Rethinking Mr Wonderful

Following yet another week of headlines involving sportsmen behaving badly, I’m wondering whether I should remove my rose-coloured glasses and take another look at Mr Wonderful in the cold, harsh light of day. Is he really the man of my dreams or am I having myself on (as usual)?

I’ve already made it clear that I loathe sportsmen, and after reading any major daily newspaper in the country of late, my argument on that point has been proven time and again.

After all the wonderfully good deeds they’ve done in South Africa, I’m counting on the Collingwood boys to be behaved like monks in Dubai. A positive in that regard is that alcohol is not readily available in Dubai, so there’ll be almost no chance that any of them will get so flogged they’ll be unable to find their hotel room key and have to sleep outside in the hallway for the night, or that those dreaded words ‘footballer’, ‘alleged incident’, ‘heavy drinking’ ‘young woman’ and ‘nightclub’ will find themselves combined into the headline on the front pages of the local Dubai newspapers after the Pies -v- Crows match.

After the last couple of weeks in Australia, it will be a strange feeling indeed to pick up the paper and not find a story about a sportsman gone feral from drugs, alcohol, ‘roid-rage or an over-active ego.

However, I still can’t equate Mr Wonderful with this kind of behaviour, so I’ll need to start reminding myself that he’s only a man after all and consequently I can’t expect too much. My friend Mary-Rita is great for these situations. She has no qualms whatsoever in having me in bits laughing until tears leak from my eyes with her commentary on what’s wrong with Mr Wonderful upon superficial examination of his person. Of course she is correct on every count, but to me he’s still gorgeous and I just don’t care about the imperfections. I’ve plenty of my own to be getting on with.

I guess the first fact of reality in a relationship with a guy like Mr Wonderful would be that you don’t get to spend much time together at all during the season. However, although some girls might be troubled by that, I don’t view that as a con on the list of pros and cons. Both of us have extremely busy lives and while he’s training, playing and fulfilling his contractual obligations, I can peacefully enjoy my nights out at the ballet, theatre, opera, book club, art gallery opening, chick/foreign films and whatever other social engagements I might have forgotten about at this moment. To me that’s a perfect win-win situation in any language. When you do get to see each other, there’s loads to talk about and you appreciate the time you spend together rather than falling into some boring routine.

Plus of course there’s always the bonus of the “Gosh-we-haven’t-seen-each-other-in-two-weeks-and-my-goodness-I’ve-missed-you” great sex. Oops. Did I just say that out loud? OK, best scrap that last comment. Sex is something I’m not going to admit doing while my Catholic mother is still drawing breath on this planet. I’ve always been of the opinion that a Catholic upbringing provides Protestant psychologists with a lifetime of gainful employment, and discussing sex whilst my mother is in listening or reading vicinity is going to lead me straight to that Anglican couch faster than you can say “Freud’s a pervert”.

The thing about Mr Wonderful that will no doubt burst my romantic balloon is that I’ll probably discover that he has truly disgusting personal habits (remember this boys – tissues, cotton buds and toothpicks were invented so that you don’t have use your fingers, so please stop it), a vile temper that exceeds even my own, a level of self-absorption that allows him to commune with his internal organs at any given moment; AND that he drops hairs all over my pristine 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets and leaves stubble in my bathroom sink.

In order to satisfy my mother and parish priest, I will state categorically that whilst he is in my bed or my bathroom, naturally, I will be nowhere near that area of the house at the time. He is obviously only in my bedroom because he’s had a hard session at training and needs rest and refreshment. Apparently I will be in the kitchen lovingly cooking him a meal before doing his laundry and vacuuming his car (followed closely by racing to the loo to throw up in sheer disgust at what I just said).

I just hope that his ego isn’t actually larger than Russia, otherwise he won’t be able to fit onto the sofa with me for a cozy night of TV viewing. This could also be disastrous, as I have visions of him commandeering the remote control and channel-surfing until I feel the uncontrollable urge to beat him to death with it.

Of course harsh reality goes both ways. Whilst I’m (hopefully not) discovering that he’s a disgusting, filthy skunk behind closed doors, he’ll definitely discover that while I might be able to bite like Nigella (well, I could learn, with some instruction from Paris Hilton) I certainly can’t cook like Nigella and I unfortunately don’t wander around the kitchen in lacy underwear looking for tasty things to pop into my mouth – mostly out of a paranoid fear of psychotic neighbours with telescopic lenses and a subscription to YouTube.

My skills as a domestic goddess lean more towards remembering to call the cleaner and the gardener every fortnight, having Sitar Albion & That Thai Ascot on speed dial plus the correct change out of a $50 note for the delivery driver du jour. I truly love a clean and tidy house, but have no intention whatsoever of making it that way myself. Life’s short, there are experiences to be lived and fun to be had. Housework is not fun unless you are seriously deranged or have the personality of a golf ball. In my world where I am decorative rather than functional, it works like Christmas – you leave out milk and Tim Tams for Santa at night and get presents the next morning; you leave out money and cupcakes every Thursday morning and your house is sparkling by Thursday afternoon. Magic!

In my own defence, I do throw a fabulous dinner party when motivated to do so.

Another downside for him; I am obsessed with my hair – on any given day it will be a different colour, length, texture and style to that from the day before, and no, I don’t particularly care if he doesn’t fancy it. As with the weather in Melbourne, if you don’t like it, just wait a minute, because it will change when least expected. Deal with it.

Also, unless he has an obsession with clothes, he and I simply aren’t going to get along, nor will we get along if he expects me to clean his clothes for him. That’s something he’s either going to have to learn to do himself, or take them to his mother’s house for her to do. I have enough trouble remembering what’s in the closet, what's at the dry cleaner and what’s in the laundry chute (and where are the matching shoes?) from my own wardrobe, let alone worrying about what I’ve allegedly done with his shirts/pants/ties/socks/undies and sporting equipment. Here’s a clue; if I don’t wear them myself, I’m not interested as to their whereabouts. That’s his job.

Same goes with the car keys. I will have absolutely no earthly idea of where his car keys are unless I’ve been driving his car, which I must admit I’d love to do, as apparently it’s faster than mine – a fact I find deeply, insanely, annoying. I made the mistake of asking my brother (an expert in all things automotive) which of our cars would win a race up Mt Coot-tha, fully expecting the answer to be, ”yours of course”, only to be told in mocking tones, “don’t even think about it – he’s going to wipe the road with you”. What the????? My car is a fine example of sexy tri-star German engineering and has a motor twice the size of his matchbox toy. Apparently though, it’s also more than twice the weight, and (allegedly) his goes like a bee in a beer can due to its engine configuration. Apparently over a long distance I might stand a chance of coming close, but in the short term, defeat will weigh on me like a wet blanket on a horse. Not. Happy. Jan.

Various members of my boy posse have frequently told me that I drive like a bloke – a compliment which moves me deeply, as I am fully aware it must have been difficult for them to admit – and most of them will also admit after about 700 beers that I’m actually a much better driver than they are, right before they start crying like a girl into said beer at the humiliation of it all. This skill of mine is due primarily, for sure, to my unfulfilled desire to be a Formula One driver in a Chanel suit wearing Rouge-Noir lipstick. Since I learned to drive, Mt Coot-tha and various streets in Brisvegas have become my own personal racing circuits, a lá Silverstone, Magny-Cours, Monza and Hockenheim. Sadly though, my traffic history reflects my frequent need for speed, and Queensland traffic cops just don’t seem to appreciate how important it is to apex through tricky chicane corners in order to avoid aquaplaning in the wet at 180km per hour. I, of course, can blame my Sicilian, Fiat/Alfa Romeo/Porsche and Ferrari driving ex-fiancé for my indiscretions behind the wheel, but then again, I’ve never met a man I couldn’t blame for anything. I can also double clutch it into third with the best of them largely due to The Sicilian’s expert tutelage - at least he was good for something and appreciated my latent talents. It is totally possible to be both a princess and like fast driving. If Mr Wonderful doesn’t want to play along with me in the car, he’s clearly a big nancy-boy sissy and that would be very unattractive indeed.

So it would appear that Mr Wonderful and I still have a lot of potentially unpleasant things to learn about each other, although I'm just hoping we can get to the good stuff first, and soon. At this moment in time, I'd do just about anything to get him to ask me out, but I shudder to think that I'd ever get to the stage where I’m paranoid enough to check his outgoing text messages every 5 minutes and be afraid to stand near him while he’s cranky and holding a wine glass. That should be enough to turn any girl off relationships with sportsmen.

Damn it, damn it, damn it……..I’m still going to die though if he doesn’t kiss me.