Sometimes, during those particularly melancholy times I wonder what my life would be like if I had never met my girlfriend? Not in a churlish, “I’d be happy” kind of reflection, but one of sincerest wonder. Being as introverted and reclusive as I am conversing with literally anyone, let alone a female for prolonged period without sounding like a verbally challenged Hugh Grant, actively engaging with a women of my own volition is nothing short of a miracle. Before I was fortunate enough to meet her much of my time was divided between locking myself in my room with an assortment of sugary treats, beer and enough computer games to make my friends question how I ever lost my virginity. And on weekends occasionally socialising with a couple of mates down our local pub, attracting women in the same way a Pepé Le Pew courted that cat with the curious paint stripe down its back. In retrospect it’s kind of unbelievable that I actually met my partner in the first place.
Our meeting was fortuitous to say the least, perhaps even fated if one were so positively inclined. It was a Saturday night early in January and I had made one of my fleeting, though obligated jaunts out to catch up with a friend to chat about our respective new years. Having squandered much of my salary over the festive period on affluent items I didn’t need I wasn’t eager to spend anymore money than was necessary. So when my rather inebriated friend suggested we go to our local club to continue vandalising our already burdened livers I feigned an illness, clutching my stomach as if even the mention of booze was somehow exacerbating my digestive malady. He insisted that I’d be fine after another drink despite my continued resistance and Oscar worthy acting. Finally I relented, knowing full well that he’s capacity for retaining alcohol and his penchant for further libation would soon conflict, so I only had to endure his effervescent company for an hour, maybe two depending on how observant security at the club were before he was removed for being too drunk or more likely too unconscious.
It wasn’t until we arrived at the club that I realised I didn’t have my ID. I had always looked much older than I was, a burden that has sadly not diminished with age, so for most of my excursions I didn’t require it. Of course this just so happened to be one of those rare occasions when I did. Having failed to gain entry I explained to my friend that I would go back home and retrieve my passport, which at the time was the only form of ID I had, promising to return promptly. However, having negotiated my way back to my mother’s in the frigid January cold I was more than happy not to venture back out to sustain further cold inflicted damage and would instead remain home. I attempted to relay this message to my by now comatose friend, but he failed to answer his phone. Feeling a little concerned that he may have overindulged I decided to depart, if only to escorts him safely home.
By the time I returned however he was examining a young ladies tonsils with his tongue, making my supposed chivalrous belief seem somewhat mute. So I staggered to the bar, purchased some translucent vodka drink containing enough sugar to put me in a diabetic coma and inexplicably determined that I was going to court some (Un) lucky lady with dance moves that can only be described as distressing. Imagine if an injured penguin was trying to imitate Tobey Maguire’s dance moves in Spider-man 3, then you have some notion of just how bad my seductive shimmying was. With my arms flailing like an anguished Octopus I wooed possibly the only women drunk enough to be allured by my hopeless cavorting.
Needless to say that any woman who finds me captivating is someone you don’t let go of. So after chatting about music, movies, life and other surplus topics I’ve since forgotten we exchanged phone numbers, arranged several dates and have spent the past 12 years forging a kindred relationship that yielded many affluent benefits, including a house and our beautiful, if troublesome daughter. Even after all this time, having familiarised ourselves so thoroughly with one another, is amazing just how comforting the little things are. The trivial eccentricities that only you know about, like the way she verbalize’s internal thoughts or hiccups after every meal. Her insatiable lust for Haribo eggs as well as her uncanny taste receptors that can tell the difference between the imitation eggs and the genuine article.
Her influence has been staggering for my own personal growth and I’d like to think I’ve had a positive impact on her as well. It isn’t always easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever is. So where would I be if I hadn’t met my partner? Well I wouldn’t have experienced the incredible journey I have and probably wouldn’t be as happy, that’s for sure.