I’m fed up with myself. I had an interaction with the garage owner down the road this week, and it forced me to face how desperate I can be for attention – especially from men.
I met him last year after the fiasco with Pete from the other garage. When I’m in a transactional situation and the man seems kind or interested, I speed up, overshare, and basically perform. It’s a pathetic attempt to get approval from someone I don’t even want. I told him about my anxiety – I can’t even remember how we reached that point. He started giving me compliments. I soaked them up. I don’t fancy him; he’s not my type, and he’s married. Still, I wanted him to find me attractive. That’s what gives me the hit: feeling seen.
Last week I called to book my car in. We chatted about the weather and I casually mentioned being warm at home. He joked about coming over to snuggle. I laughed and felt good. At the same time, I knew exactly what I was doing by mentioning being warm. I knew it would spark a certain reaction, and I wanted it, but at the same time I felt annoyed with myself.
I dropped my car off, looking “casually nice”, even though I don’t want him. I just wanted to be noticed. Mr Snugglepants wasn’t there anyway. Later, he called saying he’d tried reaching me about the car. I went back down to pay my bill. The PC was turned off and he said it would take five minutes or so before he could print my invoice. How very convenient. The staff were leaving, the place was closing, and I found myself alone with him. Part of me thought he was testing the waters. The other part told me I was imagining it.
I really cannot judge my own judgment. If someone insisted for ten minutes that the sky was green, I’d eventually believe there were green tinges in the sky and wonder how I could have been so dim not to have noticed it before.
He offered me a coffee. I said no at first, then changed my mind when I heard the faint note of disappointment in his voice. He led me upstairs to his office, and I thought, here we go. He’s probably seeing me as someone easy, someone desperate enough for approval to tolerate this grim little setup. Attractive enough to get cosy with, but not so attractive that I’d say no. He’s about fifteen years younger than me. I’m sixty, but with a facelift and a bit of care I can pass for late fourties on a good day. If only he knew – he’d run a mile. I told myself he might be laying foundations for something in the future. Then again… maybe he wasn’t.
Back downstairs, he gave me more compliments. He said I was perfect and would have no trouble meeting someone. Maybe he was just being kind because of the anxiety conversation. But his eyes wandered more than once.
He said I could come for a coffee after the lads leave at half five. I panicked and did damage control. I said yes “as friends”. He seemed surprised, like it hadn’t crossed his mind that I’d think otherwise. I doubted myself. Maybe I’d invented the whole thing. Or was this gaslighting lite?
When I left, Sir Compliments a lot, Lord of the Fake Innocent Face came out to my car and asked if he’d offended me. I said no, but I wasn’t interested in married men. Again, that shocked look. Then he said, “What, sex?” I cringed. He insisted the thought had never crossed his mind. The sky is green!
I drove home angry with myself. I don’t know whether my instincts are right or completely skewed, and that’s the worst part. After all, I’m the one with the mixed moderate personality disorder. Maybe I just see things that aren’t there.
He called three times when I got home. I ignored them until the fourth. I didn’t want him thinking I’m desperate, even though I often behave as though I am. I told him not to take me for a fool. He denied everything. I doubted myself again. In the end I apologised, which I regret. He made me promise to come down for a coffee. I agreed, but I won’t be going.