I’m in love with a man 15 years my junior. He’s patient and mature and his hands are super soft. Best of all, he’s toilet trained.
Sure, he’s slower than a school zone and exhibits daggy Kirk Cameron peachiness, but I don’t care. I’m intoxicated by the manner in which he gets forward and chuckles off Virat Kohli.
At a phase of life where a rock in a rebuild is paramount, he really ticks all the boxes. He’s mindful, thorough and nowhere near me, mainly because he’s usually in the middle.
Even after believing these days were a distant memory, he’s also reinvigorated my love for the art of knocking the shine off.
Best of all, he’s nothing like these other big-hitting playboys, who are only interested in taking you aerial and playing their natural game of selfish flagrante delicto.
I know it’s early days, but he’s already become an unexpected comfort item. Things have moved so fast, and now I can’t imagine facing a new ball without him.
There’s no doubt, he’s definitely in my top six.
The first time I met him was under lights in Adelaide. He wore white, while I wore the scars of Hobart and a boutonnière.
Straight away, his judicious leaves and listless strike rate caught my eye.
My heart immediately urged me to take the leap and pledge my love with a status update, but my head knew better.
The sleepless nights, caused by a top order recreationally snicking-up, had left me deliriously starved of dependability. As such, I was susceptible to falling into the arms of anyone at the meagre glimpse of the maker’s name.
So I blanketed my burgeoning affections, knowing full well this was probably just another mirage stoically stifling its weakness for wide outswing.
But as the impulsiveness failed to surface with every passing appearance, the fondness grew uncontrollably.
Finally, after thrilling me senseless with a tantric 60 from 196 balls in Bangalore, I knew he had me hook, line and sinker.
Matt Renshaw, you’re an old fashioned gent in a loveless, fast-paced world of servo coffee and sexy strike rates. As the pin-up boy of Australia’s newfound restraint, you’re welcome at first slip in the cordon anytime.
Let’s pray cranky patriarch Trevor Hohns is just as accepting and exercises patience in the inevitable bumpy times of this union.
Whatever happens, we know he’ll either accept you unconditionally or chase you out the door with a broom.
But until then, let this significant love flourish. You know it’s truly special, because I never believed I’d feel something for an English-born Queenslander that didn’t require Imodium.
Thanks for caring so much about your wicket, Matt.
PS: Just DM me if you need my details for the AVO.