So as you may have picked up, I am in a new relationship. Ahhhh new relationships, a sea of warm fuzziness, pet names, great sex, puppy-dog eyes, sunshine, rainbows and unicorns. Well that’s not what I shall be talking about today. I believe that the trauma of new relationships is grossly under-represented and I am going to explain why.

Firstly making any sort of decision becomes a task that rivals cracking the enigma code. Both parties are still so polite and eager to please that before you know it you’ve wasted what feels like 12 years of your life standing in the cheese aisle in Countdown painstakingly discussing the merits of Brie vs Camembert and eventually walking out with both anyway.

Going out for dinner requires a PHD in reading between the lines:

Me: ‘I kind of fancy Italian but it’s quite heavy and if we want to go out afterwards it might be a better idea to get something lighter. What do you think?’

Him: ‘Totally agree babe’

You’re fairly sure he does not agree and would actually make a human sacrifice for a quattro cheese and all of the meats calzone right now, and yes, my Italian is on point.

Him: ‘Ok so what about Thai?’

Me: ‘Yep Thai could work’

Him: ‘Or Mexican?’

…Dilemma, you love Mexican food but know only too well that you can’t book a table at Mexico and the wait will turn you into the hangry spawn of Satan. You could really do with avoiding him witnessing this level of crazy just yet….

Me: *thinking quickly* ‘Let’s do Indian’

WTF. Mayday mayday, you MUST find a way out of this colossal fuck-up. Indian food gives you explosive diarrhoea on 99.9% of occasions.

Him: ‘Indian it is!’

What have you done.

This brings me to by far the single most traumatic thing about getting into a new relationship. Toilet stuff. When you spend the first few months together in agony from holding in farts and causing yourself severe constipation because having to take a massive dump in your new boyfriend’s ensuite bathroom is a fate worse than death. Can we please just fast-forward to the point where we both realise we are human and we can get over that stuff? Besides I’ve found that holding in farts only works while you are awake. I have woken myself up with sudden, loud and unexpected gas on many a horrifying occasion and spent the next 30 minutes lying there rigid, pretending to still be asleep, hoping and praying it did not also wake him up.

Awkward moments when you’re first getting used to each other in the bedroom are always fun. That distinctly fart-like noise that happens sometimes and you feel like you have to a) acknowledge it with some nervous laughter and b) proclaim that it was not in fact a fart OR a fanny fart for that matter, immediately killing the mood and leading to you administering a frantic hand job to try and save the situation. The moment where he broaches the inevitable question of whether you’re up for anal. Men, please note that in general, a week into your relationship is too soon to be asking for anal. The moment when he thinks he’s sneaky and tries to do it anyway like some sort of ass ninja. Top tip – we will notice this. Oh and urinary tract infections. Enough said.

When you’re desperately trying to always come across as bang tidy and ladylike but you love to drink. These things are very much mutually exclusive. If he still chooses to continue the relationship after carrying your messy, drunk, slurring ass half way across town to get you home (via McDonalds of course) then waking up to the sound of you dry reaching in his toilet and witnessing you emerge from praying to the porcelain gods with last nights makeup half way down your face, smelling like a brewery and a thousand fags then marry the fuck out of him.

Overanalysing….EVERYTHING. You think you’re max chill. Until the first time he is late for something. Then your thought pattern goes a little something like this:

From: ‘Oh he’s a little late, that’s ok I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’ To: ‘Hmmm maybe I’ll just send a wee passive aggressive text alerting him to the fact that he is now rather late’. To ‘He said he left his house at 8pm, it’s now 8.45pm. It takes precisely 30 seconds for him to walk down his driveway and get into his car, 15 minutes to drive from his place to mine (18.5 max in traffic), he may have had an unscheduled stop to get gas or a snack which could add say 7 minutes give or take. Therefore WHERE ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH HAS HE BEEN FOR THE LAST 19 MINUTES!!!! IS HE CHEATING ON ME? HAS HE CHANGED HIS MIND ABOUT US? OMG HE TOTALLY HAS, IT WAS THE EXPLOSIVE DIARRHOEA THE OTHER NIGHT, WASN’T IT?! HAS HE HAD A HORRIFIC ACCIDENT AND IS NOW LYING DEAD IN THE GUTTER???!!!!!!

Nek minute, you get a text saying ‘Sorry babe, lost track of time. Nearly completed my Grand Theft Auto mission but I crashed the Buzzard Attack Chopper into a building, haha. Leaving now’ and you go nuclear, accessing a whole new level of rage you never thought could be or should be possible. Something, I might add, you never seem to experience when you’re single….

Nic xx

 

 

 

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