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So in the context of gap year ending I may have considered, hypothetically, how I’d like that to go. Perhaps once or twice (the hypothetical considerations, not the ending).

I had been writing a post about waiting for the hypothetical guy, but in honest truth wasn’t really waiting for anyone, so it seemed a bit pointless to put out my desire for hair and good dental hygiene to the world (OK, so there were other considerations, but those two were the physical ones which I thought were useful and not entirely shallow).

So then as February approached I did have a good hard (mind the pun) think about the actual reality of the end of gap year (versus the concept of a year of the man ban which wasn’t particularly hard as I was totally committed to doing other stuff and was not fighting off men or urges for men to distract me from all the other stuff I was committed to doing) and here’s what I came up with…..

I’d like to end gap year with someone who found me attractive, but knew enough of my story to know that the whole thing was a bit scary but also how much I also didn’t want it to be a big deal. I didn’t want to pick someone up at a pub and have some gap-year ending fling thing, purely for the purposes of saying it was done. Hypothetically I would like a guy who was interesting, smart, fun and funny, had his shit together, would be up for the fact that my friends would post stuff like the picture below on the back of the toilet door at parties for amusement and could be a good sport about the seemingly ridiculous amount of interest from my ever curious and loving (nosey, naughty, funny, fabulous) friends about the gap year grand finale.

gapyear door

Hypothetically, some kind of perfect ending would go a bit like this….

Fronting up to a party where all my ever curious and loving (nosey, naughty, funny, fabulous) friends are to pick me up. Hanging out for a bit with us all even though I am sure one of them is going to high five me on the way out and yell out “GAP YEAR” or something really loud.

Going to the supermarket to shop for ingredients. Being a bit drunk and having that weird feeling when you are somewhere where it’s really inappropriate to have had a couple too many drinks (like school pick-up, supermarkets, job interviews) and you are there anyway.

Dinner, cooked by him at his house while we hung out. Even better if he cooked the best thing he knows how to cook (whilst acknowledging there are only 2 things he cooks well) and plated it up, and it was really delicious.

Hanging out and talking and laughing, sometimes almost too much. Getting the feeling that perhaps I am really funny. Getting the feeling that he is interesting, smart, fun and funny, has his shit together, hair and good dental hygiene.

Going for a ride at night, in the rain on his really nasty, fast, black motorbike, Almost a helicopter. Wearing his clothes and shoes because the party dress isn’t appropriate, and feeling a bit like a bogan. Getting ridiculously wet. From the rain. From the rain. FROM THE RAIN!!!!

Him making me Milo and hanging out, even though I am a bit melted from too many parties and a big dinner, and not enough sleep and banging on about the end of gap year (to everyone else, not him) whilst simultaneously not wanting it to be a big deal.

Going to bed. Laughing so much before anything that I do that old grandpa-weeze laugh, and momentarily wondering if we would laugh so much we wouldn’t be able to end gap year.

Ending gap year. No you DO NOT GET THE DETAILS. This is the details. Everything else. Some things are sacred, even when you tell the world everything.

Lying in the dark and saying “Hey can you high five/fist bump me?” – OK I actually forget which one it was – and him just doing it. BAM. And me saying “Thank you, I can not imagine anything preferable to ending gap year with you”.



Conspiring to tell all my ever curious and loving (nosey, naughty, funny, fabulous) friends that it didn’t happen. And then later, when they are suitably shocked and disappointed, telling them it did.

Dropping me home.

How good would that be? Hypothetically?

And then we’d never have to speak of gap year again.


Author Fleur

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