Tradies, iPhones and Sex.

It looked right. It smelt fine. It felt good. It tasted sweet. It sounded promising. Even the snoring didn’t bother me. But once again, I spoke too soon.

The day I accidentally locked myself out of my house (I left my keys inside), a small but significant event, brought harsh realities to the fore: I am alone.

My tradie in shining armour – the one who looked right, smelt fine, felt good, tasted sweet and sounded promising, wasn’t coming to rescue this locked-out damsel in distress.

I texted him an SOS.

The response? Silence. Dead silence.

I remember it clearly.  As I stand outside my front door that Sunday night at exactly 10.15 exhausted, hungry, freezing cold, sore from a long day training at the dance studio and with my iPhone battery flashing red – those darn things don’t last long – I fight back tears and thoughts of self-pity and redirect my feelings of loathe.

I hate Apple for giving the world the iPhone with a battery life that lasts as long as bad sex with an attractive man who ejaculates prematurely.

I really need it to get me out of trouble.  Like now, for example.

I hate the cold Melbourne weather. It’s late, I’m freezing and I need a roof over my head.

But most of all, I hate myself. How did I get Mr Tradie all wrong? What did I miss?

I could break down every little detail of our “relationship” to explain my little predicament even just to myself without feeling and sounding like a fool. But I know I’ll only come to one conclusion: there was no relationship.

If there had been one, I needn’t have texted him for help.

I could have just shown up at his place unannounced and it would have been OK. The day I got locked out would have been a non-event. A simple inconvenience and a $49 cab fare I would have happily blamed on absent-mindedness and charged as a business expense.

He and I would have laughed about it, cooked dinner together, drank a bottle of pinot noir, and kept his neighbours awake while we made loud, crazy, stupid love all night long .

And so, as I start to analyse the situation, I recall a tiny little detail I conveniently overlooked. I implicitly accepted his offer of a casual, non-committal, see-you-when-I’m-free relationship of convenience. A one-sided affair, mostly his way, because I wasn’t strong enough to ask for what I wanted and to walk away when the hand I was dealt wasn’t a winner.

Instead, I kept going back. And taking him back. Either way, my actions (or inaction) implied an acquiescence to this casual arrangement of sorts.

Now, I’m fairly sure the next time Mr Tradie or a similar version of him ever ventures back into my life, it will be to fix the plumbing in my toilet.