I don't blame this man personally. It's just the collection of analytical neuroses he represents. I have many Woody Allen instances, a characteristic that has almost become less of a trait of mine and more an hourly buzzing inside my head. So much so, my friends describe it as having one of my 'Woody Allen Moments'. This is me, to those who know me well. The apprehension of success in anything - whether it be work, love or whatever, comes under the gaze of this Jewish auteur sitting inside my head. As if he's mentally typing out another one of his 'not so good as Annie Hall but better than Match Point' scripts on a miniature typewriter inside my cranium. He comes into his own when it comes to men though, especially men who give me any form of attention which has the possibility of it going somewhere. This is when I analyse the communication between myself and the guy so much, it sucks all the joy and fun out of meeting them and it becomes a slowly collapsing souffle of a date or potential relationship. Sometimes, it doesn't even get that far. It goes almost like this:
"Hello, I'm Richard."
"Hi there, nice to meet you."
Cut to internal Allen voice:
"What does he mean by that? He must hate me, I'm fool, why couldn't I have been nonchalant and aloof like everybody else and just say 'Hi'! Whats the point of carrying on? It'll end in tears!"
Okay, that was an extreme - but you get my point. Back to the situation in hand. I should be enjoying the fact I have actually heard back from the guy I met on Saturday night - a reply to a text I promised to send him on Monday. It was a brief response, I admit and not as long as I would have liked, especially after the witty prose I put together in order to say, "Hi it's me. Remember me." Unfortunately, this has woken Mr Allen from the depths of my thoughts and I really don't want his input on this one. Despite Woody's presence, I have reminded myself that on the whole - it is good news. I should allow myself to relish this for a moment and bask in the glory of the minor achievement of 'first contact'. Woody is tapping my shoulder though. Woody is asking me to reread the text a hundred times and my initial text to him and ask "Why hasn't he agreed to seeing you again yet, why was it so short and vague?" I hate Woody at the moment as you can imagine, as I vowed to play it cool with this one. A guy I've met through coincidence, in person and without having to type a username and password first. Woody is the number one reason I am probably single and why men tend to run away from me, like children being invited into Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch. So I have filed a mental restraining order on him. Not Michael Jackson. Woody. This is really hard, as Woody keeps pressing his haggard old face and thick spectacles against the glass wall of my conscience, mouthing words of defence and giving me sad, apologetic looks that the real Woody Allen probably makes for writing Melinda & Melinda. I keep wanting to take pity on him and let him back into my mind, I know full well if I do, he will damage this one chance of fun and adventure I'm having with a guy who made me laugh on Saturday night in a room full of drunk strangers. A man, who believe it or not, was funnier than me, who made me truly laugh and made me want to spend time getting to know him a bit more.
Woody must not win. Gut feelings must prevail.
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