Saturday, June 5, 2010

Love, love me do

Yesterday marked eight months of my marvellous relationship with my current boyfriend. I was gushing over the details of our mini-golf date yesterday with my mother, who sighed, "Oh, don't you wish you started dating him before all those horrible boys?"

I disagree completely. I've seen quite a few men in my time (but not an obscene amount, mind you) and despite having my heart broken on a few occasions, and just plain disappointed many other times, I would have it no other way. Collectively my ex-lovers have been artists, writers, film makers, musicians (hence the name of this blog) and bit part actors, and without them I imagine I'd be quite uncultured. One of them introduced me to The Cure, The Banshees, Milton and Dante. Another opened my eyes to The Clash, changed my mental stereotype of vegans and educated me on how wonderful a good television commercial can be (he's one of the film makers obviously). Yet another man rekindled my love for literature and graphic novels.

And even the horrible ones still taught me a thing or too. I now know that if my boyfriend suggests I wash the dishes while he's asleep so I don't waste any of his valuable waking hours doing housework (we lived together, by the way), that he's not quality dating material. I think said guy once yelled at me because I blew my nose in a way he didn't like. I also am strongly anti-gambling - a drug dealer I was dating constantly borrowed money to feed his gambling addiction, and once actually left me waiting outside the casino because I wasn't 18 yet. I know to never date a guy who already has a girlfriend (who he dumped to date me, only to dump me on MSN a few months later to get back with her). And most importantly, I've learnt to recognise a good man (i.e. current man) when I see one.

So no, I'm actually glad I got all of my emo, slash-my-wrist relationships out of the way in my early years. And I don't regret a single one of them, because I can now truly appreciate how wonderful my current boyfriend is (he's not a drug addict, he doesn't gamble and blows his nose more than I do). And if my unscientific calculations are correct, the universe owes me about 80 years or so of absolute relationship bliss for all the shit it's put me through.