It happens when you least expect it

“I’m done with this single shit, man! I want a girlfriend. I want to love and be loved,” I ranted to my work colleague, Kay, while we ate lunch at our local caf, which we’ve named La shitty.

“I want someone to miss me when I work late. I have love to give and it’s just sitting inside me and rotting!”

Kay is an intelligent person, but her answer to my tirade was so generic and uninspiring that I nearly jumped across the table to suffocate her with the hood of her coat.

This was on Wednesday, the day it snowed for the first time in October since 1934 and, when I woke up that morning freezing, I was craving someone to talk me into pulling a sickie so we could stay in bed all day and drink tea and have sex.

Kay could sympathise. She’s a single chick in London too. So why then give a pathetic answer like: “It happens when you least expect it”?

SHUT UP!

No, I didn’t really scream shut up at her. It just made me feel better typing it. I should have told her to shut up though or at least choke to death on the phrase.

There are other generic phrases that say the opposite: “If you want something bad enough then go for it”; “We’re in charge of our own destinies”; “Make it happen!”

We’re told to throw thoughts and feelings into the universe to get what we want. Think rich. Be Rich. Think happy. Be happy. Go! Go! Go! You just have to read that book, The Secret to understand what I’m talking about. I hated it. I hate being bossed into enlightenment (Eckhart Tolle is the most bossy though). 

But when it comes to love, everyone is stumped. You can’t make love happen. You become a millionaire overnight with some hard work, but apparently the same laws don’t apply to love. You have to sit back and wait for it, all the while pretending that you’re not expecting it.

And can someone please tell me what “when you least expect it” really means? Because the example another work colleague gave me was appalling. She said she met her boyfriend out of the blue while travelling the US. Why was she in the US? To get away from small town South Africa. Did she expect love and adventures on her trip? Yes, she admitted. Then was it really when she least expected it?

No.

When you least expect it should mean while you’re peeing in a public toilet or when you’ve run down to your local Tesco in your pyjamas for milk. And even so, I bet at the back of your mind you’d be thinking: wouldn’t it just be ridiculous if I was to bump into the person of my dreams looking like this, which would mean you’re expecting it.

I know there are grander, deeper things I should be pondering – like Tolle’s instructions on how to stop pondering and live in the now – but I can’t stop thinking up scenarios of the perfect When you least expect it meet-cute (Definition: the contrived encounter used in romantic comedies of two potential romantic partners in unusual or comic circumstances. Thank you Wikipedia)

If you’ve read my previous columns, you’ll see I have had some meets minus the cutes. Nothing came of them. So I’ve decided to conjure up a when I least expect it meet-cute for myself. I thought of it on the bus. Tell me what you think. Add some spice if you think I’ve forgotten details. Or just tell me your meet-cute. Just remember it has to be when you least expect it though.

Meet-Cute 1: 

Mandy, a very orthodox Jewish work colleague of mine, can’t stand the fact that because I have nowhere to go for Sabbath dinner on a Friday night, I frolic about pissed in Soho. I tell her I need two nights in a weekend to come right; one is not enough. She secretly believes I’m going to hell, I think. But still, she’s always nagging me to go to this “trendy–not-so-fanatical-religious couple for the Sabbath” and I beg her to not give them my number.

But her virtuous kindness gets the better of her and she does anyway. To my delight (yay) the trendy-not-so-religious wife phones and invites me for Shabbat and I can’t find an excuse quick enough because my mind is preoccupied with deciding between a tuna or brie baguette at Pret.

This was on Tuesday. It got to Friday afternoon in a New York second. I even think I was still holding my brie baguette. It’s amazing how time flies when you’re living in dread. I should try dreading my pay cheques. 

The reason I hate going to religious strangers for Sabbath is because they have difficulty understanding why you’re not married at 25. Then they want to set you up with their uncle’s brother’s wife’s nephew, Richard, an accountant who is a lovely person but shy and keeps to himself.

How do I explain to them that not only does just the thought of dating an accountant bore me into oblivion, but I don’t do Dicks. Does your uncle’s brother’s wife have a niece who is a lawyer, sociologist and rug-munching dyke by any chance? No? What a pity.

So when we sit down to eat I’m sweating in my very dowdy get-up of long conservative skirt and sleeves, waiting for the question. My answer is a mantra in my head. “What’s the rush? I’m a working girl and I’m very happy at the moment…no, that’s fine, give me his number and I’ll call him. I once had a very bad stalking experience so I don’t give my number out.”

While I’m reciting my lie in my head, Mr Trendy-Religious husband shuffles his ass in his chair and begins his drill with: “Now, Astrid, tell me…”. Here it comes. So I spoon a massive mouthful of roast chicken and rice into my mouth in a subconscious attempt to procrastinate on lying (I hate lying).

My eyes are focused on preparing my next mountainous fork of food. This is not happening. Mandy is a bad person. I must remember to install a virus on her computer on Monday. I could be in Soho, tequila in hand, The Tings Tings in my ear, queers everywhere.

But husband is interrupted. We hear the door fly open and a voice like an angel’s drifts through to the dining room. “How late am I? Aunt Trendy? Guys? Sorry I’m late. My damn heel broke and I had to practically waddle in the rain to get here!”

A vision so beautiful that the chicken and rice nearly tumble out my mouth, rushes into the dining room. “Mmm…Smells good. I’m so sorry again.”

While the vision and Aunt Trendy exchange hellos and apologies, I’m speechless. Her hair is almost black, long and due to the rain, plastered sexily in strings to her forehead and neck Her drenched (also drab and dowdy) clothes stick to her toned body like a shower curtain to the side of a tub, revealing her curves and nipple stand.

I swallow. And then choke.

This is when Mrs Trendy decides to introduce me to her exquisite, mouth-watering niece. But now I’m coughing up rice. And she’s trying not to laugh. Actually they all are. Except Mrs Trendy, who is now rushing to pump the rice out my lungs.

Eventually, my throat, although scratchy, returns to its riceless state and I can talk. And we do. We don’t stop talking – Rachel and I. Her biblical name suits her. Her beauty is biblical. It’s not the kind of pretty we think of today. Not Kate Moss or anything mousy like that. We’re talking dark, brooding eyes, naturally long eyelashes, porcelain cheekbones and cupid ruby lips. Drop dead gorgeous. And straight, obviously.

She’s religious. She’s dressed in conservative get-up but yet, so am I, and I’m here. And she’s more interested in me than anyone else at the table, which isn’t saying much though, seeing as though we’re the closest in age.

We’re in the middle of discussing the genius of Tim Burton (My favourite director) when Mr Trendy starts to shuffle in his seat again. Oh No.

“Now, Rachel, tell me…” he says looking like he’s about to ask her what 23 multiplied by 76 is. Thank G-d it’s not me but I feel bad for whatever is coming Rachel’s way. 

“A beautiful girl like you and you’re still single? Why haven’t you called Richard? He’s such a good boy.”

She’s single? I’m stumped. I know a million, well not a million, but at least 12 single Jewish guys that would have their brisses again to date her.

She’s still chewing her food and smiling. Is she taking her time? Obviously I’m not the only one who knows how to avoid subjects. It also looks as if the colour has drained out of her perfect marble face.

She swallows, composes herself and says calmly: “What’s the rush? I’m a working girl and I’m very happy at the moment and, Uncle Trendy, no matter what you say, I don’t think I’ll ever take to Dick.”

I choke a little on my food again and close my eyes to stop them from exploding out of my head. I look around the table. No one seems too perturbed except for Mrs Trendy, who shoots up and starts collecting everyone’s plates.

“That’s a pity. He’s such a good boy. What about you Astrid?” he asks turning on me.

“Mr Trendy, I’m certain that Dick isn’t for me,” I shoot back, eyes to the side searching for Rachel’s reaction. She blushes. I can’t believe it. This is not happening. I must remember to buy Mandy flowers before I go into work on Monday and make her tea for a year.

Rachel comes back to my place to watch a Tim Burton movie. It’s Friday night. We don’t have to wake up early. Turns out she’s as queer as KD Lang but the Trendys don’t know … although, she’s almost sure Mrs Trendy has heard via the via.

We don’t watch the Tim Burton movie though, because we’re naked by the time we get up my stairs (in my fantasy, my room-mates are either away or in a coma-like sleep). Free from our dowdy clothes and free to fuck and love each other the way we do. And Rachel lied… She did take to Dick. Only it was purple.

(Hey, it’s my meet-cute! I can get carried away if I want to.)

Just when I least expected it. Huh Huh? Whatya think?   

 
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