Marching on...

I do love emptying the washing machine and showering myself in a snowfall of wet tissue. I know I checked the pockets before doing the wash, as I congratulated myself on successfully removing a tissue, and indulged in a little, “Ooo that would’ve been a pain!” dialogue with nobody in particular. So it was especially ironic that today I ended up pulling what felt like an entire box of sodden tissues from the laundry bit by bit by bit.

I’m not a domestic goddess. I’ve mentioned this before. My skills with neither hoover nor hob are sufficient to attract men into my nest. And clearly even the washing machine is beyond me.

So what do I offer? Bereft of any Stepford Wives’ skills, what exactly do I have in my armoury to suggest that I’m worth hooking up with for the fight?

I suppose I have something of a sharp wit, though a significant number of men seem to find this quite disarming and off-putting. That said, I stumbled across two men last weekend who seemed quite enamoured with a woman prepared to speak her mind and not hide her intelligence. And, they were soldiers. Yes, two strapping young men who are brave enough to defend our country (and others) abroad, who have seen war and its devastation, who could arguably have spent their evening chatting with any number of younger, slimmer, more attractive women, honoured me with their company for several hours. Check me out.

Apparently I’m fascinating. (In truth, so were they.) They were charming and attentive in their responses, and flattering with their words and actions. They were attractive men, and I wondered – on more than one occasion – why they were spending their time with me, and not seeking out the women dressed to garner attention. I, in contrast, had dressed for an afternoon of spectator sport, and was looking less than resplendent in old jeans and baggy jumper. Hardly the vixen.

But they defied convention (or at least, my impression of convention) and spent what must have been close to five hours engaged in conversation with the short, dumpy redhead. This was life-affirming stuff. I seem to have been doing men a disservice with my assumptions.

One of them asked me for a date (more than once), and went to great lengths to explain why this would not be a waste of my time. He made me smile. He made me laugh. And he was certainly a treat for the eye. But, sadly, he was also 26. And whilst part of me wanted to be swayed by his charms, I simply couldn’t bring myself to accept a date with a man 12 years my junior, however much life experience he has.

Whilst he may not have spent a second thinking about me since, it’s amazing what a spoonful of confidence can do to a girl launching herself back into the dating battlefield. I’ve much to thank the pair of them for as I march out into the unknown, feeling more content that I’m appealing enough for some men just as I am, goddess or not.

To be fair, my lack of domestic skills didn’t feature highly in our topics of conversation. Though the soldier did actually try to sell himself to me at one point by mentioning that he could cook, clean and launder for himself. After half an hour of picking tissue off my jeans, perhaps I should be rethinking that date…