This news greeted me when I arrived at work this morning: "Christine O'Donnell, considered so rightwing she is unelectable, takes 53% of vote in Republican primary." The article that follows described O'Donnell as "pro-gun, anti-abortion and believes masturbation is a sin."
I got really depressed and a bit foot-stampy and lip-curly, and then I wondered, briefly, whether if America went stupidly right, and Palin got elected, Britain would then drift away from our alleged 'special relationship' as America's poodle, and align ourselves more with Europe, which I would prefer - not that Europe is flawless or anything, but I sit more comfortably there than in the States. So perhaps it's conceivable that a shift to the far right in the US is a move away from the US for the UK. Because that would make me happy. It's probably naive and pipedreamish though. Plus, who am I kidding, even if we're not involved, a nuclear war between Iran and the US would probably have some 'mild' fallout in the UK. I'm not counting my chickens. Or my ducks.
I had a very sweet message from a nameless friend this morning saying that the duck thing yesterday was hilarious, and how could anyone be phobic of them. I feel the need, therefore, to clarify that, while duck phobias are potentially very amusing, what was funny about that particular screenshot was the advertisement placement. Either an automated ad generator threw out a very funny scenario, or someone selling ad space for the health company has a sadistic sense of humour. Anyway. Apologies to all of you who found the joke self-explanatory but clearly some of the Faithful need a little gentle nudging to experience the full comedic value of the item, and who are we to deny them?
Meanwhile, I clearly need a little gentle nudging to experience the full comedic value of MY LIFE as I am still pleasantly mulling/boohooing over my existential crisis, facing up to the fact that impressing friends, family and potential lovers has basically been my motivation for eternity, and that, without that driving force, I seem to be left with enough drive and energy to pour Coco Pops into my bowl but not much else. I went to the opera on Friday to see Cosi Fan Tutte, which confirmed that I love the Royal Opera House but don't like Mozart's operas, and then spent the interval discussing with Nick who we thought was going to win Ultimate Big Brother, a pleasingly personal rebellion against the permasnobs around us. Would that the two twunts sitting next to me had been so subtle with their disinterest - but instead they spent the entire second half kissing and frotting, despite the fact that I turned my head ninety degrees to stare at them for full minutes at a time. The man opened his eyes and clearly noted my displeasure but did not cease his whispering and giggling. It was an outrage, I tell you, especially during such a stupid opera - it's usually romantic, but this one wasn't: [SPOILER ALERT] two blonde women are in love with two men, who both are crazy about them too, but their friend says women can't be faithful, so he bets them they won't be, so the two men pretend to be called to war and the women are devastated and then LATER THAT DAY the men dress up as hippies or something, and arrive at the house and the women don't recognise them as their lovers and are totally taken in by the whole scam, and within 24 hours, both the women have said they are now in love with the new men, and the men are devastated because their women have been proved to be cheats, but their friend says 'That's the way women are', and the men reveal the 'prank' and the women are shocked but then they all still get married. HOW HILARIOUS.
Any way, despite the ridiculously unerotic plot, the snogging and whispering continued and at the end of the night I went home grumpy, randy and lonely, three of the crappest dwarves. Since then I have been at work when I'm meant to be at work, but have otherwise been in my flat watching TV and reading. It's been nice because I've been exhausted what with all the thinking I'm having to do about my Existential Crisis. And I know people will wonder why I don't just stop thinking about it, then. But it's not really a choice. I wasn't happy before except when I was buried in several feet of thick, hardset denial, and sorting out this stuff, asking these difficult questions, will hopefully lead to a bit more of a happy bunny environment in my head. More dogs on the heath than snakes in the grass. Big pink tongues - no forks.
Wednesday 15 September 2010
Tuesday 14 September 2010
Shameless Twitter steal
Annoyingly, things aren't yet all better. Grania and Sara are both on holiday (separately) (together would be grounds for divorce), Chris is still off work, I have zero energy and am all in all very grumpy. That said, the below screengrab has made me laugh every single time I've looked at it. And I've looked at it a lot. Actually, I think it has got funnier.
Friday 10 September 2010
Dog days
In good news, I had a really fascinating therapy session on Wednesday. The snake is still lingering, but I'm getting up the energy to push him off me and/or make him begin to regurgitate whichever extremity of my body he started to ingest. Hmmm. It appears the snake is male. INTERESTING.
So my therapist (as is so often the case) is big on childhood and working out why we are the way we are. My big problem has always been fear of failure and rejection, and so we've gone back in time, working out where that arose. I'll spare you the minutiae, but it's pretty easy to see how an only child would fear rejection and failure, since ones or first borns commonly feel a lot of pressure to achieve. So I have spent 33 years working out how not to fail, and most of the time, I'm successful - I don't try things that I know I'll be bad at, and I publically attempt things that might appear difficult to others but which seem easily achievable to me, so that I can gain accolades, respect and praise. I do a job that I could perform with my eyes closed (and frequently do) (I think I've made that joke before. Apologies), meaning that I never risk failure or humiliation in the workplace. I do regular courses and keep thoroughly abreast of culture, politics and current affairs so that I do not appear thick. I'm always planning the next fun event or edifying holiday abroad, where I can relax while expanding my life CV. My mind literally never EVER stops searching for new ways to make me and my existence seem successful, enviable, attractive and/or brilliant. It is a full time endeavour - and has been for as long as I can remember, certainly since toddlerhood. No exaggeration.
The consequence of all this is that, when failure or rejection do occur, I literally melt down. It may seem trivial that a C-list boy who I don't fancy doesn't fancy me, and in my head I know it is surely of no consequence, but in my soul, I am screaming 'I HAVE BEEN TRYING FOR 33 YEARS NOT TO FAIL, but YOU ARE MAKING ME FAIL. I AM FAILING, it is beyond my control and I can't BEAR IT.' Which is clearly disproportionate, but it happens all the same, and so I lock myself in my flat and feel like death.
My response to all this is to tell my therapist, 'Brilliant! That all makes perfect sense. Now, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, MAKE IT STOP.' But my therapist is big on 'sitting with the emotions', a deeply unpleasant experience that I've always labelled 'moping', or 'crying over spilled milk', but which she (reasonably) believes is important - after all, if I always push on, push on, being social and exercising and self-medicating, I'm getting rid of the problem in the short term, but in the long term these issues will always rear their vile heads and sneeze in my face. So for now, the goal is not to fix me, so Chris Martin can get stuffed. I am instead to get used to the fact that I have been trying to be a success for my entire life, that I have been terrified of failure in any form, and that I find pretty much any sort of rejection completely debilitating - and I must come to terms with what effect that must have on the decisions I make. She wants me to learn to play, to stop being the charging warhorse and instead bound about like a big dog on Hampstead Heath, tongue lolling, spontaneously running for the fun of running and lying down to rest when I'm tired. And to be sure, I'd like that too. It goes against everything I am, where pretty much every action, every decision, every sentence is painstakingly pre-conceived for maximum impact and benefit, where everything I do can be explained or justified, every activity is beneficial in some way, where every choice is rational. It's a huge ask. But freedom from the tyranny of my own head would be great. Release the hounds.
So my therapist (as is so often the case) is big on childhood and working out why we are the way we are. My big problem has always been fear of failure and rejection, and so we've gone back in time, working out where that arose. I'll spare you the minutiae, but it's pretty easy to see how an only child would fear rejection and failure, since ones or first borns commonly feel a lot of pressure to achieve. So I have spent 33 years working out how not to fail, and most of the time, I'm successful - I don't try things that I know I'll be bad at, and I publically attempt things that might appear difficult to others but which seem easily achievable to me, so that I can gain accolades, respect and praise. I do a job that I could perform with my eyes closed (and frequently do) (I think I've made that joke before. Apologies), meaning that I never risk failure or humiliation in the workplace. I do regular courses and keep thoroughly abreast of culture, politics and current affairs so that I do not appear thick. I'm always planning the next fun event or edifying holiday abroad, where I can relax while expanding my life CV. My mind literally never EVER stops searching for new ways to make me and my existence seem successful, enviable, attractive and/or brilliant. It is a full time endeavour - and has been for as long as I can remember, certainly since toddlerhood. No exaggeration.
The consequence of all this is that, when failure or rejection do occur, I literally melt down. It may seem trivial that a C-list boy who I don't fancy doesn't fancy me, and in my head I know it is surely of no consequence, but in my soul, I am screaming 'I HAVE BEEN TRYING FOR 33 YEARS NOT TO FAIL, but YOU ARE MAKING ME FAIL. I AM FAILING, it is beyond my control and I can't BEAR IT.' Which is clearly disproportionate, but it happens all the same, and so I lock myself in my flat and feel like death.
My response to all this is to tell my therapist, 'Brilliant! That all makes perfect sense. Now, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, MAKE IT STOP.' But my therapist is big on 'sitting with the emotions', a deeply unpleasant experience that I've always labelled 'moping', or 'crying over spilled milk', but which she (reasonably) believes is important - after all, if I always push on, push on, being social and exercising and self-medicating, I'm getting rid of the problem in the short term, but in the long term these issues will always rear their vile heads and sneeze in my face. So for now, the goal is not to fix me, so Chris Martin can get stuffed. I am instead to get used to the fact that I have been trying to be a success for my entire life, that I have been terrified of failure in any form, and that I find pretty much any sort of rejection completely debilitating - and I must come to terms with what effect that must have on the decisions I make. She wants me to learn to play, to stop being the charging warhorse and instead bound about like a big dog on Hampstead Heath, tongue lolling, spontaneously running for the fun of running and lying down to rest when I'm tired. And to be sure, I'd like that too. It goes against everything I am, where pretty much every action, every decision, every sentence is painstakingly pre-conceived for maximum impact and benefit, where everything I do can be explained or justified, every activity is beneficial in some way, where every choice is rational. It's a huge ask. But freedom from the tyranny of my own head would be great. Release the hounds.
Thursday 9 September 2010
Some better news
Apparently if you are an atheist and want to be buried in the UK, you can have a secular burial. The list is here. Thanks very much to 'Body, Disposal' legal expert, Philippa, for the heads up - hope the baby does its thing soon.
Jesus
So after Chris and I discussed my death yesterday, we walked to M&S, and started talking about poor David Cameron, whose dad had a stroke while on holiday in France and died yesterday afternoon. And Chris said, 'I've always feared that would be how my dad died.' And then a few minutes ago, less than 24 hours later, I had an email from Chris, the same Chris, who is meant to be out of the office on a day's holiday sorting out his finances. The email read, 'I'm in hospital. Dad's had a stroke.' I've just spoken to him, and apparently there's a fifty fifty chance that his young, healthy father will make it through the next two days. Fuck. Ing. Hell. Life is bloody terrifying.
Even I can't be self-obsessed after that. Love to you all. xx
Even I can't be self-obsessed after that. Love to you all. xx
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Meh of the same
I was hoping to give you a positive update that I now look back on Sunday and Monday and think, 'Wow, where did that come from? I feel AMAZING now! Look at me gambolling through this poppy field and playfully throwing handfuls of blossom at this attractive Boden-wearing stranger.' But in fact, I'm thinking, 'Wow, where did that come from? It couldn't be less logical, yet I am getting more and more sad with each passing hour and I don't understand why. And in the moments where I am not holding back tears, I am UNBELIEVABLY ANGRY at EVERYTHING. In short: a joy to be around.'
Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.
He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"
Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.
In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.
Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.
He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"
Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.
In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.
Monday 6 September 2010
Dick
So there's this urban myth about a girl who had a huge snake as a pet, and she loved it so much that she let it sleep in her bed, and after a while she noticed the snake wasn't eating much any more, and also that it wasn't curling up in the same way it had used to, and she went to a vet and asked him what was going on, and the vet did some research and concluded that the snake was fasting and straightening out because it was preparing to eat her. Which is fairly rank.
I don't sleep in bed with an actual snake, but the Faithful will know that there is a metaphorical snake in my life, and I haven't told you, but a couple of days ago I became aware that it might have been starting to fast and straighten out.
It was weird, because last week the snake was safely hidden away in its locked cage and munching happily on live rabbits or whatever it eats when it's not preying on me. I had the most gorgeous time on Thursday when my parents came over for dinner, and we laughed like drains and I felt exceptionally lucky. On Friday night I went to this month's Secret Cinema, which turned out to be Lawrence of Arabia, which I didn't watch, and there were stupidly long queues for food and it was really way too over-ambitious, but it was a very fun night with lovely friends and good conversation, and I went home on the train and climbed into bed with a smile on my face. And then I woke up on Saturday morning and got ready for my friend's wedding, and things got a bit disorganised all of a sudden, and I realised I was running a bit late, and I was rushing around my room putting things in my clutch bag and I discovered that my gorgeous eight month old camera was nowhere to be found. I ripped my duvet off my bed, looked among my sofa cushions, tore around my flat looking in places where it could not possibly be and, indeed, wasn't. And eventually I had to accept that I was running really late, so I found my old compact camera and ran off to the wedding, stressed and upset as I'd had far too much wine the night before and was fairly sure that I'd been idiotically unvigilant on London public transport and that I had been deservedly pickpocketed. And I clearly recalled thinking on Friday night that I was drinking more white wine than I normally do, and knowing deep down that I have been a bit sad and hormonal recently, and suddenly losing my camera was a direct punishment for being a sad, hormonal loser, and it all became a bit upsetting.
So then I went off to the wedding, and it was absolutely one of the most romantic and intimate weddings I've ever been to, the beautiful bride and adorably emotional groom facing us throughout much of the service, the hymns sung with great gusto, the congregation unendingly friendly and happy to talk to new people - it was truly wonderful. But I was feeling a bit shaky, and no one said I looked pretty, so I probably didn't, which was annoying, and I didn't know one other girl at the wedding - the only familiar faces were boys, and even then only three or four, so I was definitely going solo, which is fine, but you know, when you're feeling a bit weak and feeble, it's nice to have a wingwoman. Still, I was brave and good fun and had a few really nice chats with new girls and boys at the fantastic reception, and the meal and dancing were off the scale, the band was exceptional, but underneath it all I felt very alone, which was annoying as I was in a room full of wonderful, interesting, happy people and I so wanted to be happy in my head too, not a self-indulgent, spoiled whinger. I spoke to at least two guys who were single - I sat next to one at dinner - and both of them confused me a bit. My dinner companion was definitely a charmer, putting his arm round me early on in the meal and turning towards me, clearly cutting out the young guy sitting on his other side. And we got on well, and had feisty dinner chats, and then after the meal we danced together a bit, but then he disappeared. And there was another guy, a lovely man who had played the piano beautifully at the service, who also touched me unnecessarily on the arm a few times while we were chatting, and asked me to get him a drink at the bar while he had a cigarette, and then came in and chatted to me again, and then he too made an excuse and wandered away.
And I remembered again that it is so hard for two single people to meet and feel mutual chemistry. I am on a boyban, so I wasn't wanting anything to happen. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I would have chosen either of those guys to go on a date with, post-boyban, had either of them wanted to see me again. But it would have been nice for my ego if they had shown interest. I would dearly love to stop feeling rejected if a guy I don't like doesn't like me either, but I've been like that for as long as I can remember, and I don't see it stopping any time soon. On Saturday night, when I realised the guy from dinner was definitely not dancing with me quite as closely as he could have, I felt like he'd slapped me. I was quite upset. Even though I didn't want to kiss him at all. It's insane. I am a dick.
Later on, a third guy was very interested in me indeed, to the extent that I had to enlist a friend to help me persuade him that I didn't want his, erm, offerings. He is handsome and nice, but his drink-fuelled, sweat-drenched, testosterone-driven desire didn't feel like a compliment - more like late night, last-ditch desperation. Far from making me feel more attractive, it made me feel like I must've looked desperate myself. I'd wanted someone to want to date me, not want a one night stand with me when they've had so much alcohol they can barely see. Far from an ego boost, his attentions were actually pretty insulting. You just wouldn't do that to someone you respected. My lovely protective friend was saying, 'This is Jane, for god's sake. She is far too cool for this. You can't speak like that to her,' which was very nice of him, and the guy was saying to my friend, 'You're just jealous,' and I was saying, 'He's not jealous, because nothing is happening,' so it briefly did feel like a scene from Hollyoaks, but then I ran off to the night bus, got home a long time later, alone, looked in vain for my camera which I'd dearly hoped had been hiding all along in the folds of my sheets or under my bed, and then crawled into bed feeling crap.
Yesterday I spoke barely ten words aloud and didn't leave my flat, canceled my plans and instead just watched TV, slept, and eventually took a Melatonin and got an early night. Today I woke up feeling like the snake was certainly extremely close by, and I couldn't imagine leaving the house, let alone sitting at my desk and pretending everything was normal. Those mornings are so weird. You aren't sad, exactly. You aren't physically incapacitated. But the sheer weight of normal existence is just too much to bear. I am sure to the uninitiated it seems truly pathetic, since all that happened was I got pickpocketed and two boys didn't fancy me, and that's hardly an excuse not to go to work - surely I just need a firm and unapologetic kick up the backside? Believe me, sometimes in retrospect I think the same, but when it's happening at the time, all the strength goes out of you, and you lose the ability to think rationally or fight. All you can think is what a failure you are, what a waste of space, and the thought of being near other humans is unbearable. Even pushing the duvet back and standing up to go to the bathroom is too difficult. Bed is the only option - even if you're lying there desperate to wee.
I slept fitfully until 1pm this afternoon, a total of 13 hours, on top of 12 hours on Saturday night plus two or three hours napping during Sunday. That amount of shuteye is just odd, but when being asleep is better than being awake, it's my body's clear way of telling me I'm not happy. I am dealing with stuff - therapy, believe it or not, is going really well, but I'm only a few weeks in to this stint and I have a lot more stuff to work on. It's hard. I need to start really exercising again, but that's hard too. Clearly galivanting around on a Londike for 20 minutes a few times a week isn't adequate. I think I lost motivation when the boyban kicked in. I associate the quest for thinness with trying to attract men, and if I'm not trying to attract men, why bother exercising? I actually quite like my curves, believe it or not - and in the past few weeks have actually been feeling pretty good about my appearance. Then something like Saturday night happens, the boyban methodology goes out the window, I feel rejected by two men I didn't fancy and insulted by the attentions of another, and then I stop functioning as a normal human being for 48 hours. And then I remember why I have to exercise. Because if I don't, I go mental. Growl.
Still, I'm glad to say that it's not all bad. I eventually got up around 2pm this afternoon and shuffled to the hardware shop down the road for some DIY items. I installed new chrome dimmer switches in my bedroom and sitting room, and then moved the old white plastic dimmers to the previously undimmable switches in my spare room and hall. Then I installed a new chrome plug socket in my bedroom. I hadn't known how to do either of those jobs when I woke up this morning, but I found an instruction page on the internet, and I remembered an ex-boyfriend saying it was really easy to change switches, so I knew it couldn't be too hard. And it wasn't. It was really satisfying, especially because I got to use my headtorch. And then I berated myself for being too capable and independent, remembering that men like to look after their women and that I'm always one step ahead and that's unattractive and threatening and emasculating, and then I berated myself for giving a crap what men think, and then I berated myself for being sad, and then I berated myself again for losing my camera, and then I watched Big Brother Winners' Come Dine With Me, and then I berated myself for that too. And then I wrote this.
It's just a blip. I'll be fine in a few days. Bear with me.
I don't sleep in bed with an actual snake, but the Faithful will know that there is a metaphorical snake in my life, and I haven't told you, but a couple of days ago I became aware that it might have been starting to fast and straighten out.
It was weird, because last week the snake was safely hidden away in its locked cage and munching happily on live rabbits or whatever it eats when it's not preying on me. I had the most gorgeous time on Thursday when my parents came over for dinner, and we laughed like drains and I felt exceptionally lucky. On Friday night I went to this month's Secret Cinema, which turned out to be Lawrence of Arabia, which I didn't watch, and there were stupidly long queues for food and it was really way too over-ambitious, but it was a very fun night with lovely friends and good conversation, and I went home on the train and climbed into bed with a smile on my face. And then I woke up on Saturday morning and got ready for my friend's wedding, and things got a bit disorganised all of a sudden, and I realised I was running a bit late, and I was rushing around my room putting things in my clutch bag and I discovered that my gorgeous eight month old camera was nowhere to be found. I ripped my duvet off my bed, looked among my sofa cushions, tore around my flat looking in places where it could not possibly be and, indeed, wasn't. And eventually I had to accept that I was running really late, so I found my old compact camera and ran off to the wedding, stressed and upset as I'd had far too much wine the night before and was fairly sure that I'd been idiotically unvigilant on London public transport and that I had been deservedly pickpocketed. And I clearly recalled thinking on Friday night that I was drinking more white wine than I normally do, and knowing deep down that I have been a bit sad and hormonal recently, and suddenly losing my camera was a direct punishment for being a sad, hormonal loser, and it all became a bit upsetting.
So then I went off to the wedding, and it was absolutely one of the most romantic and intimate weddings I've ever been to, the beautiful bride and adorably emotional groom facing us throughout much of the service, the hymns sung with great gusto, the congregation unendingly friendly and happy to talk to new people - it was truly wonderful. But I was feeling a bit shaky, and no one said I looked pretty, so I probably didn't, which was annoying, and I didn't know one other girl at the wedding - the only familiar faces were boys, and even then only three or four, so I was definitely going solo, which is fine, but you know, when you're feeling a bit weak and feeble, it's nice to have a wingwoman. Still, I was brave and good fun and had a few really nice chats with new girls and boys at the fantastic reception, and the meal and dancing were off the scale, the band was exceptional, but underneath it all I felt very alone, which was annoying as I was in a room full of wonderful, interesting, happy people and I so wanted to be happy in my head too, not a self-indulgent, spoiled whinger. I spoke to at least two guys who were single - I sat next to one at dinner - and both of them confused me a bit. My dinner companion was definitely a charmer, putting his arm round me early on in the meal and turning towards me, clearly cutting out the young guy sitting on his other side. And we got on well, and had feisty dinner chats, and then after the meal we danced together a bit, but then he disappeared. And there was another guy, a lovely man who had played the piano beautifully at the service, who also touched me unnecessarily on the arm a few times while we were chatting, and asked me to get him a drink at the bar while he had a cigarette, and then came in and chatted to me again, and then he too made an excuse and wandered away.
And I remembered again that it is so hard for two single people to meet and feel mutual chemistry. I am on a boyban, so I wasn't wanting anything to happen. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I would have chosen either of those guys to go on a date with, post-boyban, had either of them wanted to see me again. But it would have been nice for my ego if they had shown interest. I would dearly love to stop feeling rejected if a guy I don't like doesn't like me either, but I've been like that for as long as I can remember, and I don't see it stopping any time soon. On Saturday night, when I realised the guy from dinner was definitely not dancing with me quite as closely as he could have, I felt like he'd slapped me. I was quite upset. Even though I didn't want to kiss him at all. It's insane. I am a dick.
Later on, a third guy was very interested in me indeed, to the extent that I had to enlist a friend to help me persuade him that I didn't want his, erm, offerings. He is handsome and nice, but his drink-fuelled, sweat-drenched, testosterone-driven desire didn't feel like a compliment - more like late night, last-ditch desperation. Far from making me feel more attractive, it made me feel like I must've looked desperate myself. I'd wanted someone to want to date me, not want a one night stand with me when they've had so much alcohol they can barely see. Far from an ego boost, his attentions were actually pretty insulting. You just wouldn't do that to someone you respected. My lovely protective friend was saying, 'This is Jane, for god's sake. She is far too cool for this. You can't speak like that to her,' which was very nice of him, and the guy was saying to my friend, 'You're just jealous,' and I was saying, 'He's not jealous, because nothing is happening,' so it briefly did feel like a scene from Hollyoaks, but then I ran off to the night bus, got home a long time later, alone, looked in vain for my camera which I'd dearly hoped had been hiding all along in the folds of my sheets or under my bed, and then crawled into bed feeling crap.
Yesterday I spoke barely ten words aloud and didn't leave my flat, canceled my plans and instead just watched TV, slept, and eventually took a Melatonin and got an early night. Today I woke up feeling like the snake was certainly extremely close by, and I couldn't imagine leaving the house, let alone sitting at my desk and pretending everything was normal. Those mornings are so weird. You aren't sad, exactly. You aren't physically incapacitated. But the sheer weight of normal existence is just too much to bear. I am sure to the uninitiated it seems truly pathetic, since all that happened was I got pickpocketed and two boys didn't fancy me, and that's hardly an excuse not to go to work - surely I just need a firm and unapologetic kick up the backside? Believe me, sometimes in retrospect I think the same, but when it's happening at the time, all the strength goes out of you, and you lose the ability to think rationally or fight. All you can think is what a failure you are, what a waste of space, and the thought of being near other humans is unbearable. Even pushing the duvet back and standing up to go to the bathroom is too difficult. Bed is the only option - even if you're lying there desperate to wee.
I slept fitfully until 1pm this afternoon, a total of 13 hours, on top of 12 hours on Saturday night plus two or three hours napping during Sunday. That amount of shuteye is just odd, but when being asleep is better than being awake, it's my body's clear way of telling me I'm not happy. I am dealing with stuff - therapy, believe it or not, is going really well, but I'm only a few weeks in to this stint and I have a lot more stuff to work on. It's hard. I need to start really exercising again, but that's hard too. Clearly galivanting around on a Londike for 20 minutes a few times a week isn't adequate. I think I lost motivation when the boyban kicked in. I associate the quest for thinness with trying to attract men, and if I'm not trying to attract men, why bother exercising? I actually quite like my curves, believe it or not - and in the past few weeks have actually been feeling pretty good about my appearance. Then something like Saturday night happens, the boyban methodology goes out the window, I feel rejected by two men I didn't fancy and insulted by the attentions of another, and then I stop functioning as a normal human being for 48 hours. And then I remember why I have to exercise. Because if I don't, I go mental. Growl.
Still, I'm glad to say that it's not all bad. I eventually got up around 2pm this afternoon and shuffled to the hardware shop down the road for some DIY items. I installed new chrome dimmer switches in my bedroom and sitting room, and then moved the old white plastic dimmers to the previously undimmable switches in my spare room and hall. Then I installed a new chrome plug socket in my bedroom. I hadn't known how to do either of those jobs when I woke up this morning, but I found an instruction page on the internet, and I remembered an ex-boyfriend saying it was really easy to change switches, so I knew it couldn't be too hard. And it wasn't. It was really satisfying, especially because I got to use my headtorch. And then I berated myself for being too capable and independent, remembering that men like to look after their women and that I'm always one step ahead and that's unattractive and threatening and emasculating, and then I berated myself for giving a crap what men think, and then I berated myself for being sad, and then I berated myself again for losing my camera, and then I watched Big Brother Winners' Come Dine With Me, and then I berated myself for that too. And then I wrote this.
It's just a blip. I'll be fine in a few days. Bear with me.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Fringe
So I'm back from four days at the Edinburgh Festival, four days older, about £300 poorer (most likely much more but I can't bear to look) and approximately four stone heavier. We ate and drank like fat monarchs and then burned off around 0.4% of it charging up and down the Scottish capital's not-insignificant slopes from one venue to the next. Organising a trip to the festival is not for anyone who struggles to schedule a doctor's appointment. The book of options is as thick as Edinburgh's phone book, stuffed with details about the shows, plays, comedians and musicians that are performing for our applause. As an example, the Udderbelly is one of the larger companies at the Festival, with stages in (I think) three or four different parts of the city that range from the huge McEwan hall (where the university students go to graduate) to tiny rooms for one-man plays that seat only 30 audience members - and they had over 120 different shows playing each and every single day of the three week festival. Then there's the Pleasance, Assembly, the Caves, and countless less official rooms-above-pubs where there are shows that range in price from 'We'll pay you to come' to £20 a ticket. So you work out what you want to see, when it's on, how much it costs, where it is, how long it will take you to get from that venue to the next, whether you've got time to meet someone for a drink or lunch in between, whether you'll manage to stay awake given that you stayed out dancing until the wee hours at Silent Disco or similar, whether your feet will freeze off given that it was baking hot when you left your hotel at 11am and now it's arctic and you can't wear tights with flip-flops without looking like a retard.It was an experience. Last time I went to the festival was in 1993 - I went with a group from school in preparation for our Theatre Studies A Level course, which I then abandoned after a few weeks. My memories of the festival are: falling asleep in an eternal and appalling Shakespeare production, freezing my 15-year-old ass off up at the castle ruins for a midnight performance of Clytemnaestra's Bairns and calling up our Deputy Headmistress from the payphones in the Waverley shopping centre to receive our GCSE results. This time I had no exams to worry about, just a rapidly diminishing bank balance and a rapidly expanding thigh girth and that omnipresent festival sensation that you can't do everything, which I'm really getting quite adept at handling.
We did do a fair bit, though - the geeksheet above should give you a flavour although it did not remain accurate due to some last minute shifts. We also, despite being as organised as I'd thought it was possible for a human to be, managed to arrive smugly at the wrong venue well over 50% of the time, leading to irritating middle class dashes across the city as we flapped late into plays about teenage gangs, the fallout from Guantanamo detention centre, the sex trade in London, Georgian refugees, or an uplifting performance by the exceptional Soweto Gospel Choir. Late night comedy was probably my favourite bit, Terry Alderton causing me to laugh so long and hard that by half-way through I was wondering if I actually had the energy to go on, half-lying on my chair, weakly convulsing with mascara tears streaming. There were certainly negatives too but I loved the sensation of my critical faculties becoming honed as I saw more and more - so even when I could pick up a flaw, it brought me satisfaction. Certainly I've realised that plays need to say more than 'Slavery is awful' or 'Being a refugee sucks' - the play we saw about women hired as sex slaves in London detailed two tragic stories but didn't tell us anything new, while the play about torture in Guantanamo was spoiled by being too far-fetched - the final oh-so-predictable twist was totally unnecessary and, in fact, the play would have been far more interesting without it. Still, though, in every case I was glad to have attended.
Not sure Em felt the same about our comedy show on Saturday night - Australian Jim Jeffries who swore with evident pleasure, daring us to squirm, laid into women (especially lesbians) in pretty disgusting style, and whose graphic accounts of sexual antics had me wincing. There was irony in his performance, though - an underlying sense of 'I know this is shocking' - an irony that was absolutely missed by the 15 drunk Scotsmen in the row behind us, who yelled 'Hibs - CUNTS' all the way through; burped loudly, pungently and frequently; and who used Jeffries' jokes as vindication for their own revolting views. There were more mysogenistic, anti-Semitic and xenophobic comments coming from the guys 30 centimetres behind me than there were from the comic onstage - and eventually their lewd behaviour started bothering Jeffries, who called the show to a halt and asked for the guys to leave. Security filed up the aisles but the men refused to move, and we later found out that unless the guys had been physically violent or threatening, the guards couldn't lay a finger on them. In the end, a guard sat down next to them, which was basically as effective as saying 'Ah, ok lads, as you were' and indeed, they did carry on chatting and shouting for the rest of the gig. Not pleasant, but certainly an experience.
Worst show for me was probably Flawless, now known as Flawed, who are undeniably talented dancers - but their stage management was about as complex and well-orchestrated as our dorm plays were when I was a 12 year old boarding school girl. Achingly long gaps between numbers, unclear song-endings, bad props - this an act who (I believe) came second in Britain's Got Talent - and their performance was put to shame by the Soweto Gospel Choir and the Cambridge University Footlights, both groups who know how to run a show. Flawed weren't helped, however, by one of their video clips showing a dancer as saying that this was an exciting time for young people, "what with role models like Obama and Susan Boyle." I blast-laughed loudly and alone, remembering quickly that we were not at a comedy show.
Got to go to be therapised. Festival summary: very fun, very expensive, very white, very privileged, bit guilt-making, not as emotionally affecting as Glastonbury but recommended nonetheless.
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