Categories: ramblings
Date: 21 March 2010 14:14:31
Not sure where I'm going with this, so, in my usual style, I'll put fingers to keyboard and carry on regardless.
Those of you who follow me on Twitter may have seen that at one point early yesterday evening, my status was “all dressed up and going on a *date.* Laters, all.”
It was a blind date, set up by a friend. It didn't go well. Really, it didn't.
My next status was sent via text, an hour or so later, and said “*hiding in toilets* this is so bad it's hilarious.” (not enough signal to get onto Twitter on fancy dancy internet-enabled phone. Stupid phone. I was desperately in need of being able to Google “how to get out of the date from Hell without cutting your own leg off and being taken to hospital.”)
Drawing a veil over the “date,” which was a long parade of “I don't like women who...” “um, I do that...” from start to finish, (he doesn't see the point of blogs, Twitter, or Facebook, so it hardly seems fair to post a long rant which he is unlikely to see and thus be able to defend himself from), I would like to hold up the responses I got, many from people whom I have never met, as an example of how virtual friendships can be just as valuable as “real” friendships.
I was positively bombarded with virtual tiaras (currently perched lopsidedly on my unbrushed hair – dammit, I am off to Claire's Accessories as soon as I have some clothes on*), glasses of wine, and (possibly not virtual) offers to go round and beat him up.
Twitter and Facebook can be the virtual equivalent of sitting round with your mates over a bottle of wine and cackling, I think, and for people whose friendship circle is scattered all over the world, and due to time differences may not be available for instant “that was awful, please tell me I'm not a moose in human form,” conversations, can be, if not a lifesaver, a balm to the ego.
I went to bed feeling considerably less bruised than I did after the text arrived that said “I was told you were pretty, and you're not. I feel badly misled.”
I think I will chalk that one up to experience, and thank heavens I learned the trick of running in impractical footwear (he didn't like the Victorian tart boots. It was doomed from the start).
For the avoidance of doubt, the “date” itself is not up for discussion, dissection or comment. I do not want to see a man who won't know about this post being attacked in the comments.
But to all those people who massaged my bruised and fragile ego via Facebook and Twitter last night - you are all utterly marvellous, and I thank you.
*Yes, it's 12:59pm, I'm still in my pyjamas. Slatterns of the world unite.