In which doing the right thing is infinitely less fun, again

For the past few days, Cardiff has again had the (all too rare) pleasure of Rob's company. Rob is a fascinating, enthusiastic person who happens to work in the glamorous profession of film colouring. He colours films. Makes them pretty. The first time I met him, I launched into the only thing I know about film colouring: that a lot of people are doing it wrong, resulting in floods of teal and orange.

Tonight, Rob was reading a copy of Heat magazine (more because it was there, I think, than because he dislikes his braincells). He mentioned a 'weird crushes' list, and I peeked to see if there were any on there I could relate to. There, at number one, was Benedict Cumberbatch. (I've already written a post about him; you can read it here, for the curious, but it summarises to "A+, would ogle again.")

"Ooh, yes, Benedict Cumberbatch," I said. "I feel a bit wrong for liking him now. There's a new Weebl's stuff cartoon about him. It basically says 'Dirty, dirty girls like Benedict Cumberbatch,' over and over until I feel bad about myself."
Rob laughed. "He's filth in real life, as well."
I paused, a little bit surprised but not stunned. Rob has a tendency to do this. It's that glamorous career thing - whenever we mention someone we admire, there's a one in three chance that Rob's met them.
"You've met him?"
"Yup."
"Do you have his number on your phone?" (Joking, of course. Probably.)
"Yup."
"...Oh." (Was I joking? Should I...? No. That would be creepy. I was definitely joking. Do not ask for his number do not do NOT do that, it would be creepy.)

I'm not sure whether I should be congratulated or berated for taking the high road. A mistake you don't make looks much the same as a missed opportunity from behind. Anyway, I'm sure Rob wouldn't have shared as he is far too much of a gent.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to Weebl's song until the message sinks in. (Dirty, dirty girl.)

Silly girl

Shortly before my seventeenth birthday, I went on a week-long camping trip with YFC (the charity I ended up doing a gap year with). I met hundreds of new people; Christians, my age, and they were wonderful and exciting. A new chapter of my life started that week.

Part of that chapter (a not inconsequential part) was my discovery of hugs. On the last night, after a waterfight and a bedtime story (a Mister Men book, though I forget which one), I ended up in the arms of a young man called Matthew. I'd never met him before that week - odd, considering the vast crossover between any two lives on the Isle of Wight. We cuddled into the early hours, just stood up in the middle of the campsite enjoying holding each other. At an age when many of my peers had lost the big V, I was still astonished that anyone would willingly touch me. Yes, my self-esteem was that low. I found a spot on the back of his neck that made him shiver, and for me that was a breakthrough - the beginning of the realisation that I, too, could be desirable.

I remember him telling me then that this didn't mean anything special, and that some girls got the wrong idea.

"I think I can manage not to fall for you," I said, possibly raising one eyebrow sardonically in what turned out to be utterly misplaced confidence. It took me a good two years to get over him properly; two years wasted obsessing over a guy I could never really have been happy with. Eventually, I met Gavin and realised that stupid unrequited crushes are best left in high school.

All that was over six years ago now, and a lot can change in six years. I grew up. I  left high school, did my gap year, found myself, lost myself, moved away from home, started university, found love, had a three-year relationship, moved to Cardiff, made new friends... and yet...

"You know I'm no good, right?"

"Yeah. You can join the rest of the world on that one."

I have learned exactly nothing. History, it seems, is doomed to repeat itself. I am a moron.