The Five Steps to Turning Thirty: Step 1 - You Should Be Married By Now
“I’m sorry, you want to do what?” My drink gets caught in my throat and some liquid shoots back into the glass. Covering my mouth with my hand, my eyes search my companion’s face for any signs of discomfort. Grant sits opposite me, his blonde hair teased to perfection, his eyes lingering on my chest. He gives me a lazy smile as he dips his fingers into his nearly empty drink and swirls the ice cubes round. My stomach heaves slightly. “Have you never done that before then Helen?” “It’s Heledd,” I reply, my mind momentarily forgetting the gross thing he has just asked me to do.
I know my skin will be burning a wonderfully bright shade of red as I feel the heat rise in my chest and creep up my neck and spread onto my cheeks. Grant takes this as a come on and his eyes light up with the possibility of a night involving tarpaulin. I decide that I am most certainly done with this God-awful date and without a word, I simply grab my handbag and leave. I hear him call my name with genuine confusion, but he doesn’t follow me.
Out in the fresh air, I heave myself against the wall and count to ten, cursing myself for the earlier fizz of excitement as I got ready, painting my face and tousling my hair into loose waves. The world of Tinder dating has taken an all-time low and this date is certainly the lowest I have ever stooped. I want to kick myself for that small bud of hope that began to unfurl as I walked into the restaurant and caught sight of Grant’s clear blue eyes and the lopsided smile that appeared on his face. I groan with frustration and begin my walk home, the air still balmy in the summer haze, light bouncing off the gentle waves on the marina. I hear people chatting as I pass bust restaurants, people embarking on their new found freedom after a year of being cooped up inside. As I walk, I am distracted by a couple holding hands across a table, his thumb caressing the palm of her hand, both content to sit in comfortable silence. They look at peace. My chest constricts at this scene and I can not tear my eyes away from them. The more I stare, the more I can make out a hand waving frantically back and forth in the corner of my eye. Realigning my focus, I soon discover that the over enthusiastic waver is none other than my ex-boyfriend, Rhys.
Rhys was the boyfriend that people always tell me I should have married. The solid, trustworthy, dependable man. As I hurtle at an alarming pace towards my thirtieth birthday, these comments are flying at me from all directions. My single status is one of great concern for my family, friends, work colleagues even the gentleman who runs the corner shop - everyone seems to have an opinion on how to obtain a husband and why I am not achieving said lifetime goal. Rhys and I got together at the tail end of university and decided to stay together after we both graduated. He quickly enrolled for his teacher training while I ambled through various different jobs in marketing and sales. He graduated first in his class and quickly found a primary school teaching position where he promptly became a firm favourite. By that point I was working as a personal assistant for the she-devil herself and spent many days cleaning her car, fetching her coffee and baby-sitting her children. Rhys dreamt of a nice house, a garage and children to play in the garden. I simply could not envisage my life with him in that way. Yes, he was sensitive, supportive and kind, yet there was something lacking. I would love to say it was me and not him, as no one could find a fault in him, but it was definitely him.
Rhys offers me a bright smile and starts to make his way through the tables towards me. A smile is still plastered on his face and it is as if he is genuinely happy to see me. I, on the other hand, would rather dive into the marina to avoid this conversation. Seeing an ex is like seeing a wild animal in civilization - something that you never thought you would see up close and personal unless in the safe confines of a zoo.
“Hels, how are you doing?” He steps closer; his cropped brown hair and clean-shaven face is within touching distance and my fingers twitch on reflex. Before I can answer, a honey blonde beauty approaches from her perch, all long limbs and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her dress is moulded to her athletic build and I am suddenly very aware of my five-foot frame; she makes me feel dumpy just by being in her vicinity. Her arm snakes around Rhys’s waist and she leans into his broad chest, a flash of defiance in her eyes seems to be challenging me for ownership. “This is Emily.” Emily smiles demurely, the kind of smile that does not reach the eyes. I smile at her and mentally tell myself to close my gaping mouth. Her hand slowly strokes Rhys’s chest, her fingers trailing up and down. “How are you both?” I ask and instantly regret it as Rhys launches into a very long, detailed and boring may I add, anecdote about his recent term. I stifle a yawn as the devoted Emily gazes at him in wonder.
It is right there, in that very second, that I feel completely sure that I made the right choice in ending things. That even though many people tell me that I made a mistake, or consistently tell me how I could do a lot worse than Rhys, the feeling of being alone trumps the feeling of something never being quite right. Being with Rhys led me to feel that I wasn’t quite in step with his approach to life, that my song wasn’t quite in tune to his and that our future didn’t have the same rosy outlook. And that is ok. I am telling myself at the age of twenty-nine - when I am surrounded by friends deeply in love, buying houses and thinking about having babies - that I am ok. I made the right choice, for me. The conversation finally slows and I make a hasty exit, eager to escape the uneasy feeling that has settled in the pit of my stomach. Mixed with the horror that was the Tinder date, I am quite ready for my bed.
I make my way up to the third floor flat that I share with an over-worked accountant who is forever telling me to work on my life goals. I turn the key in the door and head straight for the fridge hoping to drink the dregs of a bottle of wine on my little balcony in peace. Slipping out of my date clothes, I find my oldest tracksuit, tie my hair up and settle in for the remainder of the evening with a new thriller. The sea breeze is lingering in the air and I can taste salt on my lips as I sip my wine. Surrounded by my fairy lights, I finally sighing a deep contented sigh that radiates through my body. That is until I hear the loudest thumping noise coming from next door. Heavy base music threatens my cosy cocoon and I am raging within a matter of seconds.
Slamming my barely-creased paperback down on my cute bistro table, I lean over to the adjoining balcony and peer my head through the patio doors, my leg caught in the railing as I valiantly try and get a closer look at the culprit who is ruining my night further. There is a dim light coming from the kitchen but I swear the music has been turned up even louder; it is pulsating in my ears and I can feel the beat in my back teeth. I am huffing with exertion mixed with anger when I catch a glimpse of a tall man coming towards the patio door. My anger fades as I quickly realise that I am half hanging over a stranger’s balcony in the dark and decide that a passive aggressive note would be a much more appropriate way to make a noise complaint. I try to shuffle backwards but my thigh has become trapped in the railings. Panic engulfs me as I wiggle desperately, trying not to shriek with alarm. Breathing deep, I yank my tracksuit bottoms and go tumbling over my table and landing in the most ungraceful heap on the floor. The racket I made has even caused the music to stop next door and a head slowly pokes round the corner. I am confronted with a ridiculously handsome face sneering down at me. As my wine drips onto my chest from the glass lying upended on the table above me, his dark eyes continue to watch me as I clamber off the floor and try to reclaim my dignity. “Your music is way too loud. In the future, I suggest you keep it to a minimal level and be mindful of your neighbours,” I say, and with that I scoop up my belongings and haughtily leave the balcony to the safety of my flat. I slam the patio door shut, but not before I hear a snigger descend from his perfectly formed lips.
Faceplanting my bed, I add that encounter to a series of embarrassing moments that have occurred in the last twenty-nine years of my life. I may not be married, or even in any form of relationship, committed or otherwise, but I sure know how to make a first impression.
Written by Grace Collins
I work in HR and a part time MA student in English Literature. Avid reader and writes book reviews on Instagram @gracecollinswrites when not walking the puppy.
