The Summer Ball.

It’s been a fucking shitty month. From start to finish, this month has fucking sucked. It started with the week off that didn’t end up being a week off at all. I had to go on that shitty training course for work and it cost me a fortune. Then a massive direct debit came out of my bank account for no reason whatsoever and left me seriously overdrawn. After a long debate with the bank, I finally got my money back. They didn’t half make me work for it though. Fuckers.

Then there was the time I had to move out of my room for three minutes. Then there was the dress that wasn’t going to be in here in time. It was here in time but then I didn’t have shoes to match. I found shoes to match and then I changed the dress. Long story short, we went to a Summer Ball together, Jock and I, and it was a great night… for all the wrong reasons.

We spent NO time together. My period arrived ten minutes before we left the house, after being eleven days late. That’s how stressed out I was about the event. My period was late, that’s how stressed I was. We didn’t get any photos together, we didn’t go on the dodgem’s together, we didn’t go on the waltzer’s together, we didn’t dance, we didn’t laugh, we didn’t have fun. He was nowhere to be seen and I got adopted by one of the other wives, and her boyfriend’s fiancee. Well, it was the girlfriend at the beginning of the night, but by the end, they had gotten engaged and I was officially third wheel. It wasn’t a good feeling. By 3am, I was pretty much done. I was sick of being around all those hot guys in uniform, not able to do anything, yet looking single because her boyfriend spent the evening with a ‘close old friend’ that he looked at in a certain kinda way… she sure was pretty too. It was the wife that had adopted me. I think he was crushin’ on her.

At 3am, when I asked for the key to the place we were staying, things went wrong. He lost it. The fresh air hit him, and so did the 7 or 8 Jaegarbombs, 2 pints of beer, and countless Jack & cokes. He was abusive. He was accusing. He was spiteful and nasty. He was funny, kicking the air and making weird animal noises, but it was quite pathetic watching my 36 year old boyfriend acting like the 20-something ex-husband I left behind years ago.

What did it matter? We cried, he pissed the bed, and I sat in the spare bedroom of the cold and empty house we were staying in, doing the baggy of coke I had conveniently found in my purse and talking to Big Love until 6am in the morning. That’s not a lie. That actually happened. I messaged him and I think I got closure. Another tale for another day, perhaps. Or maybe not. We’ll see how much I need to talk about it.

In the morning, he came in (after putting the sheets in the washing machine) and apologised. He couldn’t apologise enough. I was spitting venom and I gave it to him with both barrels. How could he humiliate me like that? He was nowhere to be seen all night, I played the spare part to an engagement, had to hang around with a bunch of people I didn’t know, and then end up finding him deep in conversation and face-to-face with another wife. What the fuck? That’s fucking military life for ya.

I had put so much effort into that night. His anniversary present from me was a jar of hearts – 365 quotes taken from my blog (and closely amended as so not to be traced) because he wanted, and I quote, ‘my words’. It took me three fucking months. I went through four different glass jars. I handmade 365 tiny little envelopes, and then hand-wrote 365 little fucking love notes. He didn’t even get me a card. Speaking of which, he didn’t exactly get me a birthday present either…

I drank bottles of water in between my drinks when we were at the Summer Ball so I didn’t make a complete fucking ass of myself like the last time we went out drinking. In the full-length, beautifully tailored dark blue ballgown, with blonde curly bombshell hair, and beautiful red lips, shoes, handbag and nails, I was the picture of class and sophistication. I could see the guys looking at me as I walked by. My outfit, hair, makeup and alluring perfume had the desired effect on almost every guy in the room… except my boyfriend.

I put all that effort in, acted like a perfect fucking lady, and looked THAT good for him to fuck me off for the entire night. We didn’t even get a picture together. What the fucking fuck?

Bestie said that he didn’t understand it. Jock’s a 36-year old tubby, grey-haired munchkin and I looked like that. Why didn’t he want me on his fucking arm? Why didn’t he want that? What happened???

I wasn’t mad at him for long the next day. I tried to sleep as best as I could but after the little bit of coke I’d done, I was pretty much awake. No one knows about that by the way. Not even Jock. After a couple of hours, I had softened to him again, and he apologised over and over again. I know he didn’t mean it. We all do stupid things when we’re drunk. I just realised that the weekend hadn’t been for our anniversary. It had been him getting shit-faced with his old military buddies. The Summer Ball I probably didn’t even need to turn up to. Jock wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t there. He admitted as much to me.

Despite all of that, I’m sat here watching The Notebook, realising that Jock kisses me how Noah kisses Ali in the movie. That’s the kinda love we have. We’re stupid and we make stupid mistakes. We get drunk and say things we don’t mean. This is real love, right here. Pissed fights aside, we’re lucky really.