FINDING MY PRINCE

This year I shocked myself. I won the humourous contest at my toastmasters club, Gold Reef, and then won the area contest at Positive Speakers in Soweto.

Sadly, I got knocked out at District Level, but I’m still chuffed that I made it that far, and am ready to give it my best shot again next year.

So, I thought, as this little winning speech of mine will make a great blog post, here it is. 🙂 And at the end I’ll share a little juicy bit that wasn’t included in the speech.

If you are in your thirties and single, then one thing is certain: You have made attempts to catch someone, or be caught. This is not necessarily because your singleness bothers you, but because it bothers other people. “When are you bringing home a son-in-law?” my mom would ask as if it’s a thing you can pack in amongst your clothes and toiletries.

One day I decided to join an SMS-dating-club: LoveMail, almost like the JunkMail. “We met some nice girls there,” my friends Martin and Jannie told me (and they have been single much longer than I have).

But first I have to think up a strategy: create a profile to market myself. My strategy was rather hairy and scary, and many people discouraged me from using it. My strategy: “Be yourself.” “You can just get a hot pic off the net and powder-coat your profile. Who will know?” they said. But no, I decided to just be myself: a plain Jane. And because I’m no oil painting, I decided to include no photo on my profile. I just described myself as best I could, and waited for my knight in shining armour to find me.

Step 2: After the guy made contact with me and showed interest, I checked his profile thoroughly, and we started a good conversation, I threw a stone in the water: “I am blind.” If he can get past that one, he’s definitely on the right road.

But woe is me, here is the hairy and scary bit: as I throw that stone in the water and watch the ripple, my knight disappears altogether. Where did he go?

But on one sunny day my luck turned. Me and my prospective suitor got past the blind spot. I am impressed and proceed to step 3, which is, as always, absolute honesty. “What do you look like?” I describe my features, not forgetting to add that I am short and stout. “How tall are you?” he then asks. Is he just being diplomatic, politically correct, or doesn’t he know what short means? He also liked what I liked, never sharing anything of himself. Eventually, he turned out way too weird for my liking, and I posted him to the recycle bin. Close, but no cigar. I decided that if every pot had a lid, my lid wasn’t residing in that bent and dented pile.

Then you are also bound to come across some kind-hearted, match-making soul that wants to help you out of your state of loneliness. It came to the attention of some of my colleagues that one of the workers working on the renovation of our building, had his eye on me. My colleague (who stutters) drew me aside and quietly informed me: “Tracy, I hope you don’t mind, but Jannie is nca for you.” I feel flattered by the attention and decide to check him out.

I was however disillusioned and lost interest when, on one specific day, as a few oof us ladies walked past him, he started prancing like a peacock. “All these ladies, and I’m the only man. And let me tell you, I am a man.” The guy is as dense as a doorknob.

He sent me a Christmas card, and it is amazing how many times the word amazing appeared in one sentence. He started stalking and staring everytime I took my dog for his business, and I felt like a soapy star. The lowlight was when I bent down to fasten the dog’s leash, and he took a photo of me from behind. Ciao for now, ciao forever.

Another colleague shouted at me from the gate that Jan (another Jan, what is it with me and Jans?) is interested and wants my number. She shouted so loud, all the ants came streaming from their hills to hear the juicy bits. The poor guy’s idea of a first date was that I must make an effort to come earlier so that we can have coffee at my desk. How exciting. Run along now, brother.

I have come to the conclusion that there are three possible reasons why my attempts at finding a prince were fruitless: Either I am like my mom’s aluminium pot, battered and bruised and made without a lid. Or I am a teapot, and my lid is broken, or I’m a flower-pot, too full of beans to allow room for a lid in my life. Who knows?

P.S.: That same desk-coffee dude actually asked me for a date yesterday (if you can call what he did, asking). Just off-handedly said to me: “So when are we going on a date, me and you?” My answer was just one word: NEVER! So you think I’m mean? To my defense, when I told a friend of mine who is also my colleague about this development, she said it would be like dating Mr. Ples. If you believe in Darwin’s theory of relativity, he is the missing link, so go figure.