If I've deleted your number from my phone, I've realised you're not that into me....

Like, oh, duh, how many women does it take to work out that a guy is just not that into me?

Ahh, let me think!  That would be three close girlfriends over a Friday lunch, five work colleagues over 8 and a half champagne cocktails (that would be each), one neighbour, one girlfriend from a previous job, one mother, one former partner's new wife.....okay, okay, you get the picture.  I am seriously slow on the uptake and have needed the careful tutelage and support from the females around me because dear reader, it appears - no, let me restate that - it is evident that Dr Mike has taken a hike.  After such a promising start, he has all but disappeared into the vast, open and apparently distant space of dating land without so much as a pathetic attempt at feigning that we would again 'talk soon'.  Whatever!

Look, I'd love to believe it was something I said (maybe my ass did look big in that dress I bought especially for date #3; sadly, I'll never know), but I'm inclined to believe that it wasn't me.  How could it be, when it was all him.  He didn't need to tell me because all my friends did.  They assured me that yes, I am special and he hasn't a clue.  Isn't it wonderful?  In the midst of complete and public humiliation in one area of your life, you are supported, cajoled and counselled by those who are nearest and dearest.  You've got to love the equilibrating forces of nature.

And you'll be pleased to know that after several moments of feeling like I'd completely screwed up because I'd demonstrated my financial nouse to Dr Dolittle (because let's face it, he did very fuc king little) by listing the 'investment' pieces I have made in my much loved wardrobe (e.g. $425 Italian peep toe platforms), I got well and truly over that momentary loss of confidence.  We all want to be accepted for who we are and if Dr D couldn't see us sharing domestic bliss somewhere in the future (me scantily clad in recently purchased Sex in the City underwear and above-mentioned Italian peep toes), then it's not my place to foist myself upon his very neat and tidy life. 

I have taken the last few support and champagne fuelled days taking heart and strategising my next steps in the search for Mr Good Enough (you know I would settle for him if only I could find him).  It seems the only thing to do is get back in the saddle - by that I mean get online (as my BFF said, if you're not back online, why not?!!!), ask for referrals, continue feeling completely uncomfortable (oh, god life was so much easier before I headed down this path), and wear that new underwear.  Afterall, practice makes perfect. 

Giddy up!