Friends occasionally come to me for advice, which is odd, because one look at my shambling semi-existence should be enough to convince them I’m in no position to offer guidance on anything. I wouldn’t trust myself to tell someone which end of a cup to drink from.
But still they come. The other day, a friend wanted to know whether a colleague of hers was a) flirting with her or b) not flirting with her, and c) how she should proceed, bearing in mind she didn’t know the answers to a) or b) yet.
I like it when female friends ask for advice about men, because it gives me a chance to slag off my entire sex with as much authority as I can muster. So I said: ”Duhhh — he’s a man! Of course he was flirting.”
”Maybe he’s just being friendly,” she replied. I snorted as though she’d asked whether horses have gills, and shook my head, which was pointless because we were on the phone.
”Look, all men, without exception, are shallow, priapic skunks. A man would shag a ham sandwich if no one was looking. It’s all men care about. It’s the only thing. There’s literally nothing else going on in our minds. Remove those thoughts and our skulls would cave in. And any man who says otherwise is lying — lying in the hope that his wheedling little lies will lull you into a false sense of security, and he can have his way with you. Up against a bin. He doesn’t care. He’s a man. At the end of the day he’s just a half-sentient poking machine. A mindless sperm dispenser. That’s the software he runs on. That’s what makes his eyes blink and his limbs move. He’s a penis and a larynx and that’s about all he is. Hello.
”Hello? Hello?”
Oops. I’d gone overboard a bit, and was befouling her harmless romantic daydreams, robbing her world of magic. I felt bad, as though I’d just told a six-year-old that not only does Santa not exist, but only an idiot would think he does. Worse still, this was an ex I was talking to.
”Is that what you thought when you met me, then?”
”Of course not! Don’t be daft. Look, I’m joking. Ignore everything I just said. He’s probably lovely, like me, yeah?” (Although part of my brain was still thinking: ”Yeah, but come on, he is a man.” It gets easily disgruntled, that bit of brain, and ought to learn when to shut up.)
Anyway, the key to working out her next step was to decide whether said man had been genuinely flirting or not. Which wasn’t simple. With flirting, there are more variables than Stephen Hawking could handle. It’s as complex as poker, but with far higher stakes: potential life-enhancing happiness or crushing humiliation, not piffling financial loss.
Body language doesn’t always help. What if one minute they’re playing with their hair and touching your knee, and the next they’ve got their arms folded? What if they are flirting, but only for their own sick amusement? Worst of all, what if they’re already taken, and deeply in love, thanks for asking? How do you subtly find out? You can’t ask outright: that drops your guard and the answer might leave you not knowing what to do with your face for a good 10 minutes.
So you drop casual prompts … but don’t get a straight answer. Now what? You’re in limbo. You’re no longer even yourself. On the outside you’re a picture of amused, confident nonchalance, while on the inside your brain is gnawing itself to shreds, assessing odds, crunching integers. Above all, you want to avoid The Sudden Look of Horror, and the awful, awkward vacuum that envelops the pair of you when it transpires that You Misread The Situation, Like An Idiot.
Infuriatingly, you won’t get anywhere without risking exposure to that Sudden Look. And nothing’s worse than discovering later that you didn’t misread the signs, but now something’s come up and sorry, but see ya. Years ago, on a night out with a girl I was slowly going crazy for, the sheer weight of mental calculation left me unable to make any sort of move. We shared a cab together, and after it dropped her home, she sent a text message saying: ”I wanted you to kiss me.” But the moment had gone. A week later she met the love of her life and that was that. It happens to everyone at some stage, obviously. But this was worse because it happened to me.
Anyway, we discussed all of this, my friend and I, and ultimately my advice boiled down to this: all you can do is prepare to go mad for a while. Maybe there’s a sunbeam at the end, and maybe there isn’t. But it’s out of your hands. To quote ABBA: ”The gods will throw the dice/Their minds as cold as ice/And someone way down here/May or may not have to eat shit pie.” (If you’ll excuse the crude paraphrasing.) — Â