Sometimes the glove just doesn’t fit

This time, one week ago, I realised I’d lost a glove. Actually, I’d lost gloves. I had cold hands and a foggy memory and I had a feeling it was going to be bad news.

These gloves weren’t the Kinki Gerlinki kind. They were sourced in Bloomingdale’s, New York, and they were just five months old. They were cashmere-lined, black leather and they were perfect.

This time one week ago, plus about 30-odd hours, I was on the phone to my sister, sensibilities wrought, screaming rescue me, Rees, rescue me. In between gasps and ‘eff offs to my very dear and Great Love, I told her I was on the corner of Crisp and Poole streets – with an ‘e’ – and I’d wait right where she could see me.

I had one hand gloved and wiping tears; I had one hand ungloved and holding the phone.

This wasn’t the fork where things turned bad; I’d actually started down that un-merry path about five hours prior – gloved and warm – when I left home and headed north.

How did I get to this point though, one-hand glove free and screaming down a phone while gulping obscentities to my dear?

I was at Reservoir Football Club when I made the call. And I shouldn’t have been.

I lost more than my Bloomingdale black and leather, cashmere-lined gloves that night; I let slide a very small part of what makes up me.

I, for some outrageous reason and knowing myself full well, followed my boyfriend, who I live with, to watch him play a guitar and mandolin, as part of a fabulous four-piece feed (yes, taking bookings), to a football club. To Reservoir Football Club.

I live with this boy, have been with him for five long years; his guitar sits in a room adjacent to ours and I’ve seen him play 10s of times before. I know how it goes.

Stupidly though and without questioning my sensibilities, my right to a fabulous night doing what I wanted to do, I followed him to Reservoir Football Club. He didn’t ask me to go, I went willingly. Why? Because I thought it would be a nice thing to do

It wasn’t. It was awful. And I left – actually I flew from the footy rooms – with sensibilities deeply offended, a hungry stomach, mouth dry and cracked from an overload of Salt & Vinegar chips and little did I know then, half-way was I, down the path of losing much beloved gloves – black, leather and cashmere-lined.

It had started out okay. I was keeping, in an immediate sense, very good company – they were fabulous, always are – and listening to very fabulous music (yes, taking bookings) but things didn’t continue so bright and shiny when the waiters emerged for the evening.

Waiters, you say in disbelief! At a football club?  Surely not…Really?

Well, yes, there were male waiters, but to normalise it Reservoir Football Club did something very disturbing. With a shout and a whistle and a please give it up for your waiters for the evening, from a closed door emerged a handful of young players sporting nothing more than their knickers, some oddly shaped devil and angel wings and half-baked erections.

They ran out, to very little acclaim, following not their nose, but something poking out in a rather similar fashion; one or two gave themselves one last cajole and rub and then out they reached for the food trays.

Fancy a party pie and pube, anyone – anyone?

As I looked around the room, I was reminded by everyone else present, we’d all managed to find ourselves a top and a jacket – gloves – socks, wet-look red and black tights, even shoes and a hat on some. All our waiters had managed was to rub up some clean knickers and, well, their little boys, so to speak.

Tres, tres, tres, horribilus (that’s French for really, freaking, terribly, appallingly disgusting).

That was Reservoir Football Club.

I should have known better. My sensibilities, something I learnt about after reading Sense and Sensiblity at about 12 or 13, before I had any idea about senses or sensibilities, were deeply offended by this display of …. masculinity?

Why on earth they had to make a spectacle of males serving food is beyond me. If it had been determined the women of the club were to serve the food, I imagine they would have done so in all their clothes. Maybe we would have peeped some cleavage now and again as a party pie was offered to someone seated low, or a cheeky g-string line as another leaned across a table. I expect this would have been it – a little less obscene and (depending where you sit on such issues) probably a fair-sight more tasteful. Regardless of titillation, so to speak, the food would have been served by people just going about their business. Instead, we had the displeasure of dick-rubbing fingers attached to our food trays and a (bad) joke needing to be made of the fact that for a change, it was the men serving dinner.

Rather than a warm, oven-reheated meal that night, I ate packed after packet of Salt and Vinegar chips. I then picked a fight with my amiable boyfriend, embarrassed myself in front of some people I wish I hadn’t and probably a whole lot of other people I don’t really care about and stormed from the footy shed. My angry steps took me to the corner of Crispe and Poole – with an ‘e’ – in little time and it was there I pulled myself up and flung my right hand from its warm, cashmere-lining and began punching numbers in my phone and calling on my sister to rescue me.

She made it out and I made it into her car and so too did my gloves. We drove home, me crying and wailing why, oh why oh what was I thinking, as I told her the tale of the waiters and their half-baked erections and she took me home. We arrived. I got out of the car and one glove dropped to the rain-wet gutter, the other down the side of her car.

A week and almost two days later and both gloves have been retrieved. One as good as the day it was bought; one a sodden, muddy, swollen, broken mess.

They’re just gloves you’re probably saying and on that point you are exactly right. The deeper issue for me and the thing I’ve masked in my glove is the fact I shouldn’t have been there. I should not have followed my boyfriend blindly into the Reservoir night; I’m my own person, I should have gone and done my own thing.

I’m not the type of person to typically choose to stick by my boyfriend’s side just because. I never do this. And the night I did, it didn’t go well.

It’s a lesson for me, my night at Resrvoir Football Club. It’s a reminder too that being that type of girlfriend is a glove that just doesn’t fit.

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