This week I have been congratulating myself on getting through yet another wedding season without blubbering into my cake about the sorry state of my love life or succumbing to a night of ‘passion’ with the sleazy middle-aged usher that even thrice divorced Aunt Mavis rejected. When questioned about my thoughts and plans for nuptials and children I have been proud to turn my nose up at all that jazz and make a thing of concentrating on my career and snubbing the idea of spending all that money on just one day, like the liberated, privileged twenty-first century woman that I am; my real achievements, I (occasionally waveringly) assert, lie in the field of work. After all, anyone can just meet a guy and get married, right (cue wobbly-mouthed smiley)? But to pass the mileposts in my professional life, as the first woman in my family who has had such unparalleled choices and opportunities? Now that’s success and progression. Right…?
An article in London's Evening Standard on July 7th attacked the summer flick ‘Bridesmaids’ for conveying the message that getting wed should be viewed as the greatest achievement in a woman’s life. Hear hear! I cried, pleased to be able to arm myself with support to carry on with my ball-busting career journey (as well as to avoid facing up to a few home truths). But when I conferred with my friend (a first-class Oxbridge Phd student working on a cure for cancer) her response was somewhat different to the fervent agreement I had envisioned. ‘Well yes, I think that getting married probably would be one of my biggest achievements. I mean, I know I can clone cells and find a cure for cancer (ok, maybe she didn’t quite go that far…), but finding a man I like enough to spend the rest of my life with? And to have that reciprocated?’ Well that really would be impressive!’ Hmm. I was actually hoping for a bit more support there…
Monday 26 September 2011
You never make me scream...
Right ladies, honest answer now. What do you do when you meet the seemingly perfect partner, who wines and dines you and treats you right, shows you respect and doesn’t push it then, on that night when you finally decide to go ahead with the deed, doesn’t quite, well, live up to expectations? Interpret as you will.
This time last year I was as chuffed as a lovestruck teenager to hit it off with a friend’s sexy, older, Italian housemate. I felt my heart flutter like an overexcited daddy longlegs as his lips touched mine, but unfortunately the adolescent similie didn’t lift as he proceeded to slobber all over me in a way that I would expect a bloke nearly twenty years his junior to have done.
Then there was the Bostonian banker. He did have his plus points, but they were coupled with a rather miniscule, ahem, appendage. Let’s face it, that was never going to hit the spot. I was heartbroken when it ended, but I must confess to a certain underlying sense of relief.
Another couple of significant exes shared an uncanny likeness for attempting to win the time trial, with only that one goal in mind. In fairness they were considerate of my needs - rather sweet in a way - but I do now have a rather different interpretation of ‘rampant rabbit’ to before. And not in a good way.
But is the physical side of a relationship really so important that it’s worth losing an otherwise perfectly good catch over? Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? Yes, maybe so, but by the time you’re in your mid-late twenties you really would hope that they at least had a secure foundation to build on. I think it might be time I went for a different kind of guy…
This time last year I was as chuffed as a lovestruck teenager to hit it off with a friend’s sexy, older, Italian housemate. I felt my heart flutter like an overexcited daddy longlegs as his lips touched mine, but unfortunately the adolescent similie didn’t lift as he proceeded to slobber all over me in a way that I would expect a bloke nearly twenty years his junior to have done.
Then there was the Bostonian banker. He did have his plus points, but they were coupled with a rather miniscule, ahem, appendage. Let’s face it, that was never going to hit the spot. I was heartbroken when it ended, but I must confess to a certain underlying sense of relief.
Another couple of significant exes shared an uncanny likeness for attempting to win the time trial, with only that one goal in mind. In fairness they were considerate of my needs - rather sweet in a way - but I do now have a rather different interpretation of ‘rampant rabbit’ to before. And not in a good way.
But is the physical side of a relationship really so important that it’s worth losing an otherwise perfectly good catch over? Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? Yes, maybe so, but by the time you’re in your mid-late twenties you really would hope that they at least had a secure foundation to build on. I think it might be time I went for a different kind of guy…
Lymphatic Drainage...??
I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
Thursday 15 September 2011
Happy Ever After ... ?
There is a Facebook group called ‘Disney ruined my love life’. You may read that and laugh. But then you may read it again and think, ‘hang on a sec … so did Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and Bridget Jones and Julia Roberts …’ I could go on.
The media fascination with ‘happy ever after’ has left us spoilt by the notion that to be in love means grand gestures, fireworks and immaculately timed orchestral crescendos. Not to mention endless nights of fervent love making complete with mind-reading synchronicity and simultaneous orgasms from the offset. Or maybe I just speak for myself.
Real relationships are not perfect, because real people are not perfect. We all know too well that that first time together is awkward and fumbly, and that even after years of practice a night of passion can result in a knee to the eye or some unexpected sound effects. And as for dropping off curled up in each others arms? Forget it. Bones are hard and people are wriggly.
It’s no news flash to say that it’s the little things that make a relationship special - having someone who makes your coffee just right, takes out the rubbish when it’s raining and remembers to buy milk - but it can be easy to forget to value - or indeed to carry out - such gestures, and all too tempting to hold on to adolescent fantasies. Maybe occasionally we should take a reality check on our expectations. And anyway, let’s be honest - would you really want someone to come flying in through your window at midnight, fresh from Carpet Right, declaring their undying love for you? I’m pretty confident that if Aladdin were to try that in my flat he would be tied up and handcuffed before he could even blink (by the police!). Maybe not quite the romantic ending I’ve daydreamed about, but at least now I’m a realist.
The media fascination with ‘happy ever after’ has left us spoilt by the notion that to be in love means grand gestures, fireworks and immaculately timed orchestral crescendos. Not to mention endless nights of fervent love making complete with mind-reading synchronicity and simultaneous orgasms from the offset. Or maybe I just speak for myself.
Real relationships are not perfect, because real people are not perfect. We all know too well that that first time together is awkward and fumbly, and that even after years of practice a night of passion can result in a knee to the eye or some unexpected sound effects. And as for dropping off curled up in each others arms? Forget it. Bones are hard and people are wriggly.
It’s no news flash to say that it’s the little things that make a relationship special - having someone who makes your coffee just right, takes out the rubbish when it’s raining and remembers to buy milk - but it can be easy to forget to value - or indeed to carry out - such gestures, and all too tempting to hold on to adolescent fantasies. Maybe occasionally we should take a reality check on our expectations. And anyway, let’s be honest - would you really want someone to come flying in through your window at midnight, fresh from Carpet Right, declaring their undying love for you? I’m pretty confident that if Aladdin were to try that in my flat he would be tied up and handcuffed before he could even blink (by the police!). Maybe not quite the romantic ending I’ve daydreamed about, but at least now I’m a realist.
Just Say No....!!!
There are countless unspoken rules and regulations around dating and relationships, yet we repeatedly insist on learning from experience before concurring that we should have listened to the voice of reason. Even if that did come from our mum.
Here are just a few of the many lessons I have learned from my colourful (chequered?!) relationship past of when it’s best to Just. Say. No. (Not that I would listen to my own advice … )
When you hooked up in a club last Saturday Sitting across the table from someone you were dry humping down the local joint last week is painful. Unless you’re only after one thing, but then I wouldn’t bother with the courtesy cocktail.
When his accent is too strong for regular conversationIf early conversations are peppered with ‘what?’ ‘huh?’ and ‘sorry?’ before ignorant assent, followed by your worrying if you’ve just declared allegiance to the far right, then the relationship will be a struggle.
When you’re more into him than he is into youYou will send too many text messages. You will Google him regularly and you will find a reason to be outside his office at 5.30 on a weekday. It’s really not healthy.
When you are as mismatched as cheese and vinegar crispsNo matter how intriguing it may seem you know it’s not going to work. Otherwise it would have already been invented.
When he’s questioning his sexualityJust wait until he’s figured it all out. Take my word for it.
When a blast from the past appears on FacebookWhenever that ‘hey, how’s it going?’ message pops up on screen, no matter how long after the ending of a relationship, it’s best to quickly hit ‘delete’. It finished for a reason.
When he’s a Latin salsa instructor and you’re on your gap yearNeed I say more? (Though it was great fun whilst it lasted…)
Holiday Romance v. Domestic Bliss...
Early holidays with your other half are exciting and magical: someone’s on hand to slather on your sun lotion and you can cuddle up on the balcony late into those balmy evenings, sipping fruity cocktails and making plans for the future. Plus, of course, there’s a whole new arena for those extra curricular activities. But it does put paid to one rather integral part of those precious two weeks spent out of the office and lazing around the beach - the Holiday Romance.
My alternative to the above example of domestic bliss is little less clichéd. A number of us would willingly trade our blossoming life long relationship with John, complete with three star all inclusive featuring live entertainment and overpriced giant sunglasses, for a fortnight hurtling around on a moped with Darius, slurping from lemons fresh off the tree and skinny dipping in shallow waters sparkling with luminescent algae. We’re flattered when Darius tells us that we are ‘different from the others’ as, after all, he’d know; he really understands women.
What did you opt for this summer? I’d like to say that I went for the former, that I’ve finally traded my meaningless and shallow existence for something more heartfelt and real. But, unfortunately, that’s not the case. I had a fantastic two weeks with José the barman, though I was happy to return to my desk and continue with the search for my John. Because no amount of pina coladas and star gazing with the locals can beat that first blissful holiday together. I’m not waiting to hear off José and I’m not booking my next flight out; I won’t make the same mistake again. Because at the end of the day two weeks off life with Darius is great, but there’s nothing quite like having your own John, waiting on the sofa with a cuppa at the end of an autumn day.
My alternative to the above example of domestic bliss is little less clichéd. A number of us would willingly trade our blossoming life long relationship with John, complete with three star all inclusive featuring live entertainment and overpriced giant sunglasses, for a fortnight hurtling around on a moped with Darius, slurping from lemons fresh off the tree and skinny dipping in shallow waters sparkling with luminescent algae. We’re flattered when Darius tells us that we are ‘different from the others’ as, after all, he’d know; he really understands women.
What did you opt for this summer? I’d like to say that I went for the former, that I’ve finally traded my meaningless and shallow existence for something more heartfelt and real. But, unfortunately, that’s not the case. I had a fantastic two weeks with José the barman, though I was happy to return to my desk and continue with the search for my John. Because no amount of pina coladas and star gazing with the locals can beat that first blissful holiday together. I’m not waiting to hear off José and I’m not booking my next flight out; I won’t make the same mistake again. Because at the end of the day two weeks off life with Darius is great, but there’s nothing quite like having your own John, waiting on the sofa with a cuppa at the end of an autumn day.
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