Feeling: BOYISH

Feeling: BOYISH

Deb loves Sportgirl. Absolutely adores the attire. I remember when I was a mere youngster and the brand decided to up tracks and vacate from NZ, Deb was devo-d. 

Which is why I found myself in the Bondi Junction shop yesterday afternoon, after receiving a “Oooo! You could go to Sportgirl and have a look! You know what I like. I will reimburse you” message from Mother. Cue a long strand of emoijis including winky faces, the ever present red dancing girl and a couple of coat hangers. Fitting. (Good pun). Plus, I’m partial to a bit of Sportsgirl action also. 

Anyway, I was making my way amongst the racks when I came into the vicinity of two shop assistant girls in a d&m. After flashing me bright smiles and a “How’s it going?” (courteous), they proceeded to continue their convo and I couldn’t help but overhear (well, I probably could’ve but it sounded soap worthy so I lingered to listen).

“Whyyyyyyyyyy!” The gorgeous girl with the cute top knot wailed. “Why  is he SUCH a DICK.”

The two were discussing how to best respond to said Dick’s sassy txt, received that AM. The girl (later introduced to myself as Mel) had been smart about her reading of it; being an iMessage she hadn’t yet actually opened the offending SMS, so as to not give away she’d read it yet (she’d obviously been here before). Rather, she had been clenching her phone awaiting his contact for a fair few hours, and the entirety of it showed up on her home screen when it first came through.  
When her confidant got called to the counter, I smiled at Mel and quirked an eyebrow (practising in the mirror since I was seven has really perfected the aloof-yet-interested expression). “Boys are bastards, am I right?” I poised. 

Mel fell on me like a Sahara stranded someone coming across H20. “YEEESSSS!” She exclaimed, fixing her wounded puppy dog eyes on me, her new comrade.  “They are all absolute bastards.” 

She went on to tell me the tale. She’d met a fella at a Sunday Session a fortnight back. It was like a movie when they met, she insisted. He just walked up and kissed her without utering a word. 

The two had made plans to hang out on Saturday night from 6pm. Unfortunately Mel had been in Newcastle for the day, and an accident on the motorway rendered her an hour delayed. 

“I txt him to say I’d be back at seven instead,” she explained. “He replied that was cool, to call him then.” 

On at her father to put his foot down, Mel arrived home at 6.43pm. She fired off a quick txt letting Dick (I’m not sure if he actually was a Richard or she was continuing on cursing him. I’m leaning towards the latter) know she was almost good to go. 
She darted into the shower for a speedy soap, reapplied her eyes and changed into some nicer underwear. As she spritzed on some scent (only a few squirts, she asserted. Didn’t want to overpower with the flower) she reached for her phone, seeing a missed call from Dick a mere minute beforehand. 

Calling back? Rung out to voicemail. 
Impatiently she redialled. Again, a no go. So she sent a txt asking if he was still all good to come and collect her to go back to his to “Netflix and chill”. 

It was 6.51pm.

An excruciating 12 minutes later a reply appeared. “Just out with the boys,” it stated. “Can we chill later at like 10?”

Mel threw her phone at the wall (thank above for LifeProof cases) then retrieved it to reply. “I ain’t no booty call” she responded (her inner ghetto girl comes out whilst angry, she explained). “Now as planned or not at all.” 

Unfortunately for Mel, he went with the second choice. 

The two hadn’t talked until Mel had txt him this morn at 8.23am. Just a casual, “Gutted we didn’t get to hang out on Saturday, I had been looking forward to it.” Dick replied at 12.34pm with a, “I’ve definitely had better first dates”. Mel was gobsmacked. 

“Arsehole, arsehole, ARSEHOLE!!” She despaired. “What the FUCK do I say to that? I need to be sassy back, but not come across as a clinger. What do I SAY?!” 

Poor Mel was in turmoil. The clock was ticking – it was now 5.21pm – and she didn’t want him under the (utterly the true case) illusion that she was mulling over an apt response all afternoon. 

Throughout the story I’d collected up a few tees, some sunnies and a hat (Sportsgirl cap, oh how I’m going to rock you everywhere) and we had come to the checkout. 
Original confidant was once again in  presence, so the three of us discussed Mel’s predicament. 

Mel said that in the initial first few days of chat, Dick had admitted he hadn’t actually properly dated before (a more slay-and-retreat chap it appeared), so should he make a move or comment not appropriate to their status to tell him. 

“Dude, what a weirdo,” declared second-shop-assistant (now known as Jess). “He sounds like a doosh.”

“But he’s a HOT doosh,” wailed Mel. “And I like him.” 

Boys, boys, boys. The topic of endless conversations, the subject of eons of daydreams, the cause of so much despair. 

While I myself have never had a real bastard as a boyfriend or potential partner (I seem to always go for “good” guys), I’ve seen many of my friends in full blown frenzies when their fellas have let them down/changed plans at the last mo/sent a smartarse SMS. And it goes the other way also. 

I was traipsing (well, more trudging. Carrying my bulky backpack, handbag and Sportsgirl purchases – yes, I did go back this morning for more, got to have the tee in all available colours – got pretty tiresome after the first thirty mins) around the CBD seeing the Sydney sights, and happened to hear snippets of yarns between many conversationalists. 
Females to females, males to males, females to males and vice versa. All different age groups, cultures, socioeconomic status, you name it. The common thread? 

Despairing over the opposite (or same) sex. 

He said. She said. He did [insert abysmal action here]. She did [insert irrational behaviour here]. 

It reminded me of the opening intro in Eat Pray Love, when Julia Roberts (or “Elizabeth Gilbert” if you want to get all plot proper on me) talks about her psychiatrist friend getting a job counselling the refugees from a major migration shipment from an improvised nation. The passengers had suffered and witnessed murder, disease, genocide, death, thievery, horrible happenings. The psychiatrist was terrified to start the job, as she’d never dealt with such heavy matter before. 

But what did the people come to her to do? 

Despair over the opposite (or same) sex. 

He said. She said. He did [insert abysmal action here]. She did [insert irrational behaviour here]. 

I myself have sworn off any relationship garnering until at least the end of twenty fifteen. 
Attempting to figure out myself, let alone the blossoming or curtailing of a love interest, is enough of a challenge I feel. But boy oh boy (such an apt expression), taking in Mel’s turmoil rose the head of interest that has been lying pretty dormant (well, for the last three weeks at least). 

I left Mel and Jess to continue their chat and ran along to Bondi Beach. And man. 

I swear it was like a catalogue of the finest specimen Sydney had to offer. Everywhere my head whirlwinded, there was another Adonis strutting into the surf, thumping up a volley or jogging along the sand dunes (well not dunes as such, but it sounds more appealing than just straight “sand”). My inner interest was well and truly reawakened. 

It just goes to show. No matter what is going on in your life, no matter what other crap is continuing to catapult at you or how hectic things may be, love – or lust – is lingering. 

As I frolicked (such a great word) in the surf myself (and no, not just so I could be near the hot guy winging it with no wetsuit) it hit me (a response, not – alas – said sexy surfer).

On return run I  slipped a note under the sliding Sportsgirl doors (ever the journo, with a pen in my puffa pocket). 

“Mel,” it started. “Ideal response: ‘Lesson one on dating? To not ditch on the first date. Get in contact when you stop your sass’.” 
P.S: Wrote this post in two parts: First, sitting on a bench in Cirrcular Quay munching a mango almost bigger than my head (that can be taken both figuratively and literally; I can be big-headed at times in the figurative sense, and am constantly so in the literal). 

Second, on the train on the way to Sydney Airport. Unfortunately I was absolutely immersed in writing and missed my stop. I realised 13 stops later, and am currently on a return train back to the airport. Check in closes at 4.50; it is currently 4.46 and I am still 11 stops out. 

Cripes. Will let you know if I make my flight. 

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