Is it wrong to date a man for his tractor?

My hay-man’s salutary kisses of hello (4 times on alternate sides) and goodbye (another 4 times) have been, incrementally over the last two years, getting less and less cheek-based and heading more and more towards the mouth region.

The lip-corner was finally reached on Saturday with full eye contact and an amused grin on both our faces. Then I “ran away” into the herd. He jumped on his ancient orange Ferguson and “ran away” far slower due to having to reverse down a tiny green lane sided by huge drainage ditches which he failed to negotiate with his usual skill indicating he was as flustered as me.

Up until now, I have been passively observing this sloth-speed courtship with much curiosity and a little amusement – almost a social experiment, if you will. But now we have reached the point where I really ought to make a decision as to whether I like him in “that way”. And I really am not sure.

He lives with his parents. Allegedly, he has never had a girlfriend. But you cannot, nor should not, believe everything 90-year-old, pinny-wearing biddies say. He is much younger than me. Do I really want a 33-year-old virgin for my 50th birthday? (A small part of me is asking if that is a trick question.)

He appears to be almost as socially inept as me so this could go on for some time yet and I am not getting any younger. All my friends think I can do better. (Really? Aspergers, alcoholic, ex-wild-child with a pedantic, smart-arse bent. Mmmmm? I may not be quite the catch they think I am.)

Our conversations are limited to my horses, his cows and sheep, his land, my land, animal diseases, and poo. This is mainly my fault, I admit. But he is a grown-up and could take a bit more of the control now and then.

I risk losing my supply of good-quality, low-cost forage if this does not work out well. He is never going to sweep me off of my feet. He will never be my Mr Darcy nor my Mr Big. Not my Romeo nor my Rhett. He is not horsey.

He is not purple. Which is actually amazing for these parts.

He is calm and kind. Apart from when he argues with his father and then no-one can understand a word they are saying as their arms flail about at a speed only surpassed by their swearing.

Because he appears almost as unsocialized as me I don’t think he will judge me on my inability to coherently string words in a row when outside of my comfort zone.

He once asked me if it is possible to teach him to halter-train his cows. I liked that. And yes, I can.

I could get good-quality, free forage.

And the use of a tractor!!!!!!

Or two. And lots of other farming equipment that I would NEVER be able to afford to buy. No longer would I have to mow my training field by dragging a lawn-mower that is missing a front wheel backward behind my motorbike.

No longer would I have to park the dilapidated van downhill from the 300kg round bale of hay I am going to high-speed roll and bump into the back. Velocity is your friend when you weigh a sixth of the weight of the item you need to “lift”. Sadly, I have no footage of this.

He understands the concept of fencing intended to keep large AND small livestock from pissing off down the lane and eating someone’s crops. And he would NEVER embarrass himself by peeing on a live electric fence in front of your friends. You know who you are. Sadly, I have no footage of this either.

He is practical.

I Googled French dating etiquette. I need to get to know him better if I am to make an informed decision. And I need to know I am not going to fall into any hidden cultural traps whilst I go about it. For all I know I might already be accidentally betrothed to him.

Phew!

I am ok. But it was a near miss.

It turns out there really is a difference in how the French and the British (and, more so, the Americans) go about finding their significant “other”. Who’d a thunk it.

No wonder he did not ask me out for a date 2 years ago. I thought I was reading the signals wrong at first. The French do not date as we know it. But then, Quel Surprise – they are not exactly known for their conformity. Actually, they are. But it is conformity to their cultural practices and not to anyone else’s. Which is kinda cool.

In retrospect, I see my hay-man has been courting me. I just did not realize it. I thought he was just very friendly. So now what do I do?
I do what any self-respecting geek does. I Google that too.

I am going to learn to flirt.

I am going to flutter my eyes until I have an epileptic fit. I am going to flip my hair about like a horse trying to rid himself of flies. I am going to giggle and squeal, squirm and feel. I am going to maintain way too much eye contact and touch his leg. Even if I have to chase him down the road to do so.

I know I am going to do it badly but that does not matter at this point.

I started this article confused and leaning towards the mercenary point of view that maybe if love was not going to happen then maybe I could get the use of a tractor.

I remember when I was a teenager. Just. Lots of the girls my age went out with boys because of the car they drove. I never understood that. And I still don’t. I do want to have a fulfilling relationship. And I do need a tractor.

So you can understand why I thought to involve the hay-man. But I won’t.

But if he involves himself … that is a different matter entirely.
 
 
 
 

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