There are very few things I know for fact in the dating game. One and I know this as certainly as I know that gravity is keeping me in place, I am single. Two, my friend Jess is in the perfect job for pulling. Pathology. Who knew? It’s like the hidden gem of cross contact. And three, and this is the biggy, everyone, absolutely everyone has baggage, most probably damaged.
Baggage is not something new to me. We’ve all heard it whispered by women in coffee shops, the word has crept out ominously from behind a cupped hand in the playground, I even recall my grandmother talking about when I was a child. Back then I believed it was something closer to excessive weight or perhaps excessive house furnishing. Whatever it was it was negative and it felt weighty. As I got older I believed baggage to mean children. Hands up if you’ve got some of that baggage. Yep, at this stage of the game, you’re talking over fifty percent of the market, but it seems children were only the tip of the iceberg, they’re the nice clean baggage you will happily reveal on a first date. This other stuff, the dirty, scanky thing of secrets, that’s what’s lying beneath the surface and it would do more than crack a hole in the titanic.
So I meet a guy, he sits opposite me at a table and I get to wondering, exactly what is lurking beneath that lovely smiley exterior. When you peel back the crisp white t-shirt, the gleaming blue eyes, are the waters muddy? Because not one of us, married or otherwise, is without this sort of baggage. Difference is, if you’re married, you’ve loved someone in spite of it and been loved back in return. You may even, like in both my sisters cases, have been lucky enough to find them before you were pummeled too hard on the conveyor belt. For the majority of us, we’re that little bit scratched, perhaps a little tarnished in places and for some, there’s even patched up holes. It’s not that biting your nails or eating in bed counts as damage, those are nothing more than character building habits. It’s the bigger things like Jess just found out the hard way. The two months in way. That Mr Perfect ain’t so perfect when things blow into arguments and this guy, this butter wouldn’t melt, I’ll install your new shower, I’ll scatter the room in roses and cook you surprise dinners guy, would swear black was white if it meant he wasn’t in the wrong. And sorry? No, he never heard of such a word. To top it off, another month in and there are secret children crawling out of the woodwork. I simply got the text – Where do I find them? But it isn’t just Jess. It’s all of us. She’s got her things and I’ve got mine. How could you not at this stage. It’s just finding that other someone who fits with them. The one who picks your bag up from reclaim signing for it as theirs.