"Depressingly, this seemed normal in the 00s and demanded a specific type of vigilance. As well as trying to look perfect for every date, there was also the effort of trying to be perfect: bright and funny and engaging and fragrant, but also vaguely unavailable. Endearingly kooky was OK; but I didn't want to come across as weird. Misery and anger were off limits. I never risked showing I cared. No wonder love had failed to launch."
"he had seen me on deadline, in my gym clothes and hungover. We were friends, but not close. Then, during a snowy spell, he began giving me lifts to work. Our conversations, side by side in traffic, felt natural and then increasingly intimate. We started organising office nights out, where we would only speak to each other, and finally progressed to a drink on the way to a colleague's birthday celebrations (spoiler: we never got to the party)."
"But, once we were officially a couple, I reverted to romance mode. My legs were silky, my flat was curated and my underwear matched. Because I really liked him, I was more careful than ever. I delayed responding to messages, and rarely sent the first text. A lot of the time, I didn't even realise I was doing it. I didn't know any other way to be in a relationship."
I spent my mid-20s single and seeking male approval, making relationships fun and conflict-free by policing my appearance and emotions. I performed perfection: looking flawless, being bright, funny and vaguely unavailable, avoiding misery, anger and overt caring. I reconnected with Luke, a colleague who had seen me in unvarnished moments, and our drives together grew intimate, leading to exclusive office interactions and an aborted trip to a birthday party. Once official, I reverted to romance mode, curating my flat and delaying messages to appear less available. Two months in, after he left my flat, I stubbed my toe on a new door stop and was stunned by sudden pain.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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