Mile High Guy

From now on I stay single . . . or stick to Mr Average.

No more good-looking men.

No.

The plainer the better.

Plain men are always grateful.

At least I think they are.

I always used to date gorgeous men until I met Tim. And Tim is not exactly good-looking. He’s what I would call ‘pleasant’. At least my mother would describe him as pleasant. Which is probably why I’m neither in love nor in lust with him. And probably why I don’t find him sexy. Because I don’t want to have sex with somebody whom everybody approves of. There isn’t anything exciting about that.

My friends think he’s a dote. But a ‘dote’ will never drive me wild in bed, will he?

A dote will make me a nice cup of tea. And buy me tissues when I’ve the ’flu. And that’s all very
well. But what happens when I get better? Eh? And want someone to swing naked from the curtains. What happens then?

My mother loves men who talk about plants. That’s why she likes Tim. He loves plants too, although thankfully he doesn’t talk to them. Not as far as I’m aware anyway. And he also works in a bank. Maybe another reason why Mum likes him.
She reckons he’s stable. And he is. Stable and safe. But dare I say, also a bit dull.

My dad likes him too.

Well, I think he does.

Then again Dad doesn’t say very much, so it’s hard to know. My sister Ruth thinks Tim’s just all right. And she’s pretty vocal about that. But considering her own terrible taste in men, her opinion doesn’t really count.

One friend tells me I’m lucky to have Tim. But she is the same girl who is thankful for any roof over her head, a job with a pension, and a caravan for holidaying alone. So as you can see, although she’s a very nice, very grateful kind of a girl, she doesn’t exactly walk on the wild side. And to be honest she’s the last person I’d seek relationship advice from.

You see, I want an exciting man. Someone who’s not afraid to push out the boundaries of life. A free spirit. And someone who talks about . . . well things I wouldn’t really like anybody else to hear. Especially not my mother.

Anyway I shouldn’t be giving out about Tim. I have no real reason to. There is nothing
wrong
with him really. In fact I think he would be almost handsome if he lost his beer belly and got rid of the brown and green jumpers. But Tim is Tim. And at least he’s shaved off that awful beard.

He did that for me.

It’s the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me.

Anyway I’m older now.

And wiser.

I don’t really care about looks these days. And people driving me wild in bed. It’s so superficial and messy. And who cares about things like getting
flowers every week anyway? As Tim always says, ‘you should never trust a man who buys flowers. It means they’re hiding something’. Hmm. Interesting that.

I went out with a guy from New York once.

A guy called Geoff.

A hotshot ad exec, who worked on Madison Avenue.

Who sent flowers every week.

And cheated on me probably twice a week.

I was a silly girl.

A twit really.

Always swapping my flights with the rest of the cabin crew.

Yes, I am a flight attendant. Or an air hostess, if you prefer. Or cabin crew member. As long as you don’t call me ‘trolley dolley’ or a ‘tart with a
cart’ I’m not fussy. Sorry, did I forget to tell you how I earned an oul’ crust? Well, now you know. In fact I’ve probably served you before and you probably didn’t even look up as I carefully poured you a glass of sparkling water and added two cubes
of ice and a slice of lemon. But sure, you probably didn’t think I was very friendly anyway. You probably thought my cheeriness was all put on. But actually
I’m pretty friendly all the time. To most people. And unless you’ve ever crossed me, I probably think you’re very nice too. Because I usually go around thinking everybody is really nice. Especially after a few drinks. Then I think everybody is absolutely
wonderful and I want to give people a hug and get their email address so I can write to them when I’m sober.

Of course, when I’m sober the last thing I feel like doing is emailing people I casually spoke to at parties. In fact I’m always mortified the morning after a party when I open my bag and find people’s email addresses and mobile numbers on the back of bus tickets and cigarette cartons.

And of course I never have the contact details of the guy I thought was the best looking man at the
party. No. In fact I can never think where
he
got to at the end of the night. I usually vaguely remember telling some gorgeous man not to go anywhere without me. Which of course is exactly what he does . . . but never mind that . . . I’m learning all
the time . . . putting it all down to experience . . .

The next time I spot the man of my dreams, however, I won’t be drinking (well, not that much anyway) and I’ll look very well . . . and hopefully I’ll be slimmer than I am now ’cos I’m on a kind
of a diet. Then again, when am I ever not?

Now. Where was I?

Oh yes. New York and Geoff.

I walked to New York and back. With a teapot in my hand. Hundreds of times. I sang ‘tea/coffee’. Thousands of times. And occasionally stopped drunks from opening the airplane doors.

All in the name of love.

Or stupidity really.

Because one day I decided to surprise Geoff at his New York condo. Mind you, I was the one who got a surprise. Or shock, rather. As he had company. Naked company. Geoff said he could explain. I told him not to bother. But looking back, maybe I should have let him explain. Just to hear what on earth he could have come up with. I know he worked in advertising, but Jesus he’d need to have been a bloody genius to come with a plausible excuse for that.

But at the time I was too distraught to have to
sit there listening to some cock ‘n’ bull story while the naked visitor got dressed. So I ran all the way to Fifth Avenue, with tears streaming down my cheeks. Actually no, I didn’t run. I just walked very fast because that’s what everybody does in New York.

And I was crying a little bit, maybe, but because I was wearing my fake Gucci sunglasses that I’d bought in Canal Street for ten dollars, I just looked kind of normal.

Of course it was my own fault. I’d let him treat me like a doormat. I was the one who had decided to do constant transatlantic flights just to see him twice a week. He’d never had to persuade me. He was Mary and I was his little lamb. Following him
around everywhere. Pathetic, I know. But people often look back in horror at the way they let others treat them. I, unfortunately, am no exception to this miserable rule.

Of course Geoff never came to Ireland to visit me.

Not once.

Although he said that he’d love to visit one day.

His great-great-grandfather was from Co. Roscommon, and he once told me it would be kinda cool to look up some of the old relatives one day.

But he never got round to it.

Looking back, it’s easy to see where I went
wrong. I ran after him too much. Naturally I should have played it cool. But I didn’t. I should have stuck to early morning flights. Instead of going to New York all the time. Chasing Geoff. But I hate doing the really early flights. They’re so bloody unsociable. I’m talking 5.45 am check-ins. Sinfully early flights. To places like Frankfurt and Munich.

Also, those flights can be pretty boring. Because you work mainly with married women who need to be back before lunch to collect their kids. And
you sit in the galley talking about washing machines and the rising cost of babysitting.

But the good thing about the early flights is that no alcohol is served, and the passengers are nearly always asleep. Sleeping passengers, like babies, are
always my favourite.

The JIFFS are my least favourite passengers.
They’re the people who fly once a year to the sun and tend to start their holiday in the airport bar. On their way home they board in shorts, Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops, still on their holiday high. Landing in cold, wet Dublin however, reality hits as the plane door opens and they squeal ‘Jaysus, it’s fucking freezing.’ Oh the JIFFS!
Will they never learn? Still, overnight flights are not as bad as the morning flights, when you rise at, say, 3.30 am. It’s awful getting up at that hour. Especially at the weekends. It’s so horrible having breakfast when you know your friends are
munching on curry chips somewhere after a brilliant night out.

On Sundays, for some reason, I always seem to get stuck on the red-eye flight to Brussels. Before you start wondering why anybody would want to fly to Brussels at that hour, let me explain that these passengers are usually transferring at Brussels to head off to more exotic locations. Just in case you thought for a moment that our politicians might be
working overtime!

Now, I’m losing track again. Sorry, I’ve a tendency to do that. Okay. Oh yes. Back to average men. I read somewhere once that it’s better if
you go out with someone who likes you a little bit more than you like them. Good advice. My boyfriends have always liked me a little more. At the start anyway. You know how it is. People always make a huge effort at the beginning of a promising
relationship, don’t they?

But then, after a while, and after a few romantic dinners too many, I for one, get lazy, and start putting on weight. And then I don’t really want to
go out and meet people any more. Because none of my clothes fit. Then, for some reason, I seem to rekindle my love affair with the DVD player and the local chipper and forget to renew my gym membership.

Then I start phoning ‘said’ boyfriend on the
mobile with requests. The usual ones: ‘Would you ever pick me up a pack of fags, a
magnum and a copy of
OK!
on your way over? Chinese? Oh, OK great. Order me the curry vegetables and egg fried rice. And a couple of spring rolls.’

After a while then I don’t bother putting on makeup or anything, just open the door in my pyjamas, remind ‘said’ boyfriend not to trip over the cat on the way in, and give him a half-hearted kiss.

This is usually about a week or so before the ‘I don’t think this is working out’ speech. You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson by now. But do I ever see
the speech coming?
Never
. Call me naïve but it’s always a complete shock. You see I’ve always thought once you become ‘comfortable’ with a man, he should see you as you really are.

It makes sense doesn’t it?

But apparently this isn’t really the case at all.

So after a couple of weeks moping about, I retrieve the weighing scales, cut my hair, buy a new wardrobe, lock away the videos, join a night class and start all over again.

Then I’m out one night; dancing and back to my old fun self, surrounded by men, when I usually spot my ex staring over. And I ignore him because I’ve got over him now. And have spent so long convincing myself that I’m ‘better off’ that now I actually believe it.

Of course said ex-boyfriend often approaches me, and tries to explain how he has made a ‘terrible’ mistake. But I’m having none of it. My grandmother always told me that ‘nothing is deader than dead love’ and I believe her. Who am I to raise the deceased?