Giraffe

I love arrogant men. I don’t know why I love them; I just do. If a man displays just the right amount of mocking misogyny, I’m all over him like a seagull with your sausage roll outside Greggs. I suppose that’s why I liked Giraffe at first, who I discovered on Hinge. He was cute, sure, but not the kind that made my pants want to fall off… until he started sprinkling his superiority all over the chat.

It was hot at first. I liked it. Putting my hands on my hips and getting not-so-mock-offended is one of my favourite ways to flirt, and the back and forth of it all was fun. Giraffe took it too far, though. Don’t they all, always?

It wasn’t just one thing that gave me the ick; it was lots of little things, spread out over a couple of days. In the first three hours though, he’d said (and I’d thought) the following things:

“I’m six foot-plus tall.”

Sir, I’m barely tall enough to ride on rollercoasters. That shit does not impress me. I’m going to get a sore neck every time I try to kiss you. No, we aren’t all the same height lying down. I am so sick and tired of hearing/reading that. It’s not funny.

“I could do your job, no problems.”

So… why aren’t you doing my job? Why are you getting up for your stupid little job at seven-thirty in the morning while I’m still snoozing soundly in bed, then?

Prick.

“I’m renovating. I don’t suppose you’d know much about knocking walls down.”

Actually, mate, I have knocked a whole wall down, with a sledgehammer, all by myself. There’s video evidence of it if you don’t believe me. I’ve also laid flooring in an open plan kitchen, dining room, and living room… with a little help from Pops’ on the measurements, of course. We all know how shit I am with maths.

I’ve dug ponds in gardens, attempted to use a concrete breaker thing (but wasn’t tall enough,) landscaped, carried heavy paving slabs, helped to build a whole house, was the go-to muscle for three years, and I can put flatpack furniture up all by myself. I’ve even done some plumbing in my time, supervised by a real plumber, obviously. The only thing I don’t fuck with is anything electrical because I would most definitely blow myself up.

I’m short, but I’m fucking mighty.

It was all too much. After six hours, I realised that Giraffe wasn’t being arrogant and playfully misogynistic with me: he was repeatedly putting me down. I was woohoo’ing his accomplishments, but he was accusing me of making mine up – in that playful and fun way, of course (that wasn’t playful or fun at all.) At one point, I asked him why he’d even matched with me. I was “sexy,” apparently. That was his answer. Grim.

I had every intention of unmatching when I went to bed that night, but he redeemed himself by being really nice and being half-apologetic. He was doing lots of other stuff right, too – asking questions, sending morning messages, asking about my day, being attentive, being nice.

By mid-afternoon, though, he was back to being his cunty little self.

It was time for Giraffe to go.

“It was really lovely to get to know you, but I’m not sure I see this going anywhere. Good luck with your hunt!” I said.  

“I was thinking the same. No hard feelings,” he said in response, which was quite the turnaround from trying to schedule a first date with me just a few minutes before. He then unmatched so quickly, I was almost offended. Almost.

Still, at least he was gone.

What did I learn from Giraffe? I learned that I have a maximum height and a maximum arrogance level. Oh, I have also got to stop giving medium-ugly men a chance. Those motherfuckers are the worst.

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Army Boy. (Coming soon!)