Meeting Mr Wonderful – Part 2 - The Down Side

OK, so I’ve met this fabulous guy, who as it happens to turn out, is a professional sportsman. He’s gorgeous, but I think I wish he did something else for a living.

Shortly after the night we met, I saw him again, but this time it was a completely different situation, and one that I’ve realised I don’t care for at all. Each time I’ve seen him since, it’s been on his turf. He’s been in his uniform, and if I want to speak with him, I have to go and hang over a fence to do it. Absolutely ghastly and horrifying experience – I feel like some class of groupie and it’s truly hideous. I’ve never hung over a fence to talk to a man in my entire life, and I don’t see why I should have to start now. I’m wondering if there’s a man on the planet worth the humiliation, and I’m thinking the answer is no.

It’s a double-edged sword indeed – although I wish he’d had a different job, I’d also be ready to eat the face off him if he’d wasted the talent that God has obviously given him. I’m so proud of what he’s managed to achieve for himself so far, although his sporting prowess has almost nothing to do with my attraction to him. That’s entirely about him as a person. The fact he plays a sport I love is a bonus, but I could certainly live without it, and have absolutely no interest in sitting around with him talking about sport.

When I do see him play, it’s a grand example of a fine looking man doing what he does best. When he’s in good form, he’s very talented. Not to mention the fact that his butt looks great running up and down that paddock (particularly through a pair of binoculars which has been necessary on occasion). What’s a girl to do? If she has any sense of the arts at all, she’ll realise that there’s an obligation to appreciate something obviously made well with the help of a solid gene pool. Trust me on this – elite athletes at peak fitness are indeed a thing of beauty. Having said that, as much as he looks hot in the uniform, it unnerves me completely, which is absolutely the most ridiculous thing in the world, but it would also be absolutely true.

On the first night we met, I felt as though we were on equal ground and it was just wonderful to talk with him and not feel at all nervous about it. In 20-20 hindsight though, on the night we met I was having far too much fun with him to have time feeling nervous at all – that came later when I realised he wasn’t ‘just another guy’. Seeing him in uniform, in that massive venue with his team mates doing the job he’s paid to do is entirely a different situation, and it’s a complete mess altogether. Whether or not he would agree with me, he becomes a different person when he puts on that uniform; he’s suddenly one of a small, elite group of men and that changes a person’s demeanour and behaviour, whether they think so or not, and so it should. When he’s doing his job, he’s representing Queensland. The team has specific targets to reach and they have to do that in front of large crowds of people. If I have a bad day at work, nobody needs to know about it – I can just go home and soak in the bath until I feel better and start again tomorrow. If he has a bad day at work, he does it in the public eye and that’s got to be stressful on more than one level. Of course the reverse is true as well. I understand and respect that entirely. Then again, he does get very well paid to play a game for a living. He's not devoting his life to eradicating land mines in Cambodia and Africa, or healing the sick, or developing a cure for AIDS, or running NASA or BHP. He plays sport for a living. Why something so silly should make me nervous truly defies competent description, but it does. Perhaps it is the fact that I'm not overly fussed on sportsmen that does it. Who the hell knows? All I know is that it bites.

From my perspective, a public arena is definitely not conducive to personal conversation in any comfortable form. I’ve not seen him in any capacity other than his professional capacity since the night we met, and it just gets worse for me each time we see each other. I loathe talking with him in his environment because I feel so much less than him there, and that’s a truly awful feeling indeed. I’d seriously consider selling my soul to the spawn of Satan if I could just get him back on neutral ground in a relaxed environment and where we could have a normal conversation about absolutely anything but sport. It worked very well for us the first night we met, and I’ve no doubt it would work well again, particularly since we do seem to have a lot in common.

Frankly, I’m not a girl who struggles with words and never have been. I’ve a university Masters degree, an IQ of close to150, I’m an experienced public speaker, think very quickly on my feet, have won prizes for my writing, have been offered gigs on radio, and can speak three languages. However, the minute I see your man in uniform on his turf, I completely lose the power of coherent sentence composition. My mouth starts flapping like a sheet in a cyclone – what comes out of it is anyone’s guess, but it’s certainly not the witty, intelligent and profoundly normal conversation that’s going on in my head – in fact it’s not even on the radar. I’m positive that I come across to him sounding like a flaky bimbo, whose life revolves around nothing more than globetrotting, buying shoes, lying around like a sloth, and amusing herself with the most vulgar degree of self-indulgence. I am not that kind of person at all. He knows nothing of my deep commitment to social justice and human rights (which I’ve had since childhood), of my community work, of my devotion to my friends and family, my work ethic and all the other qualities that make me who I am. Sure, I do spend a lot of time travelling and buying shoes, but that’s window dressing. I do have a fabulous life, and I am grateful for every minute of it. I am very grounded as to what's important in life and what's not. Yet there I am, yapping away at him like a poodle on crack cocaine and making no sense whatsoever to anyone, least of all myself. I’m utterly horrified by what he must be thinking.

Even worse, when we’re talking, it’s in front of lots of people, which I detest with a vengeance and it makes me even more nervous. For all my outgoing demeanour and social activity, I’m also a private person and would much rather talk with him without the benefit of an audience. I cannot stand having people watching me and speculating as to what’s being said and what’s going on. I love attention, but not of the public kind. Put it this way – if I had a choice of going with him to a black-tie function with 1000 other people at the Convention Centre, or sitting on a blanket with him on a deserted beach eating fish and chips in the moonlight, I’d take the beach hands down any day. For sure, I’d go to the black-tie dinner and would have a great time, but I’d prefer privacy as my first choice.

The last time we spoke, I feel as though I made such a fool of myself I almost swallowed my tongue there and then. It brings tears to shame to my eyes and burns the cheeks off me just thinking about it. I’ve all but decided that I can never speak to him again until he’s at least five years dead, such is the depth of my embarrassment.

Men are so much easier to deal with when you can’t stand the sight of them or you have no respect for them. When you fancy them, it just does your head in.