Just the One Please?

Sometimes being a girl is hard, sometimes being a single girl is even harder but aside from trying to find the perfect man, when your single you always have the regret of a past love.

So take time to laugh, for it is the music of the soul.

Here I plan to explain to Singletons everywhere, why at 27 years old I am still single and hopelessly looking for love and hopefully I will explain the disasters of having not found him, all the while kissing a million frogs to find my prince!!!

This time last year, 365 days, 12 months, 52 weeks, 8760 hours or 525,600 seconds ago I was in love. This time last year, 364 days, 12 months, 52 weeks, 8736 hours or 524,160 seconds ago I was heart-raped. Well and truly soul destroyingly dumped.

I had been planning a perfect wedding, picked the church, the venue, the band, the flowers, the bridesmaids, their dresses and finally my dress. Oooh that dress, the very look of it made me quiver with excitement, it was neatly placed at the back of my wardrobe for fear he would see because in reality he may run a mile as he had to yet to ‘pop the question’ and all my plans lay neatly in books stacked 15 high.

Every girl will know that when you meet your real love as much as you may like to put your mind on to the stop function, it actually slips 5 gears into overdrive and before you know it your signing your name on random pieces of paper with his surname just curious to see what it would look like!

My date started out like any other and ended like Hurricane Gustav blowing through Limerick in the shape of a mad woman downing shots at every bar and being refused anymore alcohol on the basis I was highly intoxicated and blatantly goading barmen into trying to take my drinks from me.

Hours earlier he had sat me down and before he had a chance to say anything I thought I would put him out of his misery and just say yes. But shock registered on his face like he had been slapped with a wet fish and he backed away trying to explain to a plainly ecstatic me that asking me to marry me wasn’t on his agenda but dumping me was.

Seemingly I had become somewhat of an emotional burden, he actually told me I was causing him ‘mental problems’ as he was sick from thinking if we should be together or not. After screaming and crying and begging ( I am not adverse to admitting this), I decided it was time to go. It was then he bent his head to kiss me, the actual nerve, but the little bit of dignity I did have would not let me kiss the boy who was dumping me.

He had told me I needed to get things into perspective again and maybe catch up on some ‘me’ time (isn’t every day a ‘me’ day when you are single and alone).

I had officially been heart-raped.

This boy had forcefully wormed his way into my un-open heart, he had viciously and enjoyable unloaded his thoughts and caresses into my soul and then he had ripped that very part of me out and left a gaping hole.

While telling my friends over dinner and 15 cocktails about my disaster and the humiliation that had ensued, one piped up to tell me that she never thought he was good enough and she just couldn’t imagine me getting married in Bunratty, Co Shannon, much to her confusion and the laughter of others I actually felt that life wasn’t all that bad.

So this day, 330 days, 11 months, 48 weeks, 7920 hours or 475,200 seconds ago I picked myself up and whistled about life – but not before lots of speculation and retaliation, abuse and therapy, shopping and drinks.

I once heard the saying: Some people think that it’s holding on that makes a person strong but sometimes it’s letting go.

Sadness flies on the wings of time.