Nice guys finish last, I’ve always hated that saying. Somehow nice has become an adjective laced with inadvertent meanings, negative connotations. Call a guy nice, you may as well be calling him a pussy. But what’s the alternative? Cool, ugh cringe, this person is definitely not cool. Awesome, I see dreadlocks and shakas. Hot, and he’s reduced to a dick on legs. Good Guy, sounds so bland, so beige and boring. Fab’s too camp, Rad’s too retro, and Great is just generic.
So, I’ll settle with nice.
My Nice Guy Ollie, came into my life and started treating me arguably better than I’d ever been treated before. And to be honest, I didn’t know how to handle it. I’d been tainted from relationships passed – they were heated, passionate, dysfunctional and ultimately unsustainable.
I developed a range of unhealthy habits. I was fiery, young and immature. I vividly remember fights where I’d pack my bag, leave the house and wait for a train which I never intended to catch. I’d sit angrily, spewing abusive texts and empty threats till the early morning, when I’d sullenly return for heated make-up sex. I threw books, swore, and threatened a breakup every other week. I was overdramatic and at times out of control. A real pleasure right?
I think I romanticised unruly relationships because they were exciting. I was Amy, he was Blake; and we were drowning in all consuming, totally destructive love. It was never boring, but fuck it was exhausting.
I didn’t change overnight (and still have my moments). I put Ollie through his paces and tried on all the old bullshit – I’d pick fights, attention seek, guilt trip. Then, I had a moment of clarity, an epiphany; honey, this is not the guy you do this to. Nice guys don’t stick around for this shit. Suddenly, I couldn’t help but feel wildly embarrassed for how I’d behaved. His love was all around me, and I no longer needed any tricks.
So, this is how it feels to be normal? To be with someone who, forgive me for being trite, really does make you the best version of yourself. To feel truly loved, and give that love back in return.
Most of my other partners have been nice guys too, I think they just brought out some not-so-nice parts in me. Maybe they were nice, but not as nice as I needed. Not nice enough. After all, there’s varying degrees of niceness, there’s a spectrum and you want someone on the VERY NICE end. Someone who will bottle dye the parts of hair you can’t reach. Someone who will piggy back you to the kebab shop when you’re too drunk to walk. Someone who will read your every blog post and never tire of saying that was a good one. Someone who will wake up and fall asleep saying I love you.
It’s time we got rid of the stigma; being nice doesn’t mean your ugly, soft, weak. You can be nice and good looking – a chivalrous pantydropper – fuck the naysayers who say you can’t have both. And don’t be apprehensive or scared to be labelled a nice guy; nice guys get the girls (and the 3am kebabs).