Date two with The Yorkshireman was a disaster.
He seemed, adorably, nervous, but also tired. I'd taken two hours to get ready - Instagram had nothing but the fire emoji for my outfit choice - but when he stood to greet me, he was wearing a faded polo shirt, old jeans, and a lot of stubble. "Judge not," I thought, suddenly self-conscious of my red lips and done hair.
Aesthetics aside, he seemed excited to be with me, and we laughed, with loads of those "me too!" moments happening that means chemistry bubbles and fizzes, even if only one of us made the physical effort and the other looked two-fifths homeless.
He was impressed that I didn't care about mushroom juice dribbling down my chin as I wolfed down a veggie burger, and I liked how courteous he was with the waitress. I liked everything, actually. Mostly, I like how I have to stretch my intellect to meet him in conversation. How he is smart, but humble. That's rare.
Then, he hit a wall. Crashed. We'd met late anyway, and by the time we ate it was maybe 9pm. By 10.15 he could barely keep his eyes open. And look, I get it. It's mid-week and he's probably been going since 7 o'clock that morning. But hell, if having the man you fancy struggle to keep his eyes open doesn't make you feel like the dullest woman ever to exist, I don't know what does. I was mortified.
"Okay, let's get you home," I said to him.
He mumbled something about being 'such a disappointment of a man' and I refused to soothe his worry because my feelings were hurt. I understood, but also it wasn't okay. He should've rearranged if he wasn't up to it.
I walked home, taking the long way, and had five seconds of a cry because I needed to feel sorry for myself. Just a little, and for just a moment. I pulled out my phone to text my best mate Calum, but got distracted by a couple of messages waiting for me on Tinder. By the time I'd got home, a 38 year-old handsome, fun and incredibly well-mannered Kiwi had asked me out.
The Kiwi and I passed a handful of hours at the pub that weekend, and he was A+. Interested and open and kind and well-travelled. He would make a lovely companion.
The only thing was, he wasn't The Yorkshireman. The Yorkshireman has gotten under my skin, and I'm so cross about it.
I'm cross because is this it? Do I have to choose between easy and straightforward, or weather passionate and uncertain? Am I chasing The Yorkshireman as some act of self-sabotage? What's wrong with going out again with the Kiwi, a simple guy who wants a buddy he can snog - even if it bores me a little?
I can't help but wonder, if I want to find my guy... Am I going to have to settle for less than I've imagined?
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