Hope Dies Last

Bag. I love it so much it makes me want to be a better person.

Sunglasses. Six days old. I feel that I should be the paparazzi’s next shot in these.

Writing implements. Just in case. The highlighter serves absolutely no purpose except each time I see it I am reminded of the time I spent in England. And WHSmith in particular.

For lips. For every occasion. I only use the orange-y Korres one at the moment. It rocks.

Miscellaneous. Car keys. House keys. Shop keys. One of those keys was given to me by a customer that apparently unlocks the back gate to his pool. I am told that I can use it whenever I want. Still hasn’t happened. Bright yellow cylinder are throat lozenges that never leave my bag, hand cream and finally my paper bag–for all my panic attack needs. Also? A lone 2 euro coin that would have been rather helpful at Starbucks this morning had I known it was in there.

Moleskin & notebook. The place that a considerable number of my posts are born.

Today’s post began from this:

When I was a girl, my mother’s hand bag seemed to be the epitome of glamour. Even if there was always a used tissue and an odd mint floating around in them. It must have been that sexy smell of Chanel No5 that got me each and every time.

When I grow up, I would think, I will have a hand bag. And it will be good.

Has having a handbag made you the woman you thought it would?

My sister and I are standing in the queue at the supermarket when an older man walks in shouting.

“Is anyone driving a silver Punto? Silver Punto you’ve double parked behind me.”

We all look at each other and say nothing. The manager, a tired looking woman who has probably seen this happen one too many times, shrugs her shoulders and tells him to jot down the license plate number.

He returns a while later and begins to shout once more.

“Whose Silver Punto is that?”

A young man holding a litre of coke pokes his hand through the crowd of mostly tired looking women in a queue and says apologetically ,

“It’s mine. I just need to pay and I am coming.”

“By the time you bloody get through the line, I’ll be dead” the old man replies, clearly over exaggerating because the young man is third in line and the line is moving at a considerably fast pace. His attitude however has slowed down the entire supermarket. I do not know if it is his mad unbrushed hair or his crazy eyes but we all want to see what he will do next.

“Come on, big guy” he continues, “Us men don’t do this sort of thing. Women do.”

There is a collective intake of breath as every women in the supermarket keeps herself back from attacking him with diapers, low fat yoghurt or a kilo of potatoes. The young man, bless his heart, looks just as shocked as the rest of us but maintains his composure.

“Oh come on now. There’s no need for that.” he says putting his litre of coke on the floor and runs outside to move his car.

We all but applaud when he returns. And the old man?

Well gosh, his wife is one lucky lady.

I’m training a girl who will be taking my position come August 1st and for the most part she is quite lovely.

The part that isn’t quite lovely is the part where she manages daily to twist the conversation to the fact that I am four years older than her and without a man. While she is in a long term relationship and planning to get married next summer.

I may be without MAN but gagging for marriage I am not. So, her attempts at making me feel bad have not been very successful.Her attempts at pissing me off, however, have succeeded beyond her wildest ambitions. I have wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until the belief that a relationship is the only real defining aspect of a woman plops out of her head. I have wanted to then stomp on it with my freshly pedicured single feet.

Instead, I smile and let her search the internet for cheap tickets to great honeymoon destinations. My smile only wavers when I look over her shoulder and say, “Oooo, I’d love to go to the Seychelles” and she retorts “I think you’ll have to get a boyfriend before you start dreaming about going on a honeymoon.” And she laughs. And I laugh. All the while, wanting my elbow to meet her face.

Then, the other day she came back from an errand telling me that the old guy at the bank had hit on her.  The line he used was priceless and I giggled and asked her if she would tell her boyfriend.

“Off course not.” she said.

“Oh? Why ever not?” I replied cooly.

“He’s the jealous type. If he knew that some guy at the bank is hitting on me? He wouldn’t let me leave the house ever!”

“But, but…its so funny.” I ventured.

“He won’t see it that way. I tend not to tell him things that will make my life more difficult.”

With that one statement any feelings of envy I may have had that she is on the verge of ever after and I am not, flew out the window.Because isn’t it much better to be single and fabulous than in some controlling relationship with a man who appears to be incredibly insecure?

I thought so too. And today as I had a ten minute window before a meeting I decided to run into Zara and buy a pair of fabulous shoes to go with my revived BEING SINGLE ROCKS attitude.

I walked the couple of block easily, with a fresh swing in my step and a swagger in my hips. I think the thought, “I am awesome” must have passed my mind a couple of times.

As I reached the entrance I noticed a glorious maxi dress at the far end of the store that would be perfect for a single girl. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another woman approaching the dress and so I did what anyone of you would do in that situation.

I began to run.

And suddenly I was not running anymore. Suddenly I was spreadeagled flat on my face, the contents of my bag sprawled across the floor with me and ten pairs of eyes staring at the mess in front of them.

Suffice it to say, arrogance does not suit me.  And the universe will go out of her way to throw me in my place each and every time I even try to go in that direction.

Dear Future Boyfriend,

In a session a couple of weeks ago, I told my therapist that I knew that I was good enough. ‘I know I’m a catch’ I exclaimed. She paused before asking me flat out, ‘Do you really?”

I keep having flashbacks to that exchange. I see her eyebrows rise slightly as her intonation rose. I think of my own voice as I said, ‘I know I’m a catch’. I have devoted hours thinking about those 5 seconds of my life and I have come to this conclusion.

I said it not necessarily because I believe it, but because I have been told time and time again that faking it leads to making it. That if I look in the mirror and repeat, ‘I am beautiful’, I will be beautiful. That if I pretend confidence then I will be confident. That if I say, ‘I am a catch’ enough times, I will just be.

I have been told by friends and readers, and by family and professionals, by the voice in my head that I am too available, too desperate, too obsessive about this one thing. Of course, not all have said it in those exact terms. Sometimes the content of a person’s message is not important. Different people will always use different ways and different words. But sometimes, if you listen closely enough, if you squint your eardrums in the way you would your eyes, you end up hearing that they are all saying the same exact thing.

I see the mistakes I have made. Do not think that I don’t.

I see that I come across as too available. At times, even needy. I choose a target, almost like a missile launcher, and do not let go until I have hit something. I have hit the target and fireworks have ensued. But most of the time, I am so completely off the mark that I hit myself.

And I explode.

Perhaps, I do not pick up on those apparently obvious ‘he’s just not that into you’ signals. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because of hope. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because I am stubborn and proud. Because, why the hell should he not be into me?

I see that I come across as desperate; a woman with a one track mind. See at some point in my life, I decided that acting like a martyr, like a woman who had some fundamental flaw and who was not only ignored by men but they passed through her as if she was a ghost, was a good identity. In fact, it was such a good identity that I began to go out of my way to convince those around me that I was this sort of person.

When my own arguments failed to convince them, I began to put myself in situations that would have the desired outcome. I went after men that I knew were unavailable so that when it did not work out I could say, “See, non-believers? See, you people who are all ‘Of course you’ll meet a great guy!  You’re amazing. You will get a boyfriend’ See? I was right.”

But as I said to T recently (You’ll meet her. She’s great.),

‘I really don’t have to be right about this anymore.’

In fact, I don’t have to be right about anything at all. I don’t have to be a martyr. I don’t have to look into a mirror and proclaim my undying love to myself, I don’t have to be beautiful. I don’t have to be enough. I don’t have to be a catch. Or not. I don’t need to fake anything to be something. More importantly, I don’t need you to be.

Several years ago, I introduced my boyfriend at the time to a friend. While we were all sitting around a table doing that small talk that you should know by now I hate, she said the following:

“I told you that you would meet someone ONE DAY.”

IN FRONT OF A MAN I HAD BEEN SEEING FOR ALL OF THREE MONTHS.

Right then, in that very moment, she managed to reduce my entire identity to one thing.

Him.

I’m surprised he dated me for the next 16 months. Actually, I quietly judge him for staying that long. For staying with a girl who gave the impression that he was the only thing that mattered. Or so he thought.

Once you get through the layers of pride and emotion and keeping up with the Papas’, once you get through all of the psychobabble and the feelings and the wants and needs and blah blah blah, once you get through all of those layers, there is a tiny part of me left, unnoticed.

The rational part.

And I know that you will see all of this.

Not because you are the reincarnation of Mr Darcy or any nonsense like that but for a different reason altogether.

Because the mistakes I make, the setbacks I suffer now and again, the lessons I learn, the self-knowledge I gain after every unsuccessful venture ventured, have taught me one thing.

That this is it. This is me. Living life as fully as I am capable of but also falling (and failing) as hard as I can.

You will not love me for my face or my body or my fashion sense. You will not love me for my peanut butter cookies or my awesome taste in music. You will not love me because of the subtle burp-like noise I make when I yawn. Or because I cry way too easily. You will not love me because I love to read and I love to think. Or because I am a hard worker in the body of a lazy couch potato.  Nor will you love me because of my loyalty to my friends. You will not love me because I can recite Jack Nicholson’s entire ‘You can’t handle the truth’ monologue from A Few Good Men. Or because in my network of friends? I am the 6th best person that people would choose to take as a companion on a desert island.

Neither will you love me because I make origami flowers and send them to men I barely know.

No. That is all ephemera.

You will love me because you will be the only person aware that all the mistakes I have made have led me to be the person whose sitting next to you right now cringing as you read this.You will love me because you will be the only person aware that all the mistakes I have made led me to you.

And you will continue to love me because you will be the only one who truly understands this importance. That despite the mistakes I will continue to make–about everything under this blinding sun–I will still be standing and hoping and fighting that next time–the bloody next time–I will get it right. And you will continue to love me–and I you– because you will just know that if anything defines me?

It is that.

So take your time. I am in absolutely no rush. I have plenty of mistakes left to make.

Hope

There was a time when I was a girlfriend.

This was way back when Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were still together. Back when I still did not know if Carrie would end up with Mr Big and way back when the iPod Mini was still the smallest MP3 player around. Back when Beyonce was making music about being Crazy In Love.

There was a time when I was a girlfriend.

And every summer I would read books by the major chic lit authors. Single girls on the pull finding a boyfriend and sometimes, but only sometimes, right at the end of the book, there would be a wedding. I could relate to those books. To the quest. Because had I not just been there?  Had I not just met and loved a man? And was he not right there in the room next to mine making me green tea?

Then, there was a time where I was not the girlfriend; instead I was the girl that had been dumped.

This was back when Brad left Jennifer. And hope was lost for the ordinary girl. Back when Sex and the City ended. Back when Avril owned the airwaves and gave me a reason to shout ‘So much for my happy ending’ out of my car window.

And the books? All the books I read were about other girls–albeit fictional ones–that were dumped just as unfairly as I had been. And in the books? They changed hairstyles and jobs and countries and soon enough they met another man. A better man.

The fact that pop culture seemed to be so compassionate, so respective, so responsive to my own life comforted me. In a ‘I am not alone’ way. In a ‘So this is normal then’ way. In a ‘I’m going to get through this and be all the better off for it’ way.

But then, there was the time that I was single. This never ending time that I am single.

And pop culture could care less.

Brad went ahead and had babies with Angelina. Jennifer canoodled with Vince, all the while, promoting ‘The Break Up’. Rihanna made the umbrella sexy, but that did nothing in protecting me from the raincloud that seemed to have permanently attached itself over my head.

And the books? By those very authors who had three years earlier written about a girl exactly like me? Now, they seemed to be telling me, “You’re still there? Still in the same place?” Because all their heroines are suddenly older, pregnant, getting divorced, on second marriages.

And I am still here, all those events mere thoughts; wishful thinking, just if’s and when’s. I am still on Amazon looking for something to read as I lay on a sun lounger next to a pool; the only colour in my life in splashes of bright red on my toenails.