Once Upon a Time.... I had a dysfunctional ‘friendship’ with The Italian, who was 20 years my senior and lived in a charming apartment in a beautiful old house in a pretty part of Madrid. And next door lived His Ex. To be clear, The Italian has a lot of exes, some he managed to stay friends with, while others, well, hate his guts. But this Ex Next Door wasn’t the mother of his sons nor the woman he left them for: she had been the rebound, but he meant a great deal more to her than she did to him. She was still in love with The Italian even though she knew it wasn’t mutual for he had told her many times. She tried everything the last few months to get him back, but nothing worked. I overheard them talking when she came to his door: she cried, she was kind, she was mean, she insulted him, she apologised, she was vulnerable, she was tough: but she couldn’t make him love her. Although he’d been honest with her from the beginning of their relationship (well…according to him), telling her he didn’t love her, he knew she was madly in love with him. But instead of breaking it off before he’d break her heart even more, he kept her close. Literally: she moved into the apartment next door. When The Italian talked about His Ex (which he did a lot to my frustration) he’d call her desperate, needy, crazy: even nicknaming her The Psycho. While I knew I should only believe half of everything he said, I still formed an image of her in my head solely based on prejudice and his stories. I even silently judged her, but I didn’t realise that until I actually met her. So this story isn’t about him. It’s about me. And it all started when The Italian was getting ready for an alumni dinner and I decided to go out by myself, instead of staying home and waiting for him to return.  
 
Before you can reach the main hall of the building you have to go through another hallway, shared by The Italian on one side and His Ex on the other. This hall is a small space with a very high ceiling, no windows, filled with bikes, sports equipment and 3 doors: His, Hers and an old, heavy, squeaky door that leads to the main hallway of the building. I  had my own set of keys and I’d been struggling with the old door since the beginning: when I finally figured out how to enter the hallway: I found out I couldn’t leave. The moment I stepped into the little hallway, his door closed behind me and the motion sensored light should’ve switched on like it always did. Except for that evening.

My initial reaction was a very loud 'What?!', and yes, of course I was sitting in a crowded coffee place. I know my dating history is a bit odd to begin with, but this was definitely a first- written feedback by a guy I only met once? Why would I participate?! But on the other hand- what did I have to lose? He’s a nice guy and it was a fun date, I could see us becoming friends rather than continuing to date, so...why not? Plus I apparently love an unexpected writing challenge (...this was another first). It could be confronting, but no rules = no rules, so I nervously accepted this slightly strange ‘post-first-date-feedback-writing-challenge’ and we started writing. 30 minutes later he counted down and at the same time we hit ‘send’.

In my last blog I convinced myself Friday the 13th is just another day and whatever you do on that day, you’re NOT tempting fate. Like paragliding: I didn’t take down a skilift while ungracefully landing: I was fine! It was all in my head, the superstition that those days should be handled with care since in some cultures it’s known as a doom date. Last Friday the 13th I had a First Date with a guy who was ‘perfect on paper’: smart, funny, ambitious, good hair, sociable, nice & hardworking. He turned out to be, well, not perfect of course, but also completely taking me by surprise by getting me to doubt myself when I called it off after 2 dates. The fact that it started on Friday the 13th didn’t make a difference: he wasn’t right for me and I wasn’t right for him. 

​​​But instead of listening to my gut I made a rookie mistake: I doubted myself. Maybe I'm too picky? Maybe my sense of humor is weird and I should tone it down? Maybe I should stop being sarcastic so I don’t have to explain jokes he doesn’t get? Maybe he wasn’t talking money under his breath, making me slightly uncomfortable, maybe it’s all in my head? Maybe he's funny and I’m just too dumb to get it? And I even thought maybe he wasn’t a bit pushy, so maybe I should’ve said yes when he walked me home and asked if he could come in, even though I really didn’t want him too. Was I being difficult?