“I can’t help it Shell, I’m just a magnet for bastards”, I found myself turning and saying to the woman I sit next to at work.
“Oh yeah, Grant Mitchell, he’s your type ain’t he” our dearest Shell retorted. Chuckling away.
Never has someone got me so right. In 9 short words.
Sums me up. Grant bloody Mitchell. A unit. Fair-weather. Flits in and out of your life. A bloke’s bloke. A proper gezzer. A bastard. But a lovely bastard all the same.
It got me wondering. Why, when faced with a perfectly nice bloke who does well and is an all round nice guy, do I want to Usain Bolt out of the bar and get my arse straight home?
Why, when faced with someone who actually replies to your texts and doesn’t want to give me the run around, do I actually see myself growing old alone cos it’s like nothing will please me?!
Why? Because girls like me love a bastard.
And why do we love a bastard?
Ha, here goes.
Primarily, we love having something to moan about. I’m convinced of it. That’s the root of the problem.
‘Oh I’ve not heard from him’. ‘Oh he said we’d go out for a bit of dinner last week but he’s gone MIA for a fortnight’. ‘I know I should jog him on but when he winks at me my belly flips’.
It’s like we wouldn’t be happy with ‘he rang when he said we would, we went out when he said he was free, and it was lovely’.
Because for girls like me, that’s a whole tub of vanilla that we don’t want to settle for. But why? On paper it’s perfect.
Because getting the run around is so much more fun isn’t it. Looking at your phone willing for it turn from ‘online’ to ‘typing’ to the point of you getting some kind of angina is so much more thrilling isn’t it?
Well actually. In a way, yes. Sadly.
It’s exciting. Bastards are exciting. They keep you on your toes and the element of unpredictable is a real turn on.
When you’re not sure if they want you or not and they turn round and get in touch it’s a buzz.
So other than the bullocks ‘thrill of the chase’ and our inherent need to whinge, there’s got to be more to why we love a bastard.
I’ve gone round and round thinking if it had something to do with the dusty corners of my childhood (probably, my Dad was/still is/always probably will be the original bastard) or if I’ve genuinely got a chromosome missing that causes me to run this mill time and time again. To go through the thrill/chase/let down/cry/begin every single time.
And then I settled on it.
It’s got nothing to do with the chase. It’s got nothing to do with the buzz. It’s nothing to do with the element of surprise.
It comes down to one thing and one thing only.
Girls who love bastards are strong-willed, feisty cows. Firecrackers with very big hearts but they are a bloody handful. And in turn, we need a handful. We need a challenge. We need something to tackle head on. We need the fire.
But most of all and fundamentally the reason is this. We want to be the one that changes them.
Be the one they settle down for. That they calm their player ways for. That’s the real turn on. That’s the real buzz.
The thing that does it is the thrill of thinking that maybe one day this bastard will wake up one morning, look at you and think ‘this is me, this is me for good’.
…& not ‘….shit, name, name, what’s her bloody name’.
That’s why we keep going back.