Although I call my Viking the Viking, really I should call his best friend the Viking, because this guy literally looks like he could row across the Atlantic without breaking a sweat.  He is as tall as my Viking, but more chunkily built (my guy is broad shouldered, but more lean and lanky), plus actually has long hair (in a ponytail) and a pretty full beard.  His first name is a pretty common name all over the world I imagine, but Swedes pronounce it pretty differently so I didn’t get it at first, and then when he repeated it like fifty times, I was like “oh!  Just regular — ?”  And he was like, “yes, I’m just, regular, — ?”  with this really cold look.  By the end of the weekend, I had gathered that he has that kind of deadpan humor that  is about making people feel uncomfortable and finding that funny, so probably he was joking but at the time I thought he was insulted that I had called him “regular” so stammered an apology and he acted like I hadn’t said anything and offered me a drink.

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Strike one.

Then I turned to his girlfriend, and tried to strike up a conversation with her.  She is practically as tall as him (so was literally looking down on me in addition to metaphorically), and has a kind of strapping, field hockey player vibe, if field hockey players dressed in cashmere and had stunning Swedish faces and all their teeth.  I asked her how she met her Viking (“Asterix”) and she explained that she actually knew my Viking first and he introduced them.  She said that she used to work with my Viking, and as I know that his last job before the one he has now was in the prison service, I was like “wow, that must have been tough…” and she said. “…for a woman?  Not really.”  No, not for a woman actually – my Viking found the work draining and difficult, and did you actually just accuse me of sexism when I’m sitting right here packing a vagina?

Strike two.

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Finally, the other girl there, who I think went to school with my Viking and Asterix, literally would not be engaged in conversation long enough for me to insult her – maybe that was for the best.  When we first arrived, she said “hi”, and then proceeded to barely look in my direction for the rest of the weekend.  Oh, and she is stunning.  Like, unbelievably, model beautiful and of course that’s not a reason to be intimidated by somebody, but it’s hard not to feel like she didn’t talk to me because I’m just not on the same plane of reality as her.  And of course wonder exactly what my Viking sees in me when he has apparently been surrounded by women like this all his life.

Aaaaaaannndddd… out.

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I’m not actually being neurotic here, I’ve never been super insecure about my looks, I’m just me and that serves me well… but I’m also realistic about where I fit in the attractiveness pecking order of life.  And I’m fine with it.  And I’m not worried about the Viking and other women at all, truly – in fact maybe I’m refreshing for him with my more quirky vibe (what’s that song about blonde and beautiful becoming dull and dutiful) it was just…

Oh I don’t know.  The whole thing just got off to a shaky start, maybe partly because I had had such high hopes and then was tense about being late… and just never really improved.  I was out of step with them the whole time, loud and giggly when they were quiet, and chilling when they started playing these crazy games like dancing around pretending to be frogs.   However much we all drank, they got more fun wasted, and I just got deeper and deeper into my funk until I was boring myself, and then I snuck off to bed and when Anders asked me where I went the next morning, I made up a funny story about passing out drunk then half waking up and crawling to our bed, rather than admit I’d lain awake listening to them party and wondering if he and the ABBA girl had ever made out.