Today is the first Sunday that I have spent at home for a long time, so I decided to spend the day doing absolutely bugger all. Of course, this goes against Kabbalah, where the period of the week for doing sweet fanny adams is from sundown on Friday night to sundown on Saturday night - but for this weekend, without fear of a wrathful, judgmental God, I am going to use my divine nature and forgive myself.
And anyway, I have been on a trip to the supermarket, put a load of washing on and folded some clothes ready for ironing later on, which counts as work. So I guess I am off the hook.
With a day of leisure ahead of me and the sun shining, I found that I spent far too much time deciding what to do which then led to running out of time for doing it. I ought to have spent a couple of hours in the garden, which has been neglected since the end of October, but instead I made another cup of coffee, switched on my iPod and ended up counting on next weekend being just as sunny.
Although the sun was shining warmly through the windows, the house I live in is generally cold and damp so I tend to wear lots of layers and get suspicious of the real temperature outside. It might look warm and sunny but I have been deceived before, shivered my way in to town and wished that I had worn a warm coat and a big thick jumper.
On the homeostasis front, I am reptilian in nature - when I get cold then only lying on a slab of rock in the sun or jumping in a hot bath will warm me up. When I get too hot then I want a beach umbrella and a cool breeze (the same as any other Bearded Dragon), or a cold shower. So it didn't surprise me when I walked in to town wearing two vest tops, a long sleeved roll-neck, a merino wool cardigan and an overcoat, and saw everyone but the very old sporting short sleeves or a spring jacket at most. And I still didn't feel warm.
On the way in to town I walked past Specsavers and remembered that I needed to make an appointment for my contact lense check up. They sent me a reminder at the end of January telling me that it was nearly six months since my last check up. Then they sent me another reminder last week to say "you might not realise this, but it is now over a year since your last checkup". Goodness, how time flies. Have I missed my birthday already? I might wait to see how old I am when the next letter arrives - perhaps I might qualify for free eye-care in May.
So now I am back at home, have just polished off another cup of tea, listened to my iPod until the battery needed recharging and decided to spend some of my leisure time browsing through some blogs. And I came across one entry which made me even more determined to enjoy the rest of my day.
I have been following Braja's blog "Lost and Found in India" for a couple of months now. Braja is a wonderfully spiritual but grounded Australian Yogi, living in Mayapur, India. Her last post was on Wednesday, giving the details of her trip to Bangkok - the taxi that would come and collect her and her husband at 3:45am for the three hour drive to Dum Dum airport - and how the sights, smells and sounds of her village seemed so much more intense as she was about to leave.
I started to read updates from the blogs I follow in turn, and the first was a week in review from Marinka on her Motherhood in NYC blog, who reported that the taxi carrying Braja and her husband to the airport was involved in a huge collision. Braja went from the back seat to the front windscreen, knocking a two inch hole in it. Her husband suffered multiple fractures and was in a critical condition. The driver may still possibly have to have his leg amputated. The updates give details on their progress, the wreck of the car, how they were pulled from the car presumed dead because they were unconscious and unceremoniously dragged by the arms along the floor of the hospital until somebody noticed that they were still breathing. They are all still alive. Just. And maybe not entirely out of the woods.
It's funny how you can get to know people through their blogs (although on that note I will add that everything I write on my blog is entirely ficticious and nothing like me at all in case you suspect that I a whinging, neurotic layabout who spends most of her day in her head dreaming about life and most of her time on the couch eating chocolate).
I have never met Braja, never talked to her, never emailed her. But I feel so much better for having found her, and very grateful not to be losing her. I wish her, her husband and the driver the speediest of recoveries.
And I remind myself that every day - no matter what the weather - is precious.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
It's murder on the dance floor....
... and that was just my shoes. My feet were killing me!
So last night was my third Ceroc night and GBM came along to join in the fun. And Oh, What Fun.
The dance floor was packed. So many people turned up for the beginners lesson that there were four rows of us squished in to the hall, and I only had to miss one turn when the ladies briefly outnumbered the men. During the beginners lesson, I danced a turn with Jim, a scotsman who had deeply hurt my feelings in the very first lesson I'd had, tersely spitting "yer all o'er the place. ye'll have te be better than that if yer want te dance wi' mee!" after my slippy boots had let me down. But this time he exclaimed "My gawd, yer fantaastic. Look at yer go. Yer look phenormenaaal. Ye'll have te come back agen". Psycho.
After the refresher session, the freestyle session was heaving - like one huge mosh pit. I seemed to spend more time being spun in to other people and apologising, but there was little need - all the dancers seemed happy to suffer for their art. Most of the beginner men grabbed their coats and left early, which meant that the men then outnumbered the women. This theoretically meant more time on the dance floor for me and less time sitting on the side like a lemon.
And it did. But although it increased the chances of avoiding Jim, it didn't seem to increase my chances of dancing with the men that I wanted to dance with. Every time I took a short break, and scanned the dance floor to look for the guys my age who looked like they knew their stuff, I was approached by men that I had overlooked. Literally.
I must just have a very kind face, or something, because 80% of the men that I danced with were shorter than me. Some significantly so, if you know what I am saying. Okay, do I have to spell it out? I seemed to dance with more than my fair ratio of men who were less than 5 ft tall and much as I enjoy learning from every dancer, there is something slightly uncomfortable in trying to do a double-handed turn with bent knees, and something a little offputting about dancing with a man who is eye level with your chest.
Not that all of them stared at it, of course. Probably because there isn't anything much to stare at (which is just as well because every week I dance with one short man who asks me to 'bounce'...)
But I didn't just dance with short men. Oh no. I danced with old men and I danced with slightly crazy men too (like the very tall, hippy guy with wizard's grey hair who led me through an entire song with his eyes shut, his head back and his mouth open). I also danced with men who looked as though they were about to go ten rounds with Mike Tyson, such as the guy who looked like one of the original T-Birds from Grease, and danced as though he was frustrated at being overlooked for the role of Danny. Every time I made a mistake (which - given that my feet were very sore by this time and he was trying to showcase at speed - was pretty often) I apologised, but judging by the look on his face didn't think I had apologised enough. But at the end of the song, he beamed a warm, wide smile and said "Thanks so much for that - you did really well. Really well. You were great!" Blimey. That was better that the headbutt I was expecting.
It was only looking back at the end of the evening that I felt that I had been slightly short-changed (pun intended) but I still went home with the largest grin on my face. Why? Because I danced for two songs with Martin (who was taking a week off from being a Taxi Dancer).
It took a while too track Martin down, partly because he seemed to be in such high demand, and partly because the dance floor was so incredibly packed that it was virtually impossible to pick him out. Plus it would be risking life and limb to hover nearby in readiness to pounce.
But at long last I got my chance, and to my delight, danced with him to 'Sway' by Dean Martin, plus another follow-up song which was similarly dramatic. There is something so delightful about dancing with Martin. He is used to leading beginners and therefore I find him quite easy to follow and make fewer mistakes. When I do make a mistake he picks up the gap effortlessly.
I laughed the whole way through each routine as he led me in to turns, holds and a couple of fabulous dips - every move appropriate to the music and every second expressed with such joy.
I could go on. No, really. I could go on and on and on and on. The same way I went on and on to GBM and Belle Grey on the train home and for a couple of hours afterwards, when we all traded stories and compared bruises, and I repeated the same thing again, and again and again. As if they didn't get the message the first time.
Anyway. The long and the short (sic) of it is, it seems that being trodden on all night, being bruised and beaten by numerous elbows, spun in to oblivion by over-enthusiastic men with dancing styles that I can't quite grasp, dancing with weird men, grumpy men, short men or old men doesn't ruin my evening at all. As long as I get to dance with Martin.
Heaven help me when he doesn't show up.
So last night was my third Ceroc night and GBM came along to join in the fun. And Oh, What Fun.
The dance floor was packed. So many people turned up for the beginners lesson that there were four rows of us squished in to the hall, and I only had to miss one turn when the ladies briefly outnumbered the men. During the beginners lesson, I danced a turn with Jim, a scotsman who had deeply hurt my feelings in the very first lesson I'd had, tersely spitting "yer all o'er the place. ye'll have te be better than that if yer want te dance wi' mee!" after my slippy boots had let me down. But this time he exclaimed "My gawd, yer fantaastic. Look at yer go. Yer look phenormenaaal. Ye'll have te come back agen". Psycho.
After the refresher session, the freestyle session was heaving - like one huge mosh pit. I seemed to spend more time being spun in to other people and apologising, but there was little need - all the dancers seemed happy to suffer for their art. Most of the beginner men grabbed their coats and left early, which meant that the men then outnumbered the women. This theoretically meant more time on the dance floor for me and less time sitting on the side like a lemon.
And it did. But although it increased the chances of avoiding Jim, it didn't seem to increase my chances of dancing with the men that I wanted to dance with. Every time I took a short break, and scanned the dance floor to look for the guys my age who looked like they knew their stuff, I was approached by men that I had overlooked. Literally.
I must just have a very kind face, or something, because 80% of the men that I danced with were shorter than me. Some significantly so, if you know what I am saying. Okay, do I have to spell it out? I seemed to dance with more than my fair ratio of men who were less than 5 ft tall and much as I enjoy learning from every dancer, there is something slightly uncomfortable in trying to do a double-handed turn with bent knees, and something a little offputting about dancing with a man who is eye level with your chest.
Not that all of them stared at it, of course. Probably because there isn't anything much to stare at (which is just as well because every week I dance with one short man who asks me to 'bounce'...)
But I didn't just dance with short men. Oh no. I danced with old men and I danced with slightly crazy men too (like the very tall, hippy guy with wizard's grey hair who led me through an entire song with his eyes shut, his head back and his mouth open). I also danced with men who looked as though they were about to go ten rounds with Mike Tyson, such as the guy who looked like one of the original T-Birds from Grease, and danced as though he was frustrated at being overlooked for the role of Danny. Every time I made a mistake (which - given that my feet were very sore by this time and he was trying to showcase at speed - was pretty often) I apologised, but judging by the look on his face didn't think I had apologised enough. But at the end of the song, he beamed a warm, wide smile and said "Thanks so much for that - you did really well. Really well. You were great!" Blimey. That was better that the headbutt I was expecting.
It was only looking back at the end of the evening that I felt that I had been slightly short-changed (pun intended) but I still went home with the largest grin on my face. Why? Because I danced for two songs with Martin (who was taking a week off from being a Taxi Dancer).
It took a while too track Martin down, partly because he seemed to be in such high demand, and partly because the dance floor was so incredibly packed that it was virtually impossible to pick him out. Plus it would be risking life and limb to hover nearby in readiness to pounce.
But at long last I got my chance, and to my delight, danced with him to 'Sway' by Dean Martin, plus another follow-up song which was similarly dramatic. There is something so delightful about dancing with Martin. He is used to leading beginners and therefore I find him quite easy to follow and make fewer mistakes. When I do make a mistake he picks up the gap effortlessly.
I laughed the whole way through each routine as he led me in to turns, holds and a couple of fabulous dips - every move appropriate to the music and every second expressed with such joy.
I could go on. No, really. I could go on and on and on and on. The same way I went on and on to GBM and Belle Grey on the train home and for a couple of hours afterwards, when we all traded stories and compared bruises, and I repeated the same thing again, and again and again. As if they didn't get the message the first time.
Anyway. The long and the short (sic) of it is, it seems that being trodden on all night, being bruised and beaten by numerous elbows, spun in to oblivion by over-enthusiastic men with dancing styles that I can't quite grasp, dancing with weird men, grumpy men, short men or old men doesn't ruin my evening at all. As long as I get to dance with Martin.
Heaven help me when he doesn't show up.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Reasons to be cheerful
My weekends of repeatedly living life on trains and out of suitcases have finally taken their toll. The cold that I have been trying to ward off since the weekend has finally won, so I am 'resting' today.
And despite feeling even groggier than I did yesterday, I decided to count my blessings. And then having counted them, I realised something rather sad.
When I am ill, it means that I am grateful for:
Oh, who am I kidding? This would have been yet another day where I looked at my oh-so-exciting To Do list and wondered where the time had gone.
Perhaps this is a minor wake-up call. Sod it, where is that snooze button...?
And despite feeling even groggier than I did yesterday, I decided to count my blessings. And then having counted them, I realised something rather sad.
When I am ill, it means that I am grateful for:
- my normal state of mental acuity and energy, which I remind myself is only on temporary leave;
- having the excuse to wear my baggiest, warmest layers knowing that I don't have to see anybody today;
- slobbing on the couch watching the next installment of 'Six Feet Under' (as has just been pushed through my letterbox);
- the opportunity to doze between episodes, at will;
- the knowledge that chocolate does not contain any calories when you are sick;
- the option of flicking through my email, sending long replies if I feel fit, or putting aside for another day if I don't;
- the fact that I currently don't have any kids to delay the recovery process;
- not having to contact the office to call in sick, because I don't have a job; and
- guilt-free space to daydream about all of my future possibilities, knowing that taking action with my current lack of clarity probably would cause disastrous results.
Oh, who am I kidding? This would have been yet another day where I looked at my oh-so-exciting To Do list and wondered where the time had gone.
Perhaps this is a minor wake-up call. Sod it, where is that snooze button...?
Monday, 9 March 2009
Break my nose, but give me cheese!
I've just returned from the most wonderful weekend away. A friend of mine, J, has a cottage in Dorset that she rents out for holiday makers and this weekend the cottage was free, so J invited myself and another mutual friend, D, down for a weekend of escape.
The weather could have been better, but the company couldn't. On Friday morning, J picked me up from London Bridge tube, then drove through London to pick up D. After stopping briefly at a supermarket to pick up essential supplies (tonic water to accompany the vodka) we arrived in Dorset early evening, settled in to our rooms, and took a brisk walk along the headland of Lulworth Cove, which was still lightly covered with snow.
D and I were well and truly spoiled, all weekend. J insisted on cooking every meal (J enjoys cooking, D and I both find washing up unusually cathartic). J chauffeured us back and forth, here and there. J lit the fire every evening. J topped up our glasses. J asked us if there was anything else we wanted to see or do. J patiently waited for D and I to be tired enough to retire upstairs so that she could unfold the sofa bed in the living room. There was nothing that she wouldn't do for us.
The cottage itself was perfect and quaint, and every morning I woke to a glorious blue sky, visible through the thatch roof overhanging the windows. If the early bird catches the worm, then the late birds miss the morning sun - we were all far too chilled to make the most of the good weather and each afternoon was filled with a brisk wind and grey, overcast skies. But that didn't dampen our mood.
On Saturday we were driven to Lyme Regis, where I finally had my chance of walking out on to The Cobb, twenty years after studying "The French Lieutenant's Woman". J even managed to find a loan copy of the film for us to watch that evening, which was viewed in between courses of wonderful food and sips of vodka.
On Sunday we spent lunchtime in Weymouth, after 'rescuing' a young Jack Russell called Popeye who was wandering along the middle of an isolated country road. The poor chap was covered in mud and had obviously had a scrap with something - either another living animal or a barbed wire fence. His owner called him a 'little scamp', after running away with his mother two days previously. I would have called him more than that.
Given all of the attentions bestowed upon me by J, I decided that my abstinence from dairy would have to take a back seat for a weekend, and discovered that I was really not any worse off as a result. I have been buying Lacto-free this, and Soya that for the past few weeks, avoiding butter and milk and ice-cream, and have not noticed any benefit. Plus I am mildly allergic to so many things that the difference in symptoms barely measures on the mucus scale.
In addition to this, I knew I had my appointment with the ENT specialist this morning, and subject as I am to miraculous recoveries, I didn't want to take any chances of turning up with a dry nose, no cough and a clear head.
This morning, feeling partly relieved at being groggy and bunged up, I turned up at the hospital to see what was going on up my snout. I knew that the process would involve sticking a camera up my nose but I had no expectation as to how uncomfortable this would be, and so decided to look on the bright side.
The consultant was really rather lovely which can either be seen as a good or a bad thing. Good because it's nice to have rapport with medical professionals. Bad because it's hard to portray the essence of attractiveness to a nice man if he is checking out your bogies.
He looked in my ears. He looked at my throat (without making me gag - now that's skill) and then he selected a 'lady-size' nostril expander and gave me a good squirt of numbing spray and sent me back out to the waiting room, where I pondered how long it would take for the procedure to be completely painless. I am the biggest coward where noses are concerned.
I returned to the examination room, explaining that the spray was making my nose run. He then explained that the human nose produces half a litre of mucus every day. I suspected that half of my daily volume had been created before he had finished his sentence.
Much as I found him rather attractive, it turns out that he is completely untrustworthy. He said "this will feel like a tickling sensation" which was a blatent lie. As the camera got to the top of each nostril, I felt the same painful sensation you get when you snort salt water and want to sneeze. Except that I couldn't damn well sneeze because I was too frightened of impaling my brain on the camera. So I cried instead, snivelly, 'jeez, that smarts' tears.
After the examination he told me that I had a couple of things wrong with my nose. Firstly I have asthma related allergic rhinitis, for which he prescribed a strong nasal spray to reduce the inflammation (oh, Beconase is so yesterday). Secondly, I am a deviant. No, that's not quite right. My septum is a deviant. That's not right either.. Oh yes! I have a deviated septum!
The plan is for me to use the nasal spray for a couple of months, and also book a scan of my sinuses (because heaven only knows what is going on up there). Then I will return to see him in three months time after the results of the scan, after which he will decide whether I should have my deviant septum corrected surgically and whether there is anything else that they can hack away at whilst I am under anaesthetic.
I am already smarting from the prospective pain of having my snoz interfered with. I have seen pictured of nose-jobs on the telly, and they always involve a mallet and a chisel. In my humble opinion, mallets and chisels don't belong anywhere near noses. Neither do power drills, except in horror movies.
But despite his lies, I am looking forward to seeing my consultant again. Roll on June...
And I am looking forward to eating more cheese. Purely as a challenge to my new nasal spray, of course.
The weather could have been better, but the company couldn't. On Friday morning, J picked me up from London Bridge tube, then drove through London to pick up D. After stopping briefly at a supermarket to pick up essential supplies (tonic water to accompany the vodka) we arrived in Dorset early evening, settled in to our rooms, and took a brisk walk along the headland of Lulworth Cove, which was still lightly covered with snow.
D and I were well and truly spoiled, all weekend. J insisted on cooking every meal (J enjoys cooking, D and I both find washing up unusually cathartic). J chauffeured us back and forth, here and there. J lit the fire every evening. J topped up our glasses. J asked us if there was anything else we wanted to see or do. J patiently waited for D and I to be tired enough to retire upstairs so that she could unfold the sofa bed in the living room. There was nothing that she wouldn't do for us.
The cottage itself was perfect and quaint, and every morning I woke to a glorious blue sky, visible through the thatch roof overhanging the windows. If the early bird catches the worm, then the late birds miss the morning sun - we were all far too chilled to make the most of the good weather and each afternoon was filled with a brisk wind and grey, overcast skies. But that didn't dampen our mood.
On Saturday we were driven to Lyme Regis, where I finally had my chance of walking out on to The Cobb, twenty years after studying "The French Lieutenant's Woman". J even managed to find a loan copy of the film for us to watch that evening, which was viewed in between courses of wonderful food and sips of vodka.
On Sunday we spent lunchtime in Weymouth, after 'rescuing' a young Jack Russell called Popeye who was wandering along the middle of an isolated country road. The poor chap was covered in mud and had obviously had a scrap with something - either another living animal or a barbed wire fence. His owner called him a 'little scamp', after running away with his mother two days previously. I would have called him more than that.
Given all of the attentions bestowed upon me by J, I decided that my abstinence from dairy would have to take a back seat for a weekend, and discovered that I was really not any worse off as a result. I have been buying Lacto-free this, and Soya that for the past few weeks, avoiding butter and milk and ice-cream, and have not noticed any benefit. Plus I am mildly allergic to so many things that the difference in symptoms barely measures on the mucus scale.
In addition to this, I knew I had my appointment with the ENT specialist this morning, and subject as I am to miraculous recoveries, I didn't want to take any chances of turning up with a dry nose, no cough and a clear head.
This morning, feeling partly relieved at being groggy and bunged up, I turned up at the hospital to see what was going on up my snout. I knew that the process would involve sticking a camera up my nose but I had no expectation as to how uncomfortable this would be, and so decided to look on the bright side.
The consultant was really rather lovely which can either be seen as a good or a bad thing. Good because it's nice to have rapport with medical professionals. Bad because it's hard to portray the essence of attractiveness to a nice man if he is checking out your bogies.
He looked in my ears. He looked at my throat (without making me gag - now that's skill) and then he selected a 'lady-size' nostril expander and gave me a good squirt of numbing spray and sent me back out to the waiting room, where I pondered how long it would take for the procedure to be completely painless. I am the biggest coward where noses are concerned.
I returned to the examination room, explaining that the spray was making my nose run. He then explained that the human nose produces half a litre of mucus every day. I suspected that half of my daily volume had been created before he had finished his sentence.
Much as I found him rather attractive, it turns out that he is completely untrustworthy. He said "this will feel like a tickling sensation" which was a blatent lie. As the camera got to the top of each nostril, I felt the same painful sensation you get when you snort salt water and want to sneeze. Except that I couldn't damn well sneeze because I was too frightened of impaling my brain on the camera. So I cried instead, snivelly, 'jeez, that smarts' tears.
After the examination he told me that I had a couple of things wrong with my nose. Firstly I have asthma related allergic rhinitis, for which he prescribed a strong nasal spray to reduce the inflammation (oh, Beconase is so yesterday). Secondly, I am a deviant. No, that's not quite right. My septum is a deviant. That's not right either.. Oh yes! I have a deviated septum!
The plan is for me to use the nasal spray for a couple of months, and also book a scan of my sinuses (because heaven only knows what is going on up there). Then I will return to see him in three months time after the results of the scan, after which he will decide whether I should have my deviant septum corrected surgically and whether there is anything else that they can hack away at whilst I am under anaesthetic.
I am already smarting from the prospective pain of having my snoz interfered with. I have seen pictured of nose-jobs on the telly, and they always involve a mallet and a chisel. In my humble opinion, mallets and chisels don't belong anywhere near noses. Neither do power drills, except in horror movies.
But despite his lies, I am looking forward to seeing my consultant again. Roll on June...
And I am looking forward to eating more cheese. Purely as a challenge to my new nasal spray, of course.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
News Flash!! He's just not that in to me!
Okay, so this is day two of PMT and I woke up feeling dehydrated, tired, drained and bloated. Plus every extremity was aching from doing the Bar Method DVD on Tuesday. And I promised I would make the Bar Method an Every Other Day thing... but changed my mind abruptly this morning.
Today's big task today was signing on - a self-inflicted painful event that occurs every two weeks. Self-inflicted in the fact that I could avoid all of the angst by getting a job. And I will do. Soon.
So I got on the bus and became absorbed in my iPod all of the way to Hertford, then decided to browse the shelves of WHSmith's for spiritual/scientific/inspirational books that I really ought to read (if I am ever going to write that book of mine).
The selection was poor. I didn't find "A Course in Miracles" and I couldn't find anything by Wayne Dyer either, or Deepak Chopra. Patanjali? Forget it. Instead my eyes settled on a book called "he's just not that into you" by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. This was the book that sparked the film (which I haven't yet seen). Well, this could be useful research, given that most of the books that I have are centered around women - I need to have a male perspective too. Plus, of course, it might help me to move on from ex-PNM, who I still cannot stop 'iffing and anding' about, a week to the day that he dumped me.
This may seem pathetic, but something changed from the moment I met ex-PNM until the moment he dropped me. For the first time in a very long time I:
a) was attracted to somebody; and
b) was dating somebody (okay, I know, twice, but still twice more than nothing); and
c) I had the first bit of hope that Something Nice might be happening in my life.
Oo, Something Nice.
So maybe after a long time of not being special I was a little overexcited at potentially feeling special. And when he dropped me, those little feelings of hope were hard to let go. It may have only been a couple of dates, but the memories were still fresh. One minute I was being kissed and swooned over, and the next it's a 'Probably best not for both our sakes'. It's hard.
I hoped that although there were lessons to be learned on my part, maybe he might still be thinking about me, or wondering whether he had made the right decision.
I have read pretty much all of the book since I arrived home. It is a fabulous and honest book. What I love about Greg's writing is that he is constantly relaying the message to women "This man might not be in to you, but you deserve a man who is, and he is definitely out there". Each of his theories are backed up by a selection of men. So much as it might be easy to brush off the advice of one nice, funny man, it is hard to ignore a small jury of them.
And the result of my findings? ex-PNM was just not that into me. Hard to believe, I know. I mean, what is wrong with him?! Nothing, actually - he called things off before either of us got really hurt - he didn't disappear, he treated me well, he had the decency to not leave me guessing or string me along, he let me down gently with a compliment thrown in - he's a nice guy (and I'm not just saying that because I found him attractive) - but he just wasn't that into me.
Which just leaves me open for the next man who is. Let's hope he catches me on a good day, and not one where I am stomping around in a tearful, hormone-induced huff...
Today's big task today was signing on - a self-inflicted painful event that occurs every two weeks. Self-inflicted in the fact that I could avoid all of the angst by getting a job. And I will do. Soon.
So I got on the bus and became absorbed in my iPod all of the way to Hertford, then decided to browse the shelves of WHSmith's for spiritual/scientific/inspirational books that I really ought to read (if I am ever going to write that book of mine).
The selection was poor. I didn't find "A Course in Miracles" and I couldn't find anything by Wayne Dyer either, or Deepak Chopra. Patanjali? Forget it. Instead my eyes settled on a book called "he's just not that into you" by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. This was the book that sparked the film (which I haven't yet seen). Well, this could be useful research, given that most of the books that I have are centered around women - I need to have a male perspective too. Plus, of course, it might help me to move on from ex-PNM, who I still cannot stop 'iffing and anding' about, a week to the day that he dumped me.
This may seem pathetic, but something changed from the moment I met ex-PNM until the moment he dropped me. For the first time in a very long time I:
a) was attracted to somebody; and
b) was dating somebody (okay, I know, twice, but still twice more than nothing); and
c) I had the first bit of hope that Something Nice might be happening in my life.
Oo, Something Nice.
So maybe after a long time of not being special I was a little overexcited at potentially feeling special. And when he dropped me, those little feelings of hope were hard to let go. It may have only been a couple of dates, but the memories were still fresh. One minute I was being kissed and swooned over, and the next it's a 'Probably best not for both our sakes'. It's hard.
I hoped that although there were lessons to be learned on my part, maybe he might still be thinking about me, or wondering whether he had made the right decision.
I have read pretty much all of the book since I arrived home. It is a fabulous and honest book. What I love about Greg's writing is that he is constantly relaying the message to women "This man might not be in to you, but you deserve a man who is, and he is definitely out there". Each of his theories are backed up by a selection of men. So much as it might be easy to brush off the advice of one nice, funny man, it is hard to ignore a small jury of them.
And the result of my findings? ex-PNM was just not that into me. Hard to believe, I know. I mean, what is wrong with him?! Nothing, actually - he called things off before either of us got really hurt - he didn't disappear, he treated me well, he had the decency to not leave me guessing or string me along, he let me down gently with a compliment thrown in - he's a nice guy (and I'm not just saying that because I found him attractive) - but he just wasn't that into me.
Which just leaves me open for the next man who is. Let's hope he catches me on a good day, and not one where I am stomping around in a tearful, hormone-induced huff...
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
PMT and an unhealthy slug of martyrdom
I was busy marking my calendar this morning just to remind myself that my life was not entirely void of human contact, and remembered at the same time to mark my monthly cycle to keep track. And after that, not wanting to get caught out for another month, I counted the days back to my likely attack of PMT. Oh. Apparently it all kicks off today. Great.
At 2:30 I caught the train in to London to volunteer for the first afternoon meeting of the Business Gym - a networking group for businesses run by the Kabbalah Centre, which aims to bring spiritual understanding to business people. Rather than teaching the basics of Kabbalah, it introduces concepts such as the Ego and Resistance in the form of lectures based around real business issues, like Prosperity and Leadership. The delivery and the message are always spot on and I feel lucky to be involved and contribute where I can.
And I continue to observe my own reactions and behaviours where I feel challenged - and today was one hell of a reactive day for me.
Every time I attend a Business Gym gathering, I miss the presentation. The first week I was a greeter, welcoming people in and showing them where to register. There is always a good half hour or forty-five minutes of networking and refreshments before the talk starts and people move in to the main room to be seated. Then the doors are shut and I am left outside.
When this happened the first time, I was disappointed as I had been looking forward to injecting a bit of positivity in to my day and was expecting to be invited in to listen to the lecture, but I accepted that although I was there on my own time and had paid through the nose for an early morning train ticket, I had volunteered to support the event and not to actually attend it. Plus there were two other women who had processed the payments who were sitting outside with me - so I thought maybe that's just the way it goes and I shouldn't have expected to be invited in. When the group broke to discuss the topics, we all snuck in and found a seat (and in my case a plate full of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs).
The second meeting the same thing happened. This time I was again the greeter and was asked to wait for any late-comers (who never arrived) and when the doors slammed shut, there was nobody outside waiting with me. So I didn't really know what to do. I felt too embarrassed to enter the room whilst the talk was in progress, not knowing whether I would cause an almighty cafuffle trying to get to an empty seat. So I sat outside trying to convince myself that I could hear enough of the talk to benefit from it, whilst silently switching between seething and redressing myself.
To cap it all, two of the women came out towards the end of the talk and saw me sitting outside, and said "What are you doing sitting out here?! Why didn't you come in?!" and despite the fact that I wanted to say "Thanks a bunch for just leaving me outside" (amongst other things), I made a heap of excuses and must have sounded like a complete and utter drip.
I thought about my overt politeness and my usual stress over turning up late. I hate turning up late or at the last minute. I hate entering a room of already seated people. I dread having to go to the toilet in the middle of a live comedy show, in case I am ridiculed as part of their act. I would rather wet myself in my seat than suffer the trauma of making a row of huffy people sit sideways.
I explained my rationale at the end of the talk and insisted "next time, save me a seat and let me know when I can come in".
This week the time had changed to the afternoon, to capture the people who hadn't been able to attend the breakfast meeting. I arrived early and found that I was processing the registrations and payments. And I wasn't comfortable with it at all, even though the task was simple. (There is a great saying that I read today in a Kabbalah book - just because it's simple, doesn't mean that it is easy). The process involved marking people off on an attendance sheet, making note of how they had paid, asking them to complete a registration form, collecting a business card from them, finding their badge (and if they didn't have a printed badge, writing one out for them) and processing their payment, whether it was cash, cheque or credit card.
Despite being super-multi-tasking Gemini, I just couldn't get it together. Three people would turn up at once, and I would get confused between tasks and felt embarrassed at how long it took for me to take simple credit card information. I became flustered at making them wait. Plus I found it difficult to write on a reception desk which was at crotch height.
And then there was the small talk. Why do I have a problem with small talk with people that I don't know? It doesn't take much - a smile and a straightforward "Hi, how are you? Can I take your name? Let's see if we have a badge for you... Could you fill out this registration form for me? And how would you like to pay? Would you like a receipt for that?" It's not rocket science, but somehow I fell short.
But I did okay - people eventually got their badges and made their payments, - and I made the decision that the fact that I didn't enjoy one second of it must have meant that I was Truly Sharing (which is a good thing). Not that this made me feel any better.
Switching the time to the afternoon didn't turn out to be a good thing, because at least ten people who had promised to be there hadn't arrived by the time that the talk was meant to start. Theoretically it is easier to get out of bed an hour or so earlier than it is to get away from a heap of issues at the end of the day. So yet again I was asked to catch any late-comers and was left on my own at reception, knowing fully in my heart that not one of them would show.
But instead of asking "How much longer do you want me to give them, and can you make sure that there is a seat for me?" I processed the thought 'you're not even considering that I might want to listen to this talk, are you?', took offence, then smiled and said "Okay, no problem!"
So I sat in reception with an air of martyrdom which would have had Joan of Arc singing "We Are Family! I Got All My Sisters With Me!" with the same conversation going round my head:
"No, that's fine, you just go in AGAIN. I'll just sit here like a f**king lemon AGAIN. I'll just miss the lecture - don't you worry about me. I'm sure I'll survive. I don't need to hear a lecture on money anyway. These people aren't going to show anyway, so this is a waste of my time and if they can't be bothered to show up by x time then they shouldn't be allowed in. How else are they going to learn good timekeeping?".
There were times during this hour that I started to feel very sorry for myself - particularly dejected and glum. Sulk, sulk, sulk.
It's a good job I wasn't standing in the street because my bottom lip was big enough for two tramps AND their dogs.
And all of this because I couldn't simply say "Shall we give them another ten minutes and then I'll come down - is there a seat for me?" It was nobody elses fault but my own. If I can't stand up for myself and say what I want then why should I expect anybody to read my mind?
I did make my feelings clearer at the end of the talk - next time I would like a cut-off time and a seat saved. I can make it known that I would really love to hear as much of the lecture as possible. And given that they record each talk, I could even ask whether I could have access to the CDs.
And yet still, in the nature of my mood, I only realised on the train home that every sorry thought in my head this afternoon was heightened by hormones. That's why I was feeling unusually tearful, and that's probably why I was so cack-handed at admin too.
Oh well - maybe next time. At least I took the opportunity to demolish the rest of the buffet whilst nobody else was looking....
At 2:30 I caught the train in to London to volunteer for the first afternoon meeting of the Business Gym - a networking group for businesses run by the Kabbalah Centre, which aims to bring spiritual understanding to business people. Rather than teaching the basics of Kabbalah, it introduces concepts such as the Ego and Resistance in the form of lectures based around real business issues, like Prosperity and Leadership. The delivery and the message are always spot on and I feel lucky to be involved and contribute where I can.
And I continue to observe my own reactions and behaviours where I feel challenged - and today was one hell of a reactive day for me.
Every time I attend a Business Gym gathering, I miss the presentation. The first week I was a greeter, welcoming people in and showing them where to register. There is always a good half hour or forty-five minutes of networking and refreshments before the talk starts and people move in to the main room to be seated. Then the doors are shut and I am left outside.
When this happened the first time, I was disappointed as I had been looking forward to injecting a bit of positivity in to my day and was expecting to be invited in to listen to the lecture, but I accepted that although I was there on my own time and had paid through the nose for an early morning train ticket, I had volunteered to support the event and not to actually attend it. Plus there were two other women who had processed the payments who were sitting outside with me - so I thought maybe that's just the way it goes and I shouldn't have expected to be invited in. When the group broke to discuss the topics, we all snuck in and found a seat (and in my case a plate full of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs).
The second meeting the same thing happened. This time I was again the greeter and was asked to wait for any late-comers (who never arrived) and when the doors slammed shut, there was nobody outside waiting with me. So I didn't really know what to do. I felt too embarrassed to enter the room whilst the talk was in progress, not knowing whether I would cause an almighty cafuffle trying to get to an empty seat. So I sat outside trying to convince myself that I could hear enough of the talk to benefit from it, whilst silently switching between seething and redressing myself.
To cap it all, two of the women came out towards the end of the talk and saw me sitting outside, and said "What are you doing sitting out here?! Why didn't you come in?!" and despite the fact that I wanted to say "Thanks a bunch for just leaving me outside" (amongst other things), I made a heap of excuses and must have sounded like a complete and utter drip.
I thought about my overt politeness and my usual stress over turning up late. I hate turning up late or at the last minute. I hate entering a room of already seated people. I dread having to go to the toilet in the middle of a live comedy show, in case I am ridiculed as part of their act. I would rather wet myself in my seat than suffer the trauma of making a row of huffy people sit sideways.
I explained my rationale at the end of the talk and insisted "next time, save me a seat and let me know when I can come in".
This week the time had changed to the afternoon, to capture the people who hadn't been able to attend the breakfast meeting. I arrived early and found that I was processing the registrations and payments. And I wasn't comfortable with it at all, even though the task was simple. (There is a great saying that I read today in a Kabbalah book - just because it's simple, doesn't mean that it is easy). The process involved marking people off on an attendance sheet, making note of how they had paid, asking them to complete a registration form, collecting a business card from them, finding their badge (and if they didn't have a printed badge, writing one out for them) and processing their payment, whether it was cash, cheque or credit card.
Despite being super-multi-tasking Gemini, I just couldn't get it together. Three people would turn up at once, and I would get confused between tasks and felt embarrassed at how long it took for me to take simple credit card information. I became flustered at making them wait. Plus I found it difficult to write on a reception desk which was at crotch height.
And then there was the small talk. Why do I have a problem with small talk with people that I don't know? It doesn't take much - a smile and a straightforward "Hi, how are you? Can I take your name? Let's see if we have a badge for you... Could you fill out this registration form for me? And how would you like to pay? Would you like a receipt for that?" It's not rocket science, but somehow I fell short.
But I did okay - people eventually got their badges and made their payments, - and I made the decision that the fact that I didn't enjoy one second of it must have meant that I was Truly Sharing (which is a good thing). Not that this made me feel any better.
Switching the time to the afternoon didn't turn out to be a good thing, because at least ten people who had promised to be there hadn't arrived by the time that the talk was meant to start. Theoretically it is easier to get out of bed an hour or so earlier than it is to get away from a heap of issues at the end of the day. So yet again I was asked to catch any late-comers and was left on my own at reception, knowing fully in my heart that not one of them would show.
But instead of asking "How much longer do you want me to give them, and can you make sure that there is a seat for me?" I processed the thought 'you're not even considering that I might want to listen to this talk, are you?', took offence, then smiled and said "Okay, no problem!"
So I sat in reception with an air of martyrdom which would have had Joan of Arc singing "We Are Family! I Got All My Sisters With Me!" with the same conversation going round my head:
"No, that's fine, you just go in AGAIN. I'll just sit here like a f**king lemon AGAIN. I'll just miss the lecture - don't you worry about me. I'm sure I'll survive. I don't need to hear a lecture on money anyway. These people aren't going to show anyway, so this is a waste of my time and if they can't be bothered to show up by x time then they shouldn't be allowed in. How else are they going to learn good timekeeping?".
There were times during this hour that I started to feel very sorry for myself - particularly dejected and glum. Sulk, sulk, sulk.
It's a good job I wasn't standing in the street because my bottom lip was big enough for two tramps AND their dogs.
And all of this because I couldn't simply say "Shall we give them another ten minutes and then I'll come down - is there a seat for me?" It was nobody elses fault but my own. If I can't stand up for myself and say what I want then why should I expect anybody to read my mind?
I did make my feelings clearer at the end of the talk - next time I would like a cut-off time and a seat saved. I can make it known that I would really love to hear as much of the lecture as possible. And given that they record each talk, I could even ask whether I could have access to the CDs.
And yet still, in the nature of my mood, I only realised on the train home that every sorry thought in my head this afternoon was heightened by hormones. That's why I was feeling unusually tearful, and that's probably why I was so cack-handed at admin too.
Oh well - maybe next time. At least I took the opportunity to demolish the rest of the buffet whilst nobody else was looking....
Monday, 2 March 2009
Time to Get The Message
My life, at present, feels like a mess. I spend my unstructured days in my head, daydreaming about all of the future possibilities, trying to inspire myself in to action and beating myself up for the things I am not achieving. But in truth, only action leads to action. It is only those baby steps which are going to open up my world and bring all of the people in to my life who will enable me to grow and realise my purpose.
Awareness is key, though, and at least if I am not walking the walk of what I wish to teach, I am listening for messages all of the time. And since I started actively listening, I have realised that messages are coming at me all the time, from all directions.
Take, for instance, Potential New Man, who decided to become Soul Mate Lesson Number 1 on Thursday night after just two, short dates. After seeming so incredibly blown away by my company on Tuesday night, by Thursday he had decided that we wanted different things out of life and suggested that we just remain friends. His explanation was that:
My inner response was mixed. First there was the hurt that he disapproved of me not being financially secure, along with some anger that he wasn't seeing my potential and was judging me on my financial status alone. Second there was the sheer joy in hearing that I had the power to make someone melt with desire. Because it's what we want to hear, isn't it, ladies?
On Friday night I went to Ceroc with the attitude of "I'll show him what he's missing - boy, is he ever going to regret dumping me" expecting some kind of sign that my sexual power would far outweigh his logic.
Big mistake.
When he arrived I greeted him warmly (or is that coolly?), then danced with him for several songs, trying to keep things light. And after that - apart from some fabulous (if not sensational) dances with other men - it all went a bit tits up.
The women far outnumbered the men and I found myself on far too many occasions standing by the side of the dance floor, trying to avoid eye contact with the men with whom I didn't want to dance. Perhaps it was my Glow In The Dark Beginner's Bracelet that put some of the better dancers off, wanting to avoid an accidental finger in the eye or crushing of the foot.
Unfortunately this imbalance meant that ex-PNM was not without a constant supply of dance partners, and so my downtime was spent consumed with jealousy watching him dance with other women. Other, quite sexy women. Other, quite sexy women not sporting a Beginner's Bracelet. For several dances. With lots of talking. And despite the fact that he had said "I'll catch up with you later", he didn't so much as glance in my direction once during the rest of the evening, stopping by only as I was easing my blistered toes back in to my trainers to say "see you around".
Wow. Either he is a fantastic liar or a master of hiding his feelings. So much for making him melt! I felt totally crushed and struggled to untangle my thoughts and understand his.
But it makes no difference what or how he is thinking. If I suddenly became "financially secure" and he became interested again, would I reconsider? Does it matter if he was being honest about our 'values and direction' or was just looking for a quick shag and realised very quickly that he wasn't going to get one? Does it matter if, having not found quick (and rather fantastic, I might add) shag with me, he finds someone else who will satisfy his urges? The answer to all of these is No.
The truth is that I am looking for something deeper than just a physical relationship. I am looking for someone who will love me for me. And I can't do that by giving a man the best sex he has ever had in his life - he has to want something on a deeper level too. But I am also struggling with loving myself at this moment in time, unhappy with what I am or am not achieving, frustrated with my current situation and lack of visible progress - and so I have attracted someone else in to my life who thinks the same as I do. He is disappointed too.
Perhaps at the moment I feel that sex is the only thing that I have to offer that can possibly appeal.
But there was a second and more important lesson to be learned on Friday night. Part of the reason that I hold myself back from making progress on my purpose is because I have limiting thoughts on what I am able to achieve. I tend to wonder why anyone would choose to be inspired by me, or how, given that there are so many inspirational people out there writing books, mediating, counselling, running workshops I could ever be that good. I underestimate my abilities constantly and I like to set other people's expectations accordingly so that I don't hear the words "I thought you said that you could..." or "So-and-so is much better than you are".
And here is the strangest thing: Friday night was only my second night of dancing Ceroc. Even though it is the man's role to lead, there are so many moves that I don't know. Sometimes you think you are heading in one direction, and they spin you back the other, or round again. So every single man that I danced with I set their expectations beforehand that I was a beginner, so that they were prepared for me to be crap and weren't disappointed by the mistakes I made or the misread signals.
And every single man that I danced with said "Take that bracelet off! It doesn't matter how many lessons you've had - you have natural rhythm and you follow the lead perfectly. You can dance!"
Or in other words "Don't set my expectations at a lower level than that which you are capable, because you are fooling no one but yourself".
The Beginner's Bracelet has to come off - and not just on the dance floor.
Awareness is key, though, and at least if I am not walking the walk of what I wish to teach, I am listening for messages all of the time. And since I started actively listening, I have realised that messages are coming at me all the time, from all directions.
Take, for instance, Potential New Man, who decided to become Soul Mate Lesson Number 1 on Thursday night after just two, short dates. After seeming so incredibly blown away by my company on Tuesday night, by Thursday he had decided that we wanted different things out of life and suggested that we just remain friends. His explanation was that:
- He didn't want to become involved with a woman who wasn't financially secure. He had been there before, it hadn't worked and wanted to save us both pain in the long run.
- He wasn't looking for anything long term.
My inner response was mixed. First there was the hurt that he disapproved of me not being financially secure, along with some anger that he wasn't seeing my potential and was judging me on my financial status alone. Second there was the sheer joy in hearing that I had the power to make someone melt with desire. Because it's what we want to hear, isn't it, ladies?
On Friday night I went to Ceroc with the attitude of "I'll show him what he's missing - boy, is he ever going to regret dumping me" expecting some kind of sign that my sexual power would far outweigh his logic.
Big mistake.
When he arrived I greeted him warmly (or is that coolly?), then danced with him for several songs, trying to keep things light. And after that - apart from some fabulous (if not sensational) dances with other men - it all went a bit tits up.
The women far outnumbered the men and I found myself on far too many occasions standing by the side of the dance floor, trying to avoid eye contact with the men with whom I didn't want to dance. Perhaps it was my Glow In The Dark Beginner's Bracelet that put some of the better dancers off, wanting to avoid an accidental finger in the eye or crushing of the foot.
Unfortunately this imbalance meant that ex-PNM was not without a constant supply of dance partners, and so my downtime was spent consumed with jealousy watching him dance with other women. Other, quite sexy women. Other, quite sexy women not sporting a Beginner's Bracelet. For several dances. With lots of talking. And despite the fact that he had said "I'll catch up with you later", he didn't so much as glance in my direction once during the rest of the evening, stopping by only as I was easing my blistered toes back in to my trainers to say "see you around".
Wow. Either he is a fantastic liar or a master of hiding his feelings. So much for making him melt! I felt totally crushed and struggled to untangle my thoughts and understand his.
But it makes no difference what or how he is thinking. If I suddenly became "financially secure" and he became interested again, would I reconsider? Does it matter if he was being honest about our 'values and direction' or was just looking for a quick shag and realised very quickly that he wasn't going to get one? Does it matter if, having not found quick (and rather fantastic, I might add) shag with me, he finds someone else who will satisfy his urges? The answer to all of these is No.
The truth is that I am looking for something deeper than just a physical relationship. I am looking for someone who will love me for me. And I can't do that by giving a man the best sex he has ever had in his life - he has to want something on a deeper level too. But I am also struggling with loving myself at this moment in time, unhappy with what I am or am not achieving, frustrated with my current situation and lack of visible progress - and so I have attracted someone else in to my life who thinks the same as I do. He is disappointed too.
Perhaps at the moment I feel that sex is the only thing that I have to offer that can possibly appeal.
But there was a second and more important lesson to be learned on Friday night. Part of the reason that I hold myself back from making progress on my purpose is because I have limiting thoughts on what I am able to achieve. I tend to wonder why anyone would choose to be inspired by me, or how, given that there are so many inspirational people out there writing books, mediating, counselling, running workshops I could ever be that good. I underestimate my abilities constantly and I like to set other people's expectations accordingly so that I don't hear the words "I thought you said that you could..." or "So-and-so is much better than you are".
And here is the strangest thing: Friday night was only my second night of dancing Ceroc. Even though it is the man's role to lead, there are so many moves that I don't know. Sometimes you think you are heading in one direction, and they spin you back the other, or round again. So every single man that I danced with I set their expectations beforehand that I was a beginner, so that they were prepared for me to be crap and weren't disappointed by the mistakes I made or the misread signals.
And every single man that I danced with said "Take that bracelet off! It doesn't matter how many lessons you've had - you have natural rhythm and you follow the lead perfectly. You can dance!"
Or in other words "Don't set my expectations at a lower level than that which you are capable, because you are fooling no one but yourself".
The Beginner's Bracelet has to come off - and not just on the dance floor.
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