Disappointment has a name….

And so it would seem my whinge fest the other day was slightly premature, because as of yesterday, the outlook for me becoming a homeowner appears to be good!

I was already a little down in the dumps about Mr X and his little bubble of domestic happiness.  So, when I got the news that it seemed the strata thought my dogs to be “inappropriate” for the property, I envisaged my own little bubble, the one that was keeping my spirits even most slightly buoyant, promptly bursting. 

My disappointment over the realisation that it was never going to happen (with Mr X) permeated everything.  Every last shred of hope that I was clinging to was blown away and I finally fell to (what I hope to be) the full depth of my despair. 

Yes, my disappointment does have a name.

John Mayer you are The Man.  Although one has to wonder how you can be so spot-on when, as a well known serial womaniser yourself, one doubts that you have ever had your heart smashed to smithereens.   

Or perhaps that’s why you are now a serial womaniser?

In any case, I hope this means that the next phase in my saga is: Acceptance.

In the meantime, a glass of wine with a handsome Brazilian might help me feel a little less cynical…

Although, being fully convinced that I am not the only one to which he sends goodnight text messages or good morning emails, or to whom he bestows liberal lashings of compliments despite having never actually spoken to or met the bestowee in person, I admit that Im not really anticipating that Friday night will break my neverending cycle of First-and-Last First Dates. (oops, there goes that cynicism again…)

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