I know my dating history is nothing to be proud of, but please be kinder to me, brother of mine … just look at what’s on offer! I’ll explain:
Now that I’m Over 40, I don’t exactly have Pick of the Litter. Though I’m not menopausal yet, and still have a decent figure, I’m definitely too old to be hit on for most Italians, bar the septuagenarians perhaps – who might bat me with their walking stick while they’re shuffling past! You get the picture.
Plus, when you get to my age and haven’t Settled Down with the Love of Your Life (guilty as charged), you have to make do with the Rejects. I’m not gender fluid like Miley, so my dating pool is vastly reduced: I’m stuck with the older men who’re either mid-midlife crisis (sports car and lipo), have at least one ex-wife, and some sprogs too. Or are unhappily partnered and looking for a bit on the side. And are probably bald. Or (bald) closet gays who need cover.
So now that’s been made clear, it’s pretty evident I should be really grateful that I’m seeing the guy I’m seeing.
Well, he’d say so for sure … if it was socially acceptable for him to!!
He has an ex wife, but that’s about it. No children. He has a job, too.
And what a job! They seem to pay him to take time off!!! I’m still wondering about the gay thing but he’s of a military bent, so he’s basically camp without trying at all.
Our first date sounded like a job interview: he drove and told me about the things he liked doing. I listened and wondered if I shouldn’t have brought a notebook to take notes and give him marks.
Fast forward 3 years and 8 months odd, and not much has changed. I still get to hear tales of how well he’s feeling, how far he’s run, how easy it is for him to do this or that – you get the picture. Except now I tease him a bit, though I usually have to tell him when I’m taking the piss! It’s just as well we don’t see each other too often, he’d run out of compliments to pay himself! I think.
On Saturday, he asked me if I wanted to go to Rome for a bask in the sunshine and a visit to the modern Italian equivalent of church: a football match.
On the drive down I was informed that he’d had a hair cut. Oh yes! Lovely dear. Oh, another plus: he isn’t bald!
It was dawn and the light was creeping into the world around us, it looked like it was going to be a nice day. But too dark to notice hair cuts.
The station bar was closed. No tickets, no breakfast! We’d have to use the ticket machines, and I was sent off to find a bar while he battled with the machine. To get breakfast. I had 23 minutes. Of course, being Sunday, all the bars were closed bar one (pun not intended), and that was packed with hopeful eager-eyed daytrippers dressed in their Sunday Decathlon Athleisure. The pastries were almost gone, and looked ancient. I waited and the nice lady (who called me Bambola) made me 2 cappuccini to take away. Yay!
On the full train (Romics), the lovely Columbian lady next to me chatted about her daughter who moved to northern Spain (where coincidentally she gave birth to a baby daughter) but didn’t last long there before going back home to Columbia, and her life in exciting Rome before she moved to boring Terni to be with her Bf who had seen her away at the station (older, some hair).
How can you not stay in Italy? The best country in the world! This contribution from my companion. Was he saying it in jest? I searched his face: nope, he was deadly serious.
Once in Rome our lazy morning became a mission to find tickets for the match. His careful planning stymied by Roman ticket sellers who just couldn’t be arsed. And you cant win against a Roman. They still rule the world, didn’t you know?
The line’s down! They said laconically and how-could-you-not-know-ally. Providing no further assistance, turning away in disgust, as if we were bugs.
We had been going to get tickets near Termini station and go on to Palazzo Barberini to see some Caravaggio, but nothing doing.
Being me, I was just happy to be walking the streets. It was a glorious day and I was happy in my middle-aged lady vest and my little mocilla (backpack).
Being him, he was criticising the way things didn’t work, and telling the world (me) how things should work. In the best country in the world natch!
This column is dedicated to a Camerte.
The match was a lesson in Roman tact, as the fans around me screamed insults at their underperforming team. ‘li mortacci tua!’, ‘li mortacci vostri!’ ‘sega!!’ and I even heard the odd monkey grunt! (“Your despicable dead!” – this is a very serious insult for them. And “wanker”, not as serious).
My companion criticised the teams’ hesitancy with a loud ‘ma cos’è questo petting!’ (telling us all exactly what he thinks of petting). I informed him his mother would be ashamed (the only insult an Italian male will actually take on).
After the match we left the Stadio Olimpico with the 34,300 odd spectators. There were no buses to be seen and the bus stops could hardly be seen for people, all waiting for a bus. That didn’t seem to be coming.
Why don’t we walk?, I offered. As we walked, he explained exactly what needed to be done about the buses: have them ready and waiting outside the stadium to whisk us away and solve the crowd problem. Why not, too. But when in Rome…
My thoughts turned to other things. A whole day out with my hero and not one kiss? His reply was a large grin and a smack on my cheek.
It was then that I Gave Up – after all, it’s such hard work being Perfect, I can’t expect him to be Normal, can I?
Dispatches from Palentuccio 