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.

new year, new plan

So how many of you have been thinking of quitting your job and running away to live in the country of late? I certainly have. I am so not loving being back at work in this bustling metropolis.

It’s only been three days since the festive holidays officially ended and in those three days, I’ve transformed from a totally chilled out, well –rested, and happy individual, into a tense, moody, and exhausted wreck. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep that’s the biggest problem or a come-down from my Christmas sugar high, but the lack of Quality Street combined with switching from a good ten or twelve hours a night (plus the occasional afternoon nap) to a measly six does not a happy-Carrie make. More like hari-kari.

I have resolved that the only way to get through January alive is to look ahead in excited anticipation of February’s arrival. Yes, that freezing cold and dreich month that most of you dread is my favourite month of all. And why? Because it’s my birthday – and best of all, unlike all my oldest and dearest friends, I won’t be turning 30 this year. Hoorah!

I’ve a whole year of my twenties left and I plan to make the most of it – starting with my party to end all parties: an 80s-birthday-Valentine’s-prom extravaganza. There’s to be big frou-frou dresses, bowls of punch, much drunken dancing, and hopefully lots of lovely boys in tuxes rocking out to Billy Idol and The Cure. I cannot wait.

Plus to add to the joy that is February, my new position of Travel Writer on the mag is kicking off with a weeklong press trip to Vegas. Vegas! It’s too good. Quite clearly I don’t have thousands of pounds to gamble away at the roulette table, but you know who does? All the rich, older, handsome men crowded into the casinos throwing the cash from their bulging wallets around. I just hope they’re not all dreadful fat Americans with Hawaiian shirts and trucker caps. Eurch.

The other good thing about keeping myself so busy in February is that it will distract me from the fact that I am chickening out of the promise I made to myself last year – that if I was still working at this wedding magazine by my 29th birthday, I would quit my job and move to France to write my much-anticipated (by me) first novel.

It’s not that I hate my job – with trips to Vegas, not to mention all the free cake on offer, it’s not half bad – I just don’t feel like it’s taking me anywhere career-wise. According to my teenage dreams, I was supposed to have written a bestseller by now. (I was also supposed to be married with my own home, at least one bouncing baby, and enough money in the bank to never have to worry about whether or not I can afford those fabulous new shoes…but lets not go there.)

This year brings the perfect opportunity of escape – my parents are flitting to France in March to a pretty little house in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a room in there chosen specifically for this purpose. Mum says as soon as she set foot in it and saw the beautiful view of the Pyrenees out the window, she said: “This is the perfect place for Carrie to write her book.” But the bottom line is – I’m too scared. Scared of throwing away a perfectly good job for a pipe dream that could amount to nothing; scared of getting there, sitting down in front of my laptop and being unable to produce a word; scared of opting out of the rat race then not being able to get back in.

The other thing keeping me here is the glorious fact that I have found a wonderful new home, with three lovely individuals, one of whom just rang me to tell me they’re all cooking me a special welcome dinner on Friday night to celebrate my arrival. Awww.

So, all things considered, I’ve decided to give it another year here in London then reassess. With any luck 2009 will be the year, I become an uber-successful writer who can afford to pack in the nine-to-five for a profitable freelance career. Thus allowing me the time to get started on that book – and to re-introduce my afternoon nap habit.