status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage
One of the hardest things I have found about blogging is trying to decide where to draw the line on divulgence. Rather than a question of whether or not I should actually be baring my soul to such an extent, I am usually more concerned about boring my audience with personal details that are neither informative, amusing, interesting or applicable.
The key word in that sentence being “usually”.
Which brings us to my current dilemma: The
Annoyance Inconvenience Complication I Could Well Do Without Love Interest.
I confess to being slightly nervous about allowing developments of this nature to play out in front of a wider audience (wider than just my usual circle of giggly girlfriends, I mean), but when I think about all the possibilities such a tale may entail…
Cultural – step by step instructions in how not to deal with intercontinental flirtation.
Sociological – why some 30-something women should really just take up knitting and leave romance to those more equipped for it.
Comic – observe how amusingly quickly an independent woman can lose her dignity when tiptoeing into the dating pool.
… I know that I simply cannot withhold such gems from the public arena - it is both a duty and a privilege to sacrifice my reputation as a sane and rational human being at the altar of a greater public good.
So, back to the Love Interest himself (who in the interests of anonymity, we shall call L.I):
Having made a firm promise to myself not to spend so much time in the pub, I went to the pub. But less so. L.I continued to materialise unfailing at my side on each occasion, and thus our hours and hours of chatting in front of a village audience feigning disinterest continued. And the next time he offered to take me (the 100m) home on his motorbike, I said yes, and was treated to a thrilling swoop round the village, out into the countryside and back again.
- Ladies and Gents (but especially Ladies); let me tell you that there is nothing quite so swoon-inducing as a man who invites you onto his throbbing machine, and then exhorts you to wrap your arms tightly around him so he can accelerate and make you squeal.
But having deposited me safely back home, he whooshed off into the night once again, leaving me un-kissed and none the wiser as to his wishes or intentions…
…until a week or so later, when he suggested I invite him up for coffee so he could teach me some bachata steps, as promised.
- Ladies and Gents; let me tell you, there is nothing quite so charming as a man who can persuade a stone-cold-sober, utterly rhythm-less woman who loathes slow dancing, to whirl round and round and round her apartment with him for two hours until she can barely remember why she ever danced alone. A man rendered even more charming by his utterly un-selfconscious wearing of loaned fluffy white slippers bedecked with red horns.
The evening ended with us, um, “making out” as I think the youngsters would call it (a truly ghastly expression, the details of which I feel I am not being too cruel in keeping to myself… ), so at last, I was made privy to his wishes and intentions.
Or was I?
Because despite spending two further evenings glued to my side in the pub and a myriad of lingering glances in between, L.I still hasn’t called me. Admittedly he has said that work will be frenetic until the end of Easter (he provides a lot of the greenery for the services and processions), but the age-old doubts and insecurities have wasted no time in creeping in:
Have I read “the signs” all wrong?
Is he only after one thing?
Am I just setting myself up to get hurt (again)?
And most of all:
Why oh why couldn’t he have just kept on walking, and left this girl to wallow in her contented spinsterhood? I was doing just fine without you, Love Interest, how dare you waltz in and turn me back into an insecure, nervous, giggly schoolgirl?
This is Status Viatoris, a pox on all men who turn our lives upside-down without so much as a by your leave, in Italy – in fact anywhere at all for that matter!