"Thought I should let you know the Casanova is on Bumble."
"Is he?" I said. "That was fast, we only broke up a couple of weeks ago! Well, he’s a fantastic guy, I highly recommend him."
Naturally, I went on Bumble myself for a wee snoop.
There he was, standing out among the ranks of confused and querulous-looking, the portly and dismal, cute as hell. His profile was a genuine representation: he really is a greyhound in human form, loyal and long-legged.
Side note, and potential business idea: There should be a TripAdvisor-style service for rating men.
Like restaurant reviews, women could leave helpful feedback so others know what to expect: long wait times, fresh interpretation of a classic menu, dirty forks. A Michelin Guide for men.
"I found Mike to be continuously over served." "Vernon’s portion sizes cannot be considered value for money."
"You should be settled by now," said mother. "You should be happy."
I think she means, married and off my hands. Well, I’m not. Settled I mean. Maybe I’m the permanently unsettled type. Unsettling. But I’m not unhappy, especially because the Casanova and I have decided to stay friends, continue to be a part of each other’s lives. We realised this could take any shape we made it. At the moment it’s taking the shape of enjoying his adventures in big-city dating.
The Casanova is on the loose in Dunedin. A city with zero degrees of separation. He sends me photos of matches from Bumble and Tinder, not for me to vet, you understand — but to check if I know them.
Quite often, I do know them. And they know me. In some cases, we’ve worked for the same institution at the same time. It turns out he has a thing for women who work in communications. We know how to spell after all and are practised in the proper use of the apostrophe, which is terribly sexy.
With discretion a pipe dream, and all our friends merged into a kind of soup, let me just put it on record that you could not find a kinder, funnier man. Adventurous, altruistic, good-looking and tastefully tattooed ... as his ex I like him more than seems feasible or acceptable. He’s a special person.
I’ve never stayed friends with an ex before, so this is uncharted territory. However, if your relationship hasn’t been toxic or straight up dangerous, why wouldn’t you try to be friends? What a treat it is to be able to praise them unreservedly (instead of recommending psychoanalysis) and still want to invite them to family Christmas. Sure, the time will come when a social media scroll will throw up a picture of him with his arm draped over someone else’s shoulder and my heart will no doubt lurch, but I hope I have the grace to be happy for his new partner instead of sorry for myself.
The question of whether and how to stay friends with an ex is complex. Research has found the anxiety over "I hope we can still be friends" stems from uncertainty over what exactly is meant by it, whether the gesture is an authentic one. An attempt to stay friends may be a kindness if it suggests an attachment or a respect that transcends the circumstances of the romantic relationship. It can be a cruelty, however, when it serves to pressure the other party into burying justified feelings of anger and hurt.
When it comes to the Casanova and I, we’ve spent so much time together doing things like rock climbing - which relies on trust - and bikepacking - patience and endurance, and only want happiness for each other. Friendships that are born out of a willingness to be there for each other during difficult times are sincere, I think.
To put our money where our mouths are, we have vowed to keep a promise we made to split a winning Lotto ticket if it was over $1 million.
"This will probably not wash with my wife in four years’ time," he said. "But if she’s the type to quibble over the difference between $8 million and $4 million then I have to question if she’s really the right woman for me."
"Greed is so tacky," I agreed.
