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It's Too Late to Apologise and, For That, I Am Truly Sorry

Tags: nice guy
Mr. A is not the first 'nice' guy I've dated. They have been few and far between, but I have chalked up at least, hmmm, three. 

This post is about one in particular, probably the first truly Nice Guy I dated, and the horrible way I ended it all (probably yet another karmic reason why my dating life is generally such a disaster).


I met The Nice Guy at a bar in Sydney. I was there for after work drinks on a Friday night. It was full of the yuppie set (wow, who would have thought that a blog in 2012 would bring back the term yuppie? Not me!) I saw a gorgeous man dancing very well on the floor, we started talking, he told me his name was Mink (not really, I just misheard him, but he seemed like the type of guy who could be called Mink, he was just THAT good looking). Mink wasn't The Nice Guy (although he was also incredibly nice). I found out really quickly that Mink was, tragically, married. This was a pretty devastating blow, I love a good looking man who can dance and who also seems kind of nice, a triple threat I like to call them. 


In swoops The Nice Guy. He was besties with Mink. And I guess that after watching my inevitable rejection, he decided that maybe he could be a suitable replacement for Mink. He was also quite nice looking (not in Mink's league, but pleasant), and he really should have been my type, he ticked all the boxes. He was tall, had messy black hair, big, nice eyes, and a very sweet smile. He was also really well dressed. He asked for my number, and I handed it over. I wasn't overly excited, but I wasn't going to say no to a box ticker (that sounds kind of dirty!).


The Nice Guy made all the right moves after this. He texted, he emailed throughout the day when we were both working, he was an absolute sweetheart. And, yet, the passion wasn't there. Maybe if I saw him again!


We went on a date, he travelled to near where I lived to go on this date. It was nice, we got along. He was polite, handsome, and well put-together. Also an excellent kisser! Perfect boyfriend material. But, still, not feeling it.


I kept giving him chances, because he seemed like the right thing to do at the time. We hung out a lot more, a couple of times at my house. We never went all the way (so high school), mainly because he was kind of nervous. He would shake a little bit whenever we kissed each other. If I'd wanted to take it further I definitely could have, but something was holding me back. A very tall, dark, and handsome something. But I'll get to that in a second. 


The doubts were there over minor things. Ah, the things you can be picky about when you're young (I talk like I'm forty. I'm not). He liked fantasy novels. I judged him for this. Deeply. I just really, really don't like fantasy novels, unless they're Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, or Game of Thrones. I am a book snob, there I've admitted it, it feels like such a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. His family were really into the theatre. Which is fine, but made me (quite wrongly) question his sexuality (he was neat, and liked the theatre, it was inevitable that I would come to the wrong conclusion). He had a car that I didn't like, this little sporty thing that reminded me of my mother. A guy's car should never remind you of your mother. It's just wrong. 


I was kind of mean to him which, in hindsight, was just the kind of person I was. I'm still a little bit like this, but I've managed to identify it as an issue and can usually control my meanness these days. I teased him about his taste in books, and his car. I teased him mercilessly about his car. I was AWFUL. I don't know why the guy kept going out with me, it must have been exhausting to be around me. 


The biggest problem though, when it comes down to it, was the six foot five hulk of a man that I was still crazily in love with. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery. He deserves a post of his own, probably more than one, so I won't go into it too much. Suffice to say, when I met The Nice Guy, The King and I were officially split up. Unofficially, we were still sleeping with each other. All the time. I was like an addict, couldn't stop going back for one more hit. I didn't think I still loved him, but I did. In a crazy, unhinged kind of way that frightens me a little now. 


The Nice Guy didn't really stand a chance. I didn't sleep with The King whilst I was dating The Nice Guy, just to be clear. Well, not consistently. We were barely talking for that month, mainly because I had decided that I 'needed to move on.' I had a belated housewarming party planned. The Nice Guy was invited along with one of his friends. I was happy enough for him to meet my friends, I knew they would love him, he was quite perfect. 


The night before my party, I got a phone call from The King. At midnight. He had locked himself out of his place. Could he come to mine? It was raining. I felt bad. I said yes. I was wearing my gigantic pyjamas, there was no way he would want to sleep with me. I had, obviously, conveniently forgotten the fact that we had dated for two years, and that he had seen me in my gigantic pyjamas on many, many occasions and still slept with me. The plan of no sleeping together didn't go well. And then, for some ridiculous reason, we decided the next day that it would be a really good idea to go to see the Sex in the City movie. That's right! A fucking date! With my ex. It was one of the most retarded situations I have ever been in.


I invited him to my party, because I felt obliged to. I knew he wouldn't come, but there was an off chance. I called The Nice Guy in a state of complete anxiety. He answered and I was on speaker phone in his tiny sports car, and his brother was sitting next to him. He asked me to say hello to his brother. I did so. Then I asked if he could call me back later when his brother wasn't there. When he did, all of the words gushed out of me like a really awful stream. I told him that my ex had turned up on my doorstep the night before, that I was so confused, and that I didn't think he should come to my party, and that maybe we just shouldn't see each other any more. He was, predictably, ridiculously lovely and supportive of this decision. He said all the right things. Because that was the type of guy he was, outstanding and sensitive in just about every way.


The party went ahead, sans any of the men in my life, and I decided that it was all over between me and The Nice Guy, and that The King was still, unfortunately, the one for me.


On Monday I got to work, and had a long email from The Nice Guy. He basically told me that he understood what I was going through, that he had tried to be friends with his ex, that it didn't work. He told me he wanted to still be friends and, hopefully, in the future, when I had sorted out my feelings, something more. I didn't respond. I made that decision, and there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't. 


Here's the thing, The Nice Guy would have been perfect if I had met him at the right time in my life. Like now, for example. If I had met The Nice Guy right now, I would have had no hesitation in dating him, possibly even settling down with him. Because he really was amazingly nice. But it took moving to another country, and meeting The Writer to show me the value of a genuinely good guy. And by that point, it was all a bit too late for me and The Nice Guy.


So, I would like to apologise, even though it is sorely late. I'm sorry to The Nice Guy, and to all the other nice guys out there who have met girls like me at times in their lives when they're really not ready for a nice guy. I know that one day you'll all meet lovely girls, and marry them, and have perfectly nice lives. I hope that The Nice Guy has met someone lovely, because he really does deserve it after dating the likes of me. 


Deeply apologetic,


B. J. Barnes
 


This post first appeared on The Brilliance Of B. J. Barnes, please read the originial post: here

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It's Too Late to Apologise and, For That, I Am Truly Sorry

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