Miss Jones and me

A while back I told someone I loved them. Not because I thought it would change the world. Not because I saw us running off into the sunset together. But because I wanted him to know. To be mindful of my feelings. To be sensitive. In the same conversation string he affectionately joked that he'd recently watched Bridget Jones' Diary and that it reminded him of me. He saw me in her. Bridget. Not Superwoman. Not Erin Brockovich. Not even dorky Mary Poppins. My film persona, to him, is Bridget. Freaking. Jones. 

If you hear a little tinkling noise while reading this, that's the sound of my ego falling to a million little pieces. I don't drink excessively (though I’ considering it). I don't smoke (it’s too much effort). I don't show my bottom on live television (almost certainly a character flaw of mine). I also don’t wear giant knickers. Though I admit I do possess tummy-puller-in underwear for emergencies – in beige. But no one has ever seen these. Nor will they ever.

I’d spent a significant amount of time in a weird on-off, more-than-friendship ‘thing’ with said person. The kind of ‘thing’ that can’t be described using five words or less. The kind that didn’t even warrant the status of ‘it’s complicated’ on Facebook. The kind that meant nothing really. And that was always ok. Until it wasn’t ok. When I decided I’m worth more than a rushed few days of fake togetherness in the lukewarm English summer.

I’ve named this ‘thing’ the sit-down take-away. It’s not a one-night-stand but it’s not a genuine connection. It’s an instant, comfortable, short-term relationship with all the signs of something real. You share about your day, shop together, bounce advice and thoughts off each other, talk through that disagreement with your colleague, and snuggle on chilly evenings. There’s care, kindness and honesty. But it’s temporary. Because there’s too much going on. Because the time isn’t right. Because hearts are in healing. Because a plethora of meaningless reasons.

This kind of relationship lacks nourishment. There are no healthy greens. No carefully blended flavours. No balance of what you need topped with a giant slice of chocolate-covered cheese cake with cream on one side, ice-cream on the other and two forks. It’s all flash fried, easy come, easy go, single portions. Sit down, consume, stay a moment and throw the leftovers away – until next time.

This is normal – many single men and women in my generation will know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s so normal that we start to feel as though we’re not allowed to expect more. 

Call me old-fashioned. Call me a prude. Gosh, call me Bridget, if you must. As my New Year’s gift to myself this year, I’ve deleted all people from my circles who fall within or on the periphery of ‘it’s complicated’. I’m not making space for any Daniel Cleavers who talk sweet but are stale on their delivery. I’m surrounding myself with real friends, special family and maybe even a Mark Darcy.

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