Money is not a topic considered 'polite' to talk about so I’ll apologise in advance for the following (which will undoubtedly turn into a rant) but I am just so goddamned fed up of being broke (ok, maybe it'll start off as a rant). I work hard, I'm not frivolous with my cash, I don't have expensive tastes yet still I struggle.
Every month without fail, I run out of funds two weeks after pay day. For a fortnight, I just about manage to keep up with my own social life. A dinner here, boozy night there then I check my balance and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I have £30 a week to live on for the remainder of the month. So my life goes: two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, new pair of shoes, three weeks hermitude, and so on.
Friends don't appear to have this problem. Most earn more than me, some several thousand pounds more. Those who don't, have boyfriends who share their cost of living. Some are lucky enough to earn good money AND have a well-paid boyfriend. I am single (as you well know), work in an industry which is notoriously under-paid and haven’t had a pay rise for two years. I long for the day when my bank balance is actually in credit. When I don't come out in a cold sweat when the bill arrives; hold my breath when I insert my card into a chip and pin machine; or have heart palpitations when I check my bank balance.
Of course it's not all bad. I'm lucky in many ways. I live a nice life, I have amazing friends who I do fun things with (at least for the first two weeks of the month), I have a lovely home and I frequently get to travel to exotic places. But it is luck that enables all of this, not money.
The only reason I can just about afford my home is because it's a 'key worker' flat ie. affordable housing for public sector employees who provide an essential service. Clearly, given that I write fluff for a wedding mag, I do not fit that bill – fortunately, as a teacher, my flatmate does and thus she is rewarded the rare benefit of property at 20% less than market value. I am merely riding on her coat tails.
As for all the travelling. That is one of the lucky perks of my job. As I look after the honeymoon pages, it is necessary for me to go and visit the dreamy destinations we feature on group press trips with other random journalists. Admittedly, these trips don't exactly feel like work but I'd give my right arm to just be able to afford an actual holiday, with an actual friend, to decide for myself when and what I want to eat, where I want to go, and when I want to just lie by a pool and read a book rather than make awkward small talk.
Instead, I show up at these 5 star hotels knowing the credit card I'm handing over when I collect my key has no money on it, praying that the tap water is drinkable because I can't afford anything from the mini bar, hoping the bellboys will forgive me for not being able to tip them, and only eating and drinking during hosted meals in order to avoid any situation in which I might have to hand over my red hot credit card. Plus there's an evil irony in being a single girl forced to experience honeymoon after honeymoon ON MY OWN. I actually found myself drinking champagne in a rose petal bath on my last trip. It felt quite lovely until I realised how tragic it was.
I find myself fantasising about what it would be like to be a kept woman. I've never claimed to be one of those strong, enlightened feminists proud to be 'doing it for themselves' but still, I'm very aware that women these days aren't supposed to long for a man to come and rescue them. Worst still, my dream is not the modern WAG's ideal of a platinum Amex and VIP treatment in every designer boutique in town. No, my shameful fantasy is having a man who earns enough to allow me to stay at home and indulge my inner housewife. Yes, I know the women's movement would lynch me for such disregard for their cause. But come on, can you really say it wouldn't be a good life?
In my head, it looks idyllic. I'd jump out of bed at 7am and put on a pot of coffee while he showered. A freshly ironed shirt would be waiting for him when he emerged and after I'd kissed him goodbye and waved him off to work, I'd spend the day pottering around the house cleaning up, flicking through issues of Elle Deco, maybe doing a little writing then by the time he walked back in the door, I'd be waiting with a couple of G&Ts. Hello 1950s! Are any of you ladies still with me? No? Perhaps you earn more money than me.
Or perhaps your husband does.
Monday 13 June 2011
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Time to go cyber?
It may be time to enter the world of internet dating – eurch, I don’t even like writing the words. But no matter how much I try to resist, it is becoming patently clear that it’s time to meet someone new. And that does not appear to be happening in the real world.
The lack of new blood means I’m stuck in the middle of a strange circle, made up of all the men in my life – past, present, and potential. Despite the fact that some are just friends, some are old news, and some are very bad news, I keep picturing them and wondering ‘what if?’ “What if he’s the one and I let him slip through my fingers? What if there could be a spark there and I just need to take a step to find out? What if I play the game for a while and see if they’ll change?
In clear, sober moments, I’m well aware that none of these men are the right ones but that doesn’t seem to stop me flirting outrageously, sending misguided texts, and wasting hours reminiscing. It’s a sad state of affairs and it has to stop but what’s the alternative? Clearly the chaste life is not for me. For better or worse, everyone needs a little romance in life and I’m finding that random bars and pubs are not the places to find it. Could match.com/mysinglefriend/Guardian soulmates come up with the goods?
My friend Sue certainly seems to think so. Rewind a year and she wasn’t quite so optimistic – having discovered her long-term boyfriend was cheating on her, she returned from life in LA cursing all men and swearing she’d never risk her heart again. But now, she’s doing just that and willingly so.
She was tentative about the online dating thing at first but dipping a toe in, she found that all the winks and nudges she received from these unknown men – on the basis of only her picture and a few witty words – did wonders for restoring her bruised confidence. Before long, she found herself having a drink with one of them and the next thing she knew he was up a ladder replacing all her dud lightbulbs - and DIY really means something, don’t you know?
Well, as it turns out, it doesn’t mean a damn thing, he did the classic freakout that it was all getting too serious approx 36 hours later. And that was that for candidate number one. Afterwards, I’d worried that Sue would pack away her saddle for good but instead, she brushed herself off and got straight back on the horse – heading out on a date with a handsome younger man (and she’d SWORN not to go below 31). It was just the tonic – he’s now besotted and while she’s not really feeling it, she’s happy to go along for the ride (so to speak).
So when I told her I was thinking of joining her online, she was 100% behind the idea – “You don’t even have to do anything, Carrie. Just sign up and wait for them to come to you!” It certainly sounded like an easier way to meet people than braving a conversation with a stranger in a bar…so I logged on for a little window-shop.
My criteria: male (obvs), 29-33, within a 5 mile radius.... I held my breath, waiting for all the handsome eligible men to pop up on screen. But that’s not exactly what I got. At first glance, yes, there were certainly plenty of men on there. But handsome? Not so much. Mainly there were beardies, baldies, and beer bellies. Scolding myself for being so superficial, I took another look, flicking though the pictures of those whose profile shot didn’t look like it belonged on a wanted poster. There was the odd one who looked okay, I guess…
I was quite taken with Steve’s rugged good looks until I came to a shot of him standing alongside other normal-sized men (5ft 11, Steve? Really?). Then there was Jim – a solid 6ft 3, with lovely brown eyes and a wicked smile though he did seem to be abnormally attached to his jaunty flat cap. “BALD!” Helen interjected, leaning over my shoulder. Ah.
What about Tom then? He looked nice enough, and who doesn’t love long walks in the park and cuddling up on the sofa with a glass of wine. Er yeah, okay, not exactly original.
Ah wait, here we go…Max, 32, 6ft 1, dark curly hair, lives Islington. Likes: dancing to old 45s in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, spending all weekend playing scrabble in bed, doing things I’ve never done before. Dislikes: bad grammar, bad Chinese food, inappropriate public displays of affection. This could be it….
Seeking: intelligent, fun-loving, creative woman aged between 20 and 27. Eh, hang on. 27? Oh screw you, Max! You’re 32! THIRTY.TWO. Grow up and date a woman your own age.
Thus ended my foray into online dating.
The lack of new blood means I’m stuck in the middle of a strange circle, made up of all the men in my life – past, present, and potential. Despite the fact that some are just friends, some are old news, and some are very bad news, I keep picturing them and wondering ‘what if?’ “What if he’s the one and I let him slip through my fingers? What if there could be a spark there and I just need to take a step to find out? What if I play the game for a while and see if they’ll change?
In clear, sober moments, I’m well aware that none of these men are the right ones but that doesn’t seem to stop me flirting outrageously, sending misguided texts, and wasting hours reminiscing. It’s a sad state of affairs and it has to stop but what’s the alternative? Clearly the chaste life is not for me. For better or worse, everyone needs a little romance in life and I’m finding that random bars and pubs are not the places to find it. Could match.com/mysinglefriend/Guardian soulmates come up with the goods?
My friend Sue certainly seems to think so. Rewind a year and she wasn’t quite so optimistic – having discovered her long-term boyfriend was cheating on her, she returned from life in LA cursing all men and swearing she’d never risk her heart again. But now, she’s doing just that and willingly so.
She was tentative about the online dating thing at first but dipping a toe in, she found that all the winks and nudges she received from these unknown men – on the basis of only her picture and a few witty words – did wonders for restoring her bruised confidence. Before long, she found herself having a drink with one of them and the next thing she knew he was up a ladder replacing all her dud lightbulbs - and DIY really means something, don’t you know?
Well, as it turns out, it doesn’t mean a damn thing, he did the classic freakout that it was all getting too serious approx 36 hours later. And that was that for candidate number one. Afterwards, I’d worried that Sue would pack away her saddle for good but instead, she brushed herself off and got straight back on the horse – heading out on a date with a handsome younger man (and she’d SWORN not to go below 31). It was just the tonic – he’s now besotted and while she’s not really feeling it, she’s happy to go along for the ride (so to speak).
So when I told her I was thinking of joining her online, she was 100% behind the idea – “You don’t even have to do anything, Carrie. Just sign up and wait for them to come to you!” It certainly sounded like an easier way to meet people than braving a conversation with a stranger in a bar…so I logged on for a little window-shop.
My criteria: male (obvs), 29-33, within a 5 mile radius...
I was quite taken with Steve’s rugged good looks until I came to a shot of him standing alongside other normal-sized men (5ft 11, Steve? Really?). Then there was Jim – a solid 6ft 3, with lovely brown eyes and a wicked smile though he did seem to be abnormally attached to his jaunty flat cap. “BALD!” Helen interjected, leaning over my shoulder. Ah.
What about Tom then? He looked nice enough, and who doesn’t love long walks in the park and cuddling up on the sofa with a glass of wine. Er yeah, okay, not exactly original.
Ah wait, here we go…Max, 32, 6ft 1, dark curly hair, lives Islington. Likes: dancing to old 45s in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, spending all weekend playing scrabble in bed, doing things I’ve never done before. Dislikes: bad grammar, bad Chinese food, inappropriate public displays of affection. This could be it….
Seeking: intelligent, fun-loving, creative woman aged between 20 and 27. Eh, hang on. 27? Oh screw you, Max! You’re 32! THIRTY.TWO. Grow up and date a woman your own age.
Thus ended my foray into online dating.
Sunday 13 March 2011
A very unhealthy addiction
Restraint has never been one of my virtues. I’d love to be one of those people who can have just one biscuit, one dainty slice of cake, a small glass of wine – but if I taste something I like, and particularly something I know I shouldn’t have, I can’t get enough of it.
I think I’ve always been that way. My dad’s favourite anecdote features me as a toddler hiding under the buffet table at my grandparents’ ruby wedding anniversary. Rather than mingle with my rambunctious relatives, I hid there all evening, sticking out my hand from under the tablecloth every few minutes to pilfer another jam tart or volauvent. They tried to tempt me out with the birdy song, the hokey kokey, even a tumbler of coke (which was a forbidden nectar as far as my mum was concerned) but I just sat there happily munching on treat after treat, ignoring the tummy ache that was fast developing, and muttering ‘leave me be’ while tugging the tablecloth back into place every time I was disturbed.
Dad likes to break this gem out every time I’m proffered the plate of biscuits round my gran’s house and though it’s a wonder I’ve not developed an eating disorder, the tale does do a pretty good job at summing up my appetite for things which aren’t good for me. It’s just that these days those things tend to come in skinny jeans and leather jackets rather than pastry cases.
So when my friend Debs asked me what I was giving up for lent this year, I reminded her of what I’d already given up: “Isn’t sex enough? Bread, chocolate and alcohol are my only guilty pleasures these days, I’m not sacrificing them as well.”
“Fair enough,” she laughed, “how’s the vow going anyway?”
“Great,” I assured her. And I meant it – since January, I’d become a beacon of virginity. No man had crossed the threshold of my bedroom and I’d even managed to break my nasty habit of giving in to late night booty calls from Chris, sending him the following response upon his last attempt: I AM NEVER GOING TO SLEEP WITH YOU AGAIN. STOP CONTACTING ME. I decided firm and clear was the best way to go.
I’ll admit this watershed moment was accompanied by a few tears on my part. I might have finally realised the boy was no good but there were still a flicker of hope that he might one day prove me wrong. But I was resolute - there would be no going back this time. I deserved someone who’d treat me well, who’d take me out and be nice to me…not just send me filthy text messages. And just a few weeks later, I met someone who seemed to fit the bill.
Bruno was polite, funny, attentive, complimentary, mature, self-deprecating not to mention frickin’ hot. And then there was all the ‘on paper’ stuff too, you know the things that aren’t really supposed to matter but really do ie. age (28), job (physio), living situation (home-owner/local), hobbies (boxing, guitar), nationality (Irish – a fellow Celt!). He was an instant hit with my friends and bizarrely seemed completely smitten with me.
I’m hoping all of this will go some way to explaining why I found myself waking up beside him one very hungover Sunday morning. In my defence, I’d really tried to resist his advances but with the girls singing his praises in one ear and him saying all the right things in the other, I was fighting a losing battle - my willpower gave way and my newfound restraint went out the window.
Lying awake as he slept contentedly next to me, I knew I’d made a mistake. And not because he was just another player, on the contrary, he seemed quite the opposite, he’d already made me promise I’d go to dinner with him the following week and he certainly didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. No, I’d made a mistake because I wasn’t ready for this – and the mess inside my head was testament to that: Where was my phone? Maybe Chris had texted. If I was going to go out and sleep with someone, surely I should just do it with him? Why couldn’t it be him that was here? Him asking to take me out?
Yep, I’d gone straight back to insanity. And to make matters worse, when I did eventually sneak out of bed to search out my phone, his name was right there on the screen waiting for me – he’d texted at the precise moment I’d been giving in to Bruno.
Clutching my phone to my chest, I walked back through to my room, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head, muttering “Leave me be” and wriggling out of Bruno’s reach when he stirred. I knew then that I wouldn’t meet him for dinner as we’d planned. I wasn’t ready to give up my unhealthy addiction to Chris yet. I’m still underneath that buffet table stuffing my face with things I know I shouldn’t.
I think I’ve always been that way. My dad’s favourite anecdote features me as a toddler hiding under the buffet table at my grandparents’ ruby wedding anniversary. Rather than mingle with my rambunctious relatives, I hid there all evening, sticking out my hand from under the tablecloth every few minutes to pilfer another jam tart or volauvent. They tried to tempt me out with the birdy song, the hokey kokey, even a tumbler of coke (which was a forbidden nectar as far as my mum was concerned) but I just sat there happily munching on treat after treat, ignoring the tummy ache that was fast developing, and muttering ‘leave me be’ while tugging the tablecloth back into place every time I was disturbed.
Dad likes to break this gem out every time I’m proffered the plate of biscuits round my gran’s house and though it’s a wonder I’ve not developed an eating disorder, the tale does do a pretty good job at summing up my appetite for things which aren’t good for me. It’s just that these days those things tend to come in skinny jeans and leather jackets rather than pastry cases.
So when my friend Debs asked me what I was giving up for lent this year, I reminded her of what I’d already given up: “Isn’t sex enough? Bread, chocolate and alcohol are my only guilty pleasures these days, I’m not sacrificing them as well.”
“Fair enough,” she laughed, “how’s the vow going anyway?”
“Great,” I assured her. And I meant it – since January, I’d become a beacon of virginity. No man had crossed the threshold of my bedroom and I’d even managed to break my nasty habit of giving in to late night booty calls from Chris, sending him the following response upon his last attempt: I AM NEVER GOING TO SLEEP WITH YOU AGAIN. STOP CONTACTING ME. I decided firm and clear was the best way to go.
I’ll admit this watershed moment was accompanied by a few tears on my part. I might have finally realised the boy was no good but there were still a flicker of hope that he might one day prove me wrong. But I was resolute - there would be no going back this time. I deserved someone who’d treat me well, who’d take me out and be nice to me…not just send me filthy text messages. And just a few weeks later, I met someone who seemed to fit the bill.
Bruno was polite, funny, attentive, complimentary, mature, self-deprecating not to mention frickin’ hot. And then there was all the ‘on paper’ stuff too, you know the things that aren’t really supposed to matter but really do ie. age (28), job (physio), living situation (home-owner/local), hobbies (boxing, guitar), nationality (Irish – a fellow Celt!). He was an instant hit with my friends and bizarrely seemed completely smitten with me.
I’m hoping all of this will go some way to explaining why I found myself waking up beside him one very hungover Sunday morning. In my defence, I’d really tried to resist his advances but with the girls singing his praises in one ear and him saying all the right things in the other, I was fighting a losing battle - my willpower gave way and my newfound restraint went out the window.
Lying awake as he slept contentedly next to me, I knew I’d made a mistake. And not because he was just another player, on the contrary, he seemed quite the opposite, he’d already made me promise I’d go to dinner with him the following week and he certainly didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. No, I’d made a mistake because I wasn’t ready for this – and the mess inside my head was testament to that: Where was my phone? Maybe Chris had texted. If I was going to go out and sleep with someone, surely I should just do it with him? Why couldn’t it be him that was here? Him asking to take me out?
Yep, I’d gone straight back to insanity. And to make matters worse, when I did eventually sneak out of bed to search out my phone, his name was right there on the screen waiting for me – he’d texted at the precise moment I’d been giving in to Bruno.
Clutching my phone to my chest, I walked back through to my room, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head, muttering “Leave me be” and wriggling out of Bruno’s reach when he stirred. I knew then that I wouldn’t meet him for dinner as we’d planned. I wasn’t ready to give up my unhealthy addiction to Chris yet. I’m still underneath that buffet table stuffing my face with things I know I shouldn’t.
Thursday 10 February 2011
A new me?
So we’re one month into the new regime and so far, so not bad. I’ve successfully stuck to my vow of abstinence and I’ve even made some headway on the book…2000 words counts, right? I know, I know, these aren’t exactly noteworthy accomplishments but from a personal point of view, it feels like a step in the right direction. My usual new year’s resolutions (stop smoking, start budgeting, drink less) tend to last all of five minutes before I throw caution to the wind, buy everyone a shot, knock one back and head out for a quick cig. But this year, something’s driving me on like it never has done before – maybe it’s because I’m approaching another birthday, maybe it’s the fear of finding myself unmarried and still writing for a bridal title this time next year, or maybe it’s just the right time but whatever’s going on, it seems to be working.
Taking some time out for myself on a weeklong press trip to the Maldives undoubtedly helped a little. Yeah, I know, it would help most things, wouldn’t it? But before you hate me, can I just remind you – single girl, wedding magazine, four years – if they didn’t give me the odd treat, I’d literally have gone insane by now. And this time round, I decided to try out a new approach, opting out of the group fun with the other journalists in favour of spending some quality time with myself. Ugh, I hate that phrase – it sounds all self-help doesn’t it. “You just need to spend some real time with yourself, get to know yourself a bit better, reconnect” – like we’re not completely familiar with ourselves already. Frankly, most days it’s thoroughly anti-climactic to look in the mirror of a morning and see myself staring back. Anyhoo, I digress…so there I was being all sensible and serene – eating healthily, taking long swims, doing some writing, a lot of reading, and even (wait for it) some gym-ing (GASP!) - while the other girls in the group headed off for snorkelling trips, island tours, and kayaking lessons, when who should decide to pop into my phone and shatter my newfound calm: Chris, of course.
It was 7am Saturday morning my time and I’d just woken up early with the intention of doing the floor section of my new Ministry of Sound Pump Up The Jam workout DVD before breakfast (ridiculous but true). For Chris, it was 2am (big surprise) and he sounded…well, a bit perplexed really: “Hi, sorry it’s so late. I know what you’ll think but I’ve actually not been drinking in the extreme. I’m not even sure why I’m texting. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen you. I dunno… I just wanted to say hey…”
Rather than annoy me in the same way his previous late-night texts had done, this little mess of a message immediately made me smile. It wasn’t what he’d said so much as what was written between the lines: he was thinking about me, he missed me, and most surprisingly, he was reaching out despite knowing it wouldn’t end in my bed.
Breaking several promises to myself, I promptly replied and soon found myself in a nice little text catchup, which only ended when I conceded that I might be willing see him again…just not to sleep with him. This idea that Chris might actually want to spend time with me outside the bedroom was a new and dizzying concept to me - I blame the sudden rush of blood to my head it caused for sending me back to my old sinful ways. I kissed my phone, switched off the DVD, wandered out to the pool, ordered a bellini, and lit a cigarette. (Could it be any more clear how closely linked my bad habits are with my relationships?)
I awoke the next morning to a thumping at the door of my villa: “Carrie, it’s Jade. We’re leaving now – the boat’s waiting to take us out to the seaplane. Are you up?”
I so wasn’t up. I lurched out of bed, started wildly throwing things in my case, and desperately tried to recall the events of the previous day. Our PR, Jade, who was hosting the trip filled me in on our way to the plane: “You remember the bellinis with breakfast by the pool?” I nodded. “And the champagne at lunch?” Yup. “And the cocktails with dinner?” Uh huh. “Well then there was the dancing, the shots, the flaming shots, and the dancing on tables.” Oh god.
“Don’t feel too bad, at least you just went to bed after smoking that joint with the hotel band,” Jade reassured me, “Sarah went for a swim fully dressed, I threw up on my own feet, and we can’t actually find Violet.”
It was enough of a shock (and a hangover) to get me back on the straight and narrow, and since my return, I’ve cut down on the booze, kept up the healthy eating and lost half a stone; signed up to mentor a troubled teen with an interest in journalism; and started pitching freelance ideas out to several glossy publications.
No pesky men are going to knock me off the wagon this time. No way.
Taking some time out for myself on a weeklong press trip to the Maldives undoubtedly helped a little. Yeah, I know, it would help most things, wouldn’t it? But before you hate me, can I just remind you – single girl, wedding magazine, four years – if they didn’t give me the odd treat, I’d literally have gone insane by now. And this time round, I decided to try out a new approach, opting out of the group fun with the other journalists in favour of spending some quality time with myself. Ugh, I hate that phrase – it sounds all self-help doesn’t it. “You just need to spend some real time with yourself, get to know yourself a bit better, reconnect” – like we’re not completely familiar with ourselves already. Frankly, most days it’s thoroughly anti-climactic to look in the mirror of a morning and see myself staring back. Anyhoo, I digress…so there I was being all sensible and serene – eating healthily, taking long swims, doing some writing, a lot of reading, and even (wait for it) some gym-ing (GASP!) - while the other girls in the group headed off for snorkelling trips, island tours, and kayaking lessons, when who should decide to pop into my phone and shatter my newfound calm: Chris, of course.
It was 7am Saturday morning my time and I’d just woken up early with the intention of doing the floor section of my new Ministry of Sound Pump Up The Jam workout DVD before breakfast (ridiculous but true). For Chris, it was 2am (big surprise) and he sounded…well, a bit perplexed really: “Hi, sorry it’s so late. I know what you’ll think but I’ve actually not been drinking in the extreme. I’m not even sure why I’m texting. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen you. I dunno… I just wanted to say hey…”
Rather than annoy me in the same way his previous late-night texts had done, this little mess of a message immediately made me smile. It wasn’t what he’d said so much as what was written between the lines: he was thinking about me, he missed me, and most surprisingly, he was reaching out despite knowing it wouldn’t end in my bed.
Breaking several promises to myself, I promptly replied and soon found myself in a nice little text catchup, which only ended when I conceded that I might be willing see him again…just not to sleep with him. This idea that Chris might actually want to spend time with me outside the bedroom was a new and dizzying concept to me - I blame the sudden rush of blood to my head it caused for sending me back to my old sinful ways. I kissed my phone, switched off the DVD, wandered out to the pool, ordered a bellini, and lit a cigarette. (Could it be any more clear how closely linked my bad habits are with my relationships?)
I awoke the next morning to a thumping at the door of my villa: “Carrie, it’s Jade. We’re leaving now – the boat’s waiting to take us out to the seaplane. Are you up?”
I so wasn’t up. I lurched out of bed, started wildly throwing things in my case, and desperately tried to recall the events of the previous day. Our PR, Jade, who was hosting the trip filled me in on our way to the plane: “You remember the bellinis with breakfast by the pool?” I nodded. “And the champagne at lunch?” Yup. “And the cocktails with dinner?” Uh huh. “Well then there was the dancing, the shots, the flaming shots, and the dancing on tables.” Oh god.
“Don’t feel too bad, at least you just went to bed after smoking that joint with the hotel band,” Jade reassured me, “Sarah went for a swim fully dressed, I threw up on my own feet, and we can’t actually find Violet.”
It was enough of a shock (and a hangover) to get me back on the straight and narrow, and since my return, I’ve cut down on the booze, kept up the healthy eating and lost half a stone; signed up to mentor a troubled teen with an interest in journalism; and started pitching freelance ideas out to several glossy publications.
No pesky men are going to knock me off the wagon this time. No way.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
A very grand statement
So here we are. Another new year, and what has changed? Not much for me. Still in the same job, still no progress on that book I’ve been planning to start for…oh, 10 years or so, and of course I’m still a fully signed up member of the singles club. This Spring, it’ll be 6 long years since I could legitimately be called someone’s girlfriend . Does that mean I get some kind of reward for my loyalty to the cause soon? A commemorative spoon or shiny plaque maybe? That’d be nice. I could hang it above my bed to mark the spot where all the trouble starts.
Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…
I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.
But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.
Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.
Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.
And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.
Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…
I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.
But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.
Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.
Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.
And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.
Saturday 4 December 2010
A Man’s Perspective
I’ve just been given some pretty controversial man advice, and I’m not quite sure how to process it. According to my new love guru, Sam (more on him later), all the rules I’ve been religiously following for years are a load of old codswallop! Can this really be true? Lets see what you think. The conundrum was thus: Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, boy seems to like girl but ‘doesn’t want to be in a relationship’, girl tries the casual thing but still wants more, boy stands his ground. What to do?
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I’ve never been all that comfortable with change. The comfort of the familiar is much more thrilling to me than being in a state of flux. Which possibly explains why I’ve stayed in a job I don’t really want for the past four years despite always knowing it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.
Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.
Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.
So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.
On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.
There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?
Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.
I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.
Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.
So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.
Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.
Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.
So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.
On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.
There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?
Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.
I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.
Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.
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