Hope Dies Last

When I was a kid I assumed that love was easy.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–like twenty–I would meet a boy, fall in love and live happily ever after. Then my father was killed and overnight I learned that love wasn’t straightforward at all. I learned that love lasts and even transcends life but love also hurts when the object of love is no longer there. For several years, my assumed life story altered slightly to include this fatalistic addition. Meet a boy, fall in love, live happily, he dies, I still love.

When I was in my early twenties I assumed that love would eventually come.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–twenty-five–I would meet a man, fall in love and (timing willing) have a long-term relationship. Then my boyfriend dumped me and I learned that I knew nothing about love. Love was a word to use in a moment. It was so meaningful that it became meaningless. Two years ago, my re-assessed life story was that I was not likely to meet my great love. (This was a relief because there was no chance of him dying on me.)

Now in my late twenties, l have no assumptions about love. I’ve made an ass of myself so many times that I’ve lost count.  I have no knowledge on love. I’m plain clueless.

All I know is that as a kid I thought it would be easy. I never expected that the road to love–or to like even–would be this complicated. I didn’t expect that there would be this many false starts. I didn’t expect that intentions could be shrouded in so much mystery that the process of finding love, once as exciting to me as the art of creation, would become a mathematical equation of mythical proportions. One that is frustrating and exhausting. The sheer number of variables in the theory of love are limitless.

And I’m no scientist.

I’m only a woman wishing that it could be a little simpler.

For everyone.

Dearest Anon,

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E

A new year cannot really feel like a new year until the previous year has been dissected, right? So here it is. 2009.  (2008 can be found here)

I’ve got a number of post saved up in my drafts folder to share with all of you. There are posts about a revelation, boys, strength, love and a half kiss!

But I’m far too busy working, eating, streaming missed episodes of The Gilmore Girls and spending time with friends in town for the holidays to actually edit those posts into coherent, inspiring, semi-vague  Hope Dies Last kind of posts.

Instead, I wanted to drop by and let you know that I’ve been nominated for a 20SB Bootlegger Award. Thank you so much for all those who put my name up for Best Across The Pond Blogger. I have a feeling (it could be my unconquerable, delusional hope)  that this could be the year that I actually win one of these babies!

So I IMPLORE you–members of 20SB–vote for me! Choose me! Love me!

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a hard time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?