Hope Dies Last

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?

…I interview a young and fabulous Greek designer.

…I enlighten the non-blog reading masses on the joys of RSS.

…I gush about PostSecret

and finally, I sneak in a typical Hope Dies Last kind of post. It’s all about horoscopes and boys and life and love and destiny and stuff. Consider that my post for today!

Please, if you could be so kind,  check them out. Last month my articles made it to the most read list. And I am pretty certain I have all of you to thank for that. So thank you. Really.

Now, go!

A couple of months ago, I was hopping across the internet when I landed on a website. This website, which I can no longer find, had the body measurements of most celebrities. According to this ever trusting source, Jennifer Aniston and I share the exact same weight, height and breast size.

Only difference is that my body looks nothing like hers.

For one, I look terrible in shorts. For two, my legs are nowhere killer status. I have great hair though.

But, as always, this got me thinking of potential. I could–if I tried–have one of the most sought after bodies on the planet. I imagine that Jennifer has been on a regimented diet and workout schedule for over a decade. I hear the words regimented, diet and workout schedule and I begin to wheeze and pant as if I have already run a marathon. The point is that if I wanted to, I could have her body. This is not some absurd, lofty dream. Its an actual possibility. Same height, weight and breast size? Check. Same curves? Check.  Similar Greek genes? Check.

It could happen.

Going after an A-list body is not my goal though.  But, the idea that with consistently hard work what appears to be unreachable can be achieved is hard to un-realize. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a published story teller.  And for as long as I can remember that seemed impossible; an absurd naive dream of a girl. See,  life gets in the way. You learn that its not easy; that there are millions of writers. You don’t stand out. Then, life actually gets in the way.  Bills need to be paid. Success is measured by the amount of money you can flaunt; the amount of names you can drop; the number of zeros at the end of a paycheck. So, even though you’re a writer, you write other people’s ideas. The ones that pay.

It’s depressing.

So, when it occurred to me that–with some effort–I could actually have Jennifer Aniston’s body; then it occurred to me that I could–with some effort–actually be a published novelist.

And that?

That’s fucking exciting.

What do you think you could do or be if you put in the effort that is required?

I am in dire need of a break from thinking about my most recent romantic entanglement.

Enter Peter.

Peter, who I ‘adore’, (and who has also written a novel that you should have already read, but if you haven’t, you MUST) is holding a drabble competition over at his blog. A drabble, as I have learned, is a fictional story told in exactly 100 words. This is my entry. You should enter too.

Enjoy my attempts at literary greatness!

***

I fell in love with her fourth sentence.

The second sentence I uttered was, “Awkward. What would happen if you caught me?” (I had just unintentionally admitted to her–the host–that I wanted to covertly steal her jukebox.). “Uh, I think I just did.”

I looked at my ring finger and back up at her. “Nope.” She laughed, “Slow down, mister.”

I pressed on. “What would happen if you caught me?” She gave it some thought.

“I don’t know”. Third sentence.

My gaze dropped. A conversation killer. I looked back up. Her eyes flashed with certainty.

“Isn’t that exciting?”

Almost two years ago, I ran into N and her sister on a street. N, her sister and I all went to high school together. That night we had a couple of drinks and when we parted we promised to keep in touch. To hang out more often. I never followed through. They didn’t either.

Last autumn I deleted almost 50 ‘friends’ on Facebook. My reasoning at the time was “If I haven’t communicated with you in the last year, then we’re obviously not friends.” One of those people happened to be N. My hand hovered over the delete button for a second and with no second thought deleted her.

A couple of weeks ago, I agreed to work part-time at my old job as a shop girl for the summer. This Saturday a man walked through the doors looking for a wedding present and found me. He smiled and when he did I was smitten. In a moment. By that smile. For the next 30 minutes we chatted like two old friends. We found that we both graduated from the same high school; years apart. We discovered that the present he was buying was for N’s sister. We discovered other mutual friends. When he left he took his smile with him. And when he did I felt a sharpness in my chest. Is it even possible to miss a smile?

The next day, lying next to a hotel pool thumbing through a magazine my ears caught the sound of a familiar accent. South Africans. I pretended to read but I casually began to eavesdrop on their conversation. A son and daughter dissected the happenings of a wedding for their mother. I heard N’s name and I heard her sister’s name and my heart beat a little bit faster. There I was and there they were. These people that were in the same room as that smile last night.

For a moment, I was jealous.

My mind raced backwards connecting hypothetical dots. What if I had made an effort to get together with N and her sister two years earlier? What if I had been invited to her wedding? What if the same man had walked through the shop door and what if instead of wishing him a pleasant evening I could have said, “See you there!” What if I had gone to that wedding?

Would I still be lying next to this pool, reading a magazine, eavesdropping on a conversation, wishing that that man with that smile would find me and knock me out all over again?