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.

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.

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.

Falling off the wagon

So the funny thing about celibacy? It seems when it’s unofficial (ie. when you’re just having a bit of a drought), it’s a damn sight easier to stick to. Conversely when you have made the vow publicly to numerous actual people (I say numerous in the hope that more than just my mum reads my column. Hi Mum.), it suddenly becomes much more of a challenge.

No sooner had I hit send on the email containing last month’s column (and brave assertion that I had transformed into a beacon of virginity), than temptation arrived on my doorstep. And I’m talking literally.

Since I moved into my lovely new home back in January, the house next door has been sitting empty but the other weekend, all of a sudden, there came the distinct sound of someone tramping up and down the stairs heaving boxes. A new arrival in our hood. “Ooh new neighbours!” I proclaim excitedly to my housemate Johnny. “Yeah, I met them earlier and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s three boys - one of whom is apparently just home from touring with his band.” Potential Hot Indie Boy next door - amazing.

Fast forward a few hours, I’m leaving the house to meet Liv for lunch and bump into said HIB on the doorstep. “Oh hi, I’m X, I just moved in ne….” he trails off and we both look at each other incredulously.

I’ve met this particular HIB before. In fact the last time I saw him, we were pretty much in a liplock for the entire evening. Afterwards there was some flirtatious texting but given the fact he lived up North, it seemed pointless to start anything up. I knew I’d see him again at some point as he’d just signed to my friend’s record label - but I wasn’t quite expecting to see him directly outside my front door.

“Eh hi X, this is a bit of a coincidence,” I manage, as a flush creeps up his neck - shy boy this one. “Hi Carrie, I had no idea you lived here. This is mad.” Indeed it is, I agree and approximately 2 and a half minutes of awkward conversation ensues before I make my excuses and we both turn to leave with stunned smiles frozen on our faces.

Since then, I have successfully managed to avoid bumping into him, but the knowledge that he could be laying in bed on the other side of the wall from where I lay my head, immediately unlocked the door in my mind to the kind of thoughts my vow was supposed to quell. ‘Well as long as I don’t act on them,’ I tell myself. Before promptly going out and sleeping with the first man who chats me up. Whoopsadaisy.

The result of that particular encounter was a plethora of embarrassing lovebites, a sore head, and the lingering worry that I may have acted like a wanton hussy (I can‘t be sure as the old memory had been dulled into submission by a cocktail of white wine, brandy, and sambuca). One thing I was sure of - I had no idea what this man’s name was, I wanted him out of my bed sharpish, and I never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

Of course, what with my life being a ridiculous chain of embarrassing events, I bumped into him in the same bar just a few days later. Fortunately I know the bar manager….so I had him barred. Problem solved.

Deciding this was an inevitable slip-up on my path to a virginal existence, I attempted another night of white wine induced drunkenness to test my mettle. To minimise the chance of bad behaviour on my part, I decided to make it a Thursday night out, hoping that the anticipation of work in the morning would stop me going too far, and to take my mate Laura, who promised to ensure we remained civilised.

Sadly, after the nth glass of cheap white wine which they were proffering for free at the 1st birthday of my favourite Camden haunt, things began to go downhill. The process went roughly as follows:

9.30pm: Laura and I are approached by two young men asking for a light.
10pm: Laura and I decide party is lame and head to nearby bar with said young men.
10.30pm: Laura and I are aghast to discover they are just 21 and still live with their parents.
11pm: Laura and I have a tequila and decide to relive our youth vicariously through them.
11.30pm: I am waltzed around a kebab shop, ending in a heap on the floor.
12am: We hail a cab to one of the boy’s houses (or rather parent’s house).
12.30am: Boy breaks out vinyl collection and presence of Leanord Cohen album convinces me he is wise and mature beyond his years…
1am: …he may even be my soul mate.
2am: Laura passes out in the spare room after exhausting game of charades.
2.30am: Boy number two goes home, leaving me and boy number one to discuss the merits of Neil Young’s back catalogue.
3am: Boy tells me I am pretty.
3.15am: I’m pretty sure you can guess.
…
8.30am: “Oh holy crap, I start work in an hour and I have no idea where I am!”

I’ve decided celibacy is like dieting - as soon as you decide to stop indulging, you want to stuff your face with cake constantly.

Out of action

Well folks, it’s been a while! Apologies for my unexplained disappearance from these pages but I’ve had to take it easy on the writing front after breaking my wrist during London’s freak February snowstorms.

There I was, walking home from work – with perfectly sensible shoes on, I hasten to add – when I slipped on the ice and landed in an ungainly heap on the ground. After recovering from the embarrassment, I realised I couldn’t actually get up as my wrist wouldn’t support my weight. It being London, and it being the tourism rush hour on the Millennium Bridge, I sat there for a while before anyone came to my aid. But it was worth the wait.

I saw him approaching determinedly through the crowds as soon as he spotted me. He was tall, dark, brooding and all wrapped up against the cold in a huge scarf and battered up old biker boots. Just looking at him made me feel a little better and before I knew it, he was standing directly above me. “You really went down there. Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to help me up.

I think I must have sat there stunned for a couple of seconds before I accepted his hand and he wrenched me up off the ground. When he did, I was suddenly distracted from my amorous daze by the searing pain that shot through my arm. “Shit, my wrist!” I exclaimed, eloquent as ever, and my eyes filled with tears. “Here, let me see,” he insisted taking my arm gently and pulling off my glove. “It doesn’t look too good, I’m afraid. I think we need to get you to a hospital.”“We?” I queried. Surely this gorgeous specimen of a man was not suggesting he escort me to the nearest casualty ward. I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. And of course, I was right.

Sorry dear reader, but that little episode was just my imagination running away with me. It didn’t happen that way at all. Much as I’d love to be, I am not the heroine in a romantic comedy and stunningly handsome men are generally not in plentiful supply in times of crisis. No, what actually happened is a kindly old lady helped me up and sent me on my way with a “You should really be more careful, dear.” I hobbled off crying my eyes out, got on a bus to Archway Hospital (picking up my reluctant friend Liv on the way) and spent the evening in the Accident & Emergency waiting room trying to ignore the drunk old man sitting on my right, who had quite clearly peed his pants, and the off-his-face young man on my left who was so enamoured with Liv that he dropped his pants right in front of us. Not so nice as the fantasy but much more in fitting with the hopeless narrative that is my life, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Speaking of hopeless, another skill I have been developing over the last couple of months (along with left-handed typing) is my ability to walk away from men who are clearly very bad for me.I’m not quite sure when my mindset shifted from wanton hussy to born again virgin, but recently I seem to have developed something akin to self-respect. The unfortunate result of this is that I cannot bring myself to continue with a love life full of meaningless encounters and as such, have sworn off men. Well sort of.

There was a drunken snog with a very dashing and fashionably bespectacled gent at a party last month, but in contrast with my usual carefree behaviour, upon discovering that he had a girlfriend I walked away. I’m not going to lie to you, a few months back I would have taken him home in a heartbeat telling myself that it was him that was in the wrong, not me. But this time, the thought of the way I’d feel in the morning when he sneaked out of my bed and skulked home to his girlfriend was enough to make me say no. I’ve finally realised I’m worth more than that and if I’m ever going to get any one else to see that, I need to turn over a new leaf.

The latest challenge to my self-enforced celibacy came on Saturday night when I bumped into a certain young man that my friend had previously tried to set me up with at her birthday. On that occasion, despite the acknowledgement that we both liked each other, nothing happened due to the fact that we were never left alone together. Weeks later, I was disappointed to learn that he’d got himself a new girlfriend and I’ve not seen him since. Until last weekend when he confused me further by failing to mention the existence of said girlfriend, spending all night flirting with me, asking me to go back to a ‘house party’ at his (which consisted of about 4 people!), and then when I did, asking me to spend the night – in his bed.

I’m proud to say that once again I took myself home alone – frustrated but with self-respect firmly intact. How very dull for us all.