The yearning years

The yearning years, aged seventeen.
I wanted something from young men.
Not even sure what.

But the ones I was meeting,
I was not getting – that special something from.
What was it exactly I wanted?

I had read Romeo and Juliet,
I had read Mansfield Park.

I thought I knew how men were supposed to act.
Real Book Men.
Not the boys up the road who teased us, tormented us and got on our nerves.

These Book Men acted with kindness, consideration and were complimentary
and I wanted it,
But I wasn’t getting it.

None of my boyfriends,
not one of them
was giving me the Mr Darcy treatment
and I wanted it.

Perhaps the post-industrial back drop of a Northern City
did not engender the kind of romance, fine words and sweet gestures I yearned for.

In the end I realized this book behaviour was not going to happen.
Swains turned up in pea green Ladas not white stallions.

The best I could hope for was
The latest Prince LP played for me
A twirl at the Poly Bop
Drinking cider on the moor till we were giddy.

One young man had all the right moves
except the final initiative  - to ask me out
it never happened
watching 16 Candles and Pretty in Pink together
I should have guessed he was Duckie.
But I didn’t.

It would have been good to have had a holiday romance on my European travels
But I was dating Him.

Don’t mention Him.
Or it will send me into an invisible, silent rage.
All under the surface.

I cannot scream and rampage round the house at this time of night
Not with the children in bed
This rage is subterranean
A lava field
Cool and crisp on the outside
Red hot magma underneath
That’s how I feel about Him.

Thank the stars he is 5 time zones and 5000 miles away from me.
And will never come back – probably.
If he did that day would be uncomfortable and troublesome.

He is a black hole in my universe
I can never go near the idea of Him
Without being sucked into stupidness
All very counter productive
So
Wide berth
Steer clear.

The yearning years brought ideas about men - completely unrealistic in the poptastic 80’s
The yearning years are food for thought
Pockets of experience.
Lost earrings down the backs of couches in Ireland.
Falling in a hedge arms wrapped around my supposed heart’s desire.
Amazement at what people wear under their clothes.
and again at what is under the underwear.

Wondering if it was neater in the good old days of Austen, Bronte and Dickens,
but even there
heroines make those unwise choices
(Tess D’urbaville, Bathsheba Everdene, Maggie Tulliver, Ada Clare, Kathy Earnshaw)
And then make them again, sometimes with the same person.

Not me,
my unwise choice is “ a long time ago in a Galaxy far, far away.”
Long may he remain there.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.

Beyond  memory.

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