An Intervention

My darling _,

Call me foolish, but I believe the biggest of life’s events can always be compared to those of a teen drama; and while I usually prefer to reference Skins, this moment calls for a bit of OC nostalgia.

Remember the episode when everyone gathers in the Cohens’ kitchen to intervene in Kirsten’s alcoholic ways? Think of this as it’s literary equivalent, only we’re tackling something far more socially disastrous.

Sweetheart, I’m writing this on behalf of all your friends to let you know that you’re dating a twat.

Yes, dear friend, this is a relationship intervention. With any luck, by the time this is read, you’ll have binned those hideous rose-tinted glasses you’ve been peering through lately and seen this story for what it truly is: Beauty and the BΓͺte.

Knowing you as I do, however, you’re pretty stubborn, and chances are you’re still pretending this human-sized mut is perfect for you. Interventions aren’t meant to be nice, so let us tell you: he’s not. In the wise words of Tony Stonem, “it’s wrong. It’s just wrong.” You’re quiet and intriguing; he’s loud and obnoxious. Your style embodies the classic simplicity of Audrey Hepburn and Coco Chanel; he wears dirty misshapen Inspector Gadget trenchcoats and jeans that don’t fit right. Your words are calculated and brimming with thoughtful intellect; his lisp makes people want to swallow cheese graters. Not to mention that, on a superficially aesthetic level, you guys just don’t match.

Still not convinced? How about the fact he kisses like a second-hand washing machine? Or that, as rumour has it, his little man just can’t keep up with your slightly-nymphomaniac expectations?

Please don’t feel bad, as you’re not alone in this. The epidemic of ‘dating down’ is so rampant these days it even warranted a Cleo article (“oOo” you say, “it must be serious”). While I’m sure you don’t believe any of this, ask yourself one question: could all of your closest girlfriends be wrong?

I’ve never been to a real intervention, so I don’t know what happens now. What I do know is this: you’re a smart, beautiful pocket-rocket in the prime of her life, who’s made some shitty choices in the past but has no reason to settle for second best, no matter how gallant or perfectly Freudian it may seem. We girls may bitch and moan that chivalry’s dead and blahblahblah, but the truth is, like dinosaurs, it died out because it was clumsy and unnecessary.

So there you have it. As your friends, we’ll always be around for you, but until you wake up and smell the BO, we’ll be swilling sav blancs down at the Ex and discussing beige stain removers.


L and the girls xx


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