  Maybe I’m just a sympathy crier.

And as much as he teases me about it, I realise that he didn’t want a cold hearted bitch at all.  If he did, then I suspect we wouldn’t have made it through the first month, let alone fourteen or fifteen of them.

And wanting a “cold hearted bitch” doesn’t change the fact that the idiot is gun shy.  I only have to move suddenly; raise my hand to pick a bit of lint from his shirt – and he flinches like a beaten dog.  Scratch him and he’s yelping.  Tap him a playful punch and he is squealing. 

Yeah – wanted.  One cold hearted bitch.

I guess it’s good that we each recognised who the other was beneath the surface…