The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I met Mariah for a drink today. She's the woman I met at a social group two weeks ago. Her name is actually spelt Marije but I'm going to spell it Mariah because no sane person would put the letters Marije in that order and call it a word.

I got to the cycling cafe where we had arranged to meet. Mariah was already sitting at a table. But her husband Arnau wasn't there.

"Where's Arnau?" I asked her.

"Oh yeah, sorry Arnau's not here. He couldn't make it," she said.

Couldn't make it? Or was he sitting at home masturbating while thinking about his wife seducing a stranger in a bicycle cafe?

Mariah waved at a waiter to get his attention. But the waiter didn't see her.

"What do you want?" I asked her.

She pointed to a thing on the menu.

"OK, hang on," I said.

I got up and went over to the waiter. I pointed to the thing on the menu and asked for two of them.

I went back to the table and sat back down.

"That was impressive," said Mariah

"Well I'm trying to be more confident." I said. "Two days ago I had an epiphany, that being confident isn't hard. It's just about forcing yourself to do things you're scared of. Like talking to people. It's not hard. Anyone can do it. Getting rich, going to the gym and getting a good body: that's hard. But being confident is the easiest."

Then I found myself telling Mariah everything about my life. I guess I was feeling nervous because I spoke so much. I told about my mid-life crisis three years earlier. I told her about the gym injuries that happened after that. I even told her about my failed career as a shoplifter in my twenties. But I think I went overboard and talked too much because after an hour, she started looking bored.

The food was a thick slice of bread. There was something on the bread but I didn't know what it was. The bread was so thick I had to eat it with a knife and fork.

"So I'm going on a stag party this weekend," trying to enliven the conversation.

"Oh, really? What's a stag party?" (Mariah's from the Netherlands so English isn't her first language.)

"Well my brother's getting married and we're having a party before the wedding."

Her eyes kept glancing at the screen behind me.

"So what kind of things are you doing at this party?" she said, although she was asking just to be polite .

"Oh, like go-karting. And virtual reality." I mimed putting a VR helmet on my head.

At that moment my phone rang. It was Girlfriend.

"Paul, I'm making rice," said Girlfriend. "Do you want rice?"

"Yeah," I said.

"So you want some?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll make some rice for you."

"Okay, thanks. Bye."

I ended the call. Mariah looked at me in shock.

"What was that?" she said.

"It was my girlfriend. She wanted to know if I wanted rice."

"No, what was that sound you made? 'Eh'?"

"I was saying, 'Yeah'."

"No you weren't. You were saying 'Eh'". She said 'Eh' in a bored, surly tone, like a teenager having a strop.

I said I needed to go home, to help put the kids to bed. We each paid for our meals and we went our separate ways.

When I got home, I saw she'd sent me a polite text:

It was nice to see you again too. Most likely we'll see each other again at a meetup group.

In other words, I don't want to meet you again for another drink. I texted back:

It was nice to see you again. Let me know if you're ever up for rock climbing.

When I went to bed, she hadn't replied to my message.

I feel like I failed tonight. I failed to make a new friend. I think I talked too much. Next time I need to ask the other person questions.

But I don't feel bad. I feel excited. Because failure is just a step towards success. Pretty soon I'll have a group of buddies and we'll go out for drives together, with the top down of the roof of my car, and sometimes we'll go to arcades where my amusing friends will get drunk and try to steal toys from the claw machine. It'll be like Dawson's Creek but with 30-somethings.