JUST when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I received the phone call that made my heart skip a beat and my mind go into overdrive.
It was from the ex. Worse, my favourite ex — newly single from a long relationship, with too much time on his hands to think what might have been. And what could still be.
I hate to say it, but I had been waiting for this phone call since he told me that he and his now ex were moving in together.
When I spoke to him last they were getting ready for the big move, talking about decorating, joint bank accounts and even a new addition to their newly formed family — a cat.
Instead of weekends out with the boys, he was now trailing round B&Q and deciding whether it would be ‘Whiskas’ of ‘Kitekat’ for tea.
Hearing about his new found ability to cope with proper co-habiting relationship sent out the warning signals to me straight away. Firstly, I couldn’t comprehend that this was the same person I used to know, and secondly, if he was coping with the whole big, bad, scary world of commitment, why was I still terrified of it?
In the end, he was trying to be something that she wanted him to be and in doing so totally lost all idea of what he wanted. I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet, but I figure she must have realised that he just wasn’t that person, no matter how hard he tried.
Now she claims he’s too good for her and that she wants him to go out an find someone better than her, which I take to mean: “I’ve changed my mind about you. I want you to move out so I can find someone better than you.”
Although it’s been put to me, I don’t think for a minute that I could be that ‘someone better’; not for the moment anyway.
The reason our little adventure together worked so well was because we were, and still are, the male and female equivalent of each other — we knew what we were like without having to find out unexpectedly months down the line. We were at college, we were having fun, with each other and others.
The whole relationship was treated like the preliminary months of a normal one. There was no talk of the future as we both knew there probably wouldn’t be one.
To transfer that into a proper relationship, circa now, wouldn’t work. It would be mistaking lust for love for the very beginning, and I try to avoid that at all costs.
But what if we do mistake ‘the one’ for just another one?
How many of us have shrugged off a club/holiday/work/college romance as just another thing? Who’s to say that they are not the soul mate that those in the know say we have, somewhere in the world?
What if we do actually find each other but then miss each other completely?
After hearing about the lovely Dutch rugby player I met recently in an Edinburgh club, my mother, who I’m sure has been saving up sayings to pass down to future generations, warned me that I as going to ‘let all the bonnets go by for a hat’.
We’ve kept contact by email since this chance encounter, and this single Dutch truly brings a new meaning to ‘double Dutch’
So now I’m being haunted by the ghosts of love past, present and future. I feel like I’ve been plucked from a modern-day Scrooge story, where Jim Bowen is parading these three suitors in front of me saying: “Here’s what you could have won.’
Thank the Lord for my ‘Samantha’; my eternally single girlfriend, with more balls than most of the men I’ve been out with, who filled my weekend with wine and window shopping,
Instead of looking for Mr Right, she says, I should be looking for Mr Right Now.
When you’re shopping, it ’s always better to try something for yourself first, as it might look very different on someone else.
With my ex, he tried the whole ‘relationship’ thing for size and realised it didn’t fit. By this point, his girlfriend had already decided he was an accessory that no longer went with anything else she had. So now he’s back on the shelf.
I have been trying something myself. It’s one of those things that you really want, but you just don’t need. The thing that you keep trying just in case this time it fits, but you just keep getting disappointed, The thing that you worry might be gone when you go back for it when it will fit, only the next time you see it, it’s draped round someone else.
I thought it suited me, but every time I ask for an opinion, my nearest and dearest do that face that tells you they don’t want to tell you that’s it’s not right for you, because they know how much you want it.
So for now I’ll just sit on this shelf, like the ex, until I get an offer I can’t reuse.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Everything old is new again
I’VE been thinking a lot about life recently: how much we take for granted and how much we put off for another day that may not even come.
No one knows how long they have ahead of them, and what course their life will take, That is unless, like me, they have conversed with Gypsy Rose Lee number 395 on Whitby seafront, and have been told they’ll live well into their eighties.
One day, no matter how successful, powerful or happy we are now, we’ll ultimately just all end up statistics. Future generations will scoff at the fact we were once ‘sad’ enough to listen to Beyonce, and look at photos not only asking who the people were, but why they ever thought what they were wearing was fashionable.
I mean, when we’re old and grey, will be actually be grey? Will we still cut our hair short and get a perm, or will we try to maintain the choppy bob with highlights we’ve grown up with. My family always laugh at when I say I’m going for a blue rinse.
Sitting in the residential home (if they still exist), will staff put on a bit of Dido or Black Eyed Peas for easy Sunday afternoon listening? Instead of tea dances, will we still be going down the club to strut our stuff with Justin Timberlake and the Busted boys?
I’ve always been mistaken for being older than I am, something I have to admit I’ve always been quite proud of. But now it’s as if I’ve caught up with these age expectations and feel like a fraud who is forced to remind herself constantly just how old, or young, she is.
I came face to face with a woman who I recognised as me in fifty years time, on recent travels.
It was one of those journeys when I just wanted to keep myself to myself, trying to ignore the ‘ya ya’ student sisterhood sitting three rows behind. I was in the middle of a great book, which I was just pulling out of my bag when this lady started her tale.
I desperately wanted to get back to my story, but I was too intrigued by hers.
She’d always thought she would have the rest of her life to do the things she wanted to do like get married, have children, write a book.
Now in her later years, all she has is regrets. I insisted it wasn’t too late to realise at least one of her dreams, to write the book, and something in her eyes told me she didn’t really need me to tell her.
Her parting words to me were: “Don’t make the same mistakes.”
And then she was gone, as if sent somehow to pass on this message, Back to the Future style.
We are constantly told we live in an ever-changing world. But isn’t everything just a repeat of what has gone before?
In fashion this is especially evident — only last week British Airways reverted to its uniform design on the 1950s.
We’re all dressing like our mothers and grandmothers — something I have consistently tried to avoid for many years — but some of us are getting it very wrong.
Two high-ponytailed ‘clones’ passed me the other day, wearing matching bubble gum pink cardigans, pumps, black kicked-out skirts and neck scarves. They looked like extras from Summer Holiday. I felt at any moment Cliff himself would jump off the bus in front of singing Bachelor Boy, or worse still Darren Day would suddenly appear on the prowl for fiancee number what?
Music is also a-changing — or not as it seems. Less than ten years ago if you even mentioned jazz, a strange cringe-worthy glaze sweep my face. Now it’s everywhere and we’re loving it.
Starsky and Hutch are also back on our screens — OK so it’s not Soul and Glaser, but wow Owen!
Prince, Duran Duran, Elvis and Abba are all topping the charts, hairy men in rhinestone bejewelled jumpsuits are asking if ‘we believe in a thing called love’ — and we’re choosing Terry Wogan over Sara Cox. I am myself a Tog in training.
A little four-year-old friend announced recently that she’d split up with her boyfriend, but not to worry because there was somebody else she liked, quite a few in fact. Last night she informed me she’d taken him back. Taking the ‘life is too short’ theory a little too far me thinks.
Too many people live in the past. We have to live in the present and in doing so we’re living for the future. Live for the moment, take each day as it comes, accept love when and where you least expect it, and don’t put off for another day because you might never get the chance to see your plans through; you may never get to write that book.
“There is no better time than right now to be happy. Happiness is a journey not a destination. So work like you don’t need money, love like you’ve never been hurt and dance like no one is watching.”
No one knows how long they have ahead of them, and what course their life will take, That is unless, like me, they have conversed with Gypsy Rose Lee number 395 on Whitby seafront, and have been told they’ll live well into their eighties.
One day, no matter how successful, powerful or happy we are now, we’ll ultimately just all end up statistics. Future generations will scoff at the fact we were once ‘sad’ enough to listen to Beyonce, and look at photos not only asking who the people were, but why they ever thought what they were wearing was fashionable.
I mean, when we’re old and grey, will be actually be grey? Will we still cut our hair short and get a perm, or will we try to maintain the choppy bob with highlights we’ve grown up with. My family always laugh at when I say I’m going for a blue rinse.
Sitting in the residential home (if they still exist), will staff put on a bit of Dido or Black Eyed Peas for easy Sunday afternoon listening? Instead of tea dances, will we still be going down the club to strut our stuff with Justin Timberlake and the Busted boys?
I’ve always been mistaken for being older than I am, something I have to admit I’ve always been quite proud of. But now it’s as if I’ve caught up with these age expectations and feel like a fraud who is forced to remind herself constantly just how old, or young, she is.
I came face to face with a woman who I recognised as me in fifty years time, on recent travels.
It was one of those journeys when I just wanted to keep myself to myself, trying to ignore the ‘ya ya’ student sisterhood sitting three rows behind. I was in the middle of a great book, which I was just pulling out of my bag when this lady started her tale.
I desperately wanted to get back to my story, but I was too intrigued by hers.
She’d always thought she would have the rest of her life to do the things she wanted to do like get married, have children, write a book.
Now in her later years, all she has is regrets. I insisted it wasn’t too late to realise at least one of her dreams, to write the book, and something in her eyes told me she didn’t really need me to tell her.
Her parting words to me were: “Don’t make the same mistakes.”
And then she was gone, as if sent somehow to pass on this message, Back to the Future style.
We are constantly told we live in an ever-changing world. But isn’t everything just a repeat of what has gone before?
In fashion this is especially evident — only last week British Airways reverted to its uniform design on the 1950s.
We’re all dressing like our mothers and grandmothers — something I have consistently tried to avoid for many years — but some of us are getting it very wrong.
Two high-ponytailed ‘clones’ passed me the other day, wearing matching bubble gum pink cardigans, pumps, black kicked-out skirts and neck scarves. They looked like extras from Summer Holiday. I felt at any moment Cliff himself would jump off the bus in front of singing Bachelor Boy, or worse still Darren Day would suddenly appear on the prowl for fiancee number what?
Music is also a-changing — or not as it seems. Less than ten years ago if you even mentioned jazz, a strange cringe-worthy glaze sweep my face. Now it’s everywhere and we’re loving it.
Starsky and Hutch are also back on our screens — OK so it’s not Soul and Glaser, but wow Owen!
Prince, Duran Duran, Elvis and Abba are all topping the charts, hairy men in rhinestone bejewelled jumpsuits are asking if ‘we believe in a thing called love’ — and we’re choosing Terry Wogan over Sara Cox. I am myself a Tog in training.
A little four-year-old friend announced recently that she’d split up with her boyfriend, but not to worry because there was somebody else she liked, quite a few in fact. Last night she informed me she’d taken him back. Taking the ‘life is too short’ theory a little too far me thinks.
Too many people live in the past. We have to live in the present and in doing so we’re living for the future. Live for the moment, take each day as it comes, accept love when and where you least expect it, and don’t put off for another day because you might never get the chance to see your plans through; you may never get to write that book.
“There is no better time than right now to be happy. Happiness is a journey not a destination. So work like you don’t need money, love like you’ve never been hurt and dance like no one is watching.”
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Crazy little thing called love
LOVE, love changes everything. No, it really does and I have the proof.
Until she met her long-haired lover from Falkirk, my friend had a full bodied physical revulsion to the L-word, and anything associated, such as anything pink, fluffy or pretty. This was made especially difficult by the fact the third in our trio was the epitome of pink, fluffy and pretty.
Relating tales of side effects cause by our current love interests or turning even the slightest bit soppy (and I try to keep my external soppiness to a bare minimum) caused her to shout ‘MOOSH’ at the top of her voice
Catching up with her recently, I was amazed how love had changed her, It wasn’t long before she slipped the dread L-word into our conversation, When I say slipped it in, I don’t mean blink and you’ll miss it. This was a definite ‘I love him’ moment, sandwiched by other related ‘moosh’ declarations.
I was incredulous: “Whoa! Did you just say you loved him?” I whispered,
If I hadn’t already been on the floor I would have ended up there, I was expecting a coy ‘erm, eh, well, yeah kinda’ reply. Instead I got a clear-cut Kelly Osbourne ‘ya-ha’ like it was the craziest thing in the world to have to ask.
After realising I knew little about this new-found love of love, it just kept coming. She’d written a song for his birthday, they’d talked about (dum, dum, dum, drum roll) the future, and the worst part of all — she was wearing pink. In public. And liking it.
She’d also found the joy in wearing pretty things like vintage clothing, silk scarves and beautiful shoes, which she’d jibed me about for years.
Oh and it was love at first sight. Cue a well-timed and perfectly proportioned MOOSH!
In the past she was the one I relied on to bring me back to earth when I got too ahead of myself, or saw everything through a pink haze. Now she’s using phrases like ‘how sweet’. And don’t even get me started on Valentine’s Day.
What was happening to me? When did I make the transition from ‘mooshed’ to ‘moosher’?
I do believe in love, and that one day not too far away, before I become even more cynical, someone will utter those three words to me. But maybe I have too high expectations I’d like it to happen like the movies, to be swept off my feet, like in Love Story.
My pre-engaged friend and I were talking about ‘“loveliest’ film moments last night. After the snow scene from Love Story, a close second favourite is Julia telling Hugh: “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her” in Notting Hill.
I’m not sure about violent films breeding violent behaviour in childhood, but I’m sure romantic blockbusters have a lot to do with the disappointment facing singles looking for love; I mean, can you imagine if you actually said that to someone?
Until recently I didn’t think it was possible for it to ‘happen like the movies’. That is until I met the all-singing, all-dancing, all Ivy-league Americans that are Lauren and Michael.
She had natural cheerleader looks: perfect teeth, hair, skin, a winning smile, and a place at a top university.
He was also too good to be true. He had films star looks: perfect teeth, skin winning smile, was slightly older so had already graduated from a top university. He was now a top estate agent, loaded and in love.
Most importantly, they had each other.
They’d been set up by mutual friends at a party, fallen in love at first sight, after a month were engaged, and are now planning a big white wedding, held at her parents’ palatial house on a tree-lined street. And yes it does have a swing on the porch, which is where he proposed while sitting wrapped together in a blanket on a cool night in the fall.
But that’s in America. However, they do say that there is someone for everyone, you just have to get out there and find them, so maybe I’m looking in the wrong country?
They, whoever they may be, do also say that when it’s love, you’ll know.
And so the question of all questions — how do you define love? And what’s the difference between loving someone, and being in love with someone?
Love n: to delight in with exclusive affection.
But take a closer look.
Love n: the score of nothing in games,
This column was brought to you by the letter L and the number one — because I’ve fallen out of love with playing games when the score is ultimately zero.
Until she met her long-haired lover from Falkirk, my friend had a full bodied physical revulsion to the L-word, and anything associated, such as anything pink, fluffy or pretty. This was made especially difficult by the fact the third in our trio was the epitome of pink, fluffy and pretty.
Relating tales of side effects cause by our current love interests or turning even the slightest bit soppy (and I try to keep my external soppiness to a bare minimum) caused her to shout ‘MOOSH’ at the top of her voice
Catching up with her recently, I was amazed how love had changed her, It wasn’t long before she slipped the dread L-word into our conversation, When I say slipped it in, I don’t mean blink and you’ll miss it. This was a definite ‘I love him’ moment, sandwiched by other related ‘moosh’ declarations.
I was incredulous: “Whoa! Did you just say you loved him?” I whispered,
If I hadn’t already been on the floor I would have ended up there, I was expecting a coy ‘erm, eh, well, yeah kinda’ reply. Instead I got a clear-cut Kelly Osbourne ‘ya-ha’ like it was the craziest thing in the world to have to ask.
After realising I knew little about this new-found love of love, it just kept coming. She’d written a song for his birthday, they’d talked about (dum, dum, dum, drum roll) the future, and the worst part of all — she was wearing pink. In public. And liking it.
She’d also found the joy in wearing pretty things like vintage clothing, silk scarves and beautiful shoes, which she’d jibed me about for years.
Oh and it was love at first sight. Cue a well-timed and perfectly proportioned MOOSH!
In the past she was the one I relied on to bring me back to earth when I got too ahead of myself, or saw everything through a pink haze. Now she’s using phrases like ‘how sweet’. And don’t even get me started on Valentine’s Day.
What was happening to me? When did I make the transition from ‘mooshed’ to ‘moosher’?
I do believe in love, and that one day not too far away, before I become even more cynical, someone will utter those three words to me. But maybe I have too high expectations I’d like it to happen like the movies, to be swept off my feet, like in Love Story.
My pre-engaged friend and I were talking about ‘“loveliest’ film moments last night. After the snow scene from Love Story, a close second favourite is Julia telling Hugh: “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her” in Notting Hill.
I’m not sure about violent films breeding violent behaviour in childhood, but I’m sure romantic blockbusters have a lot to do with the disappointment facing singles looking for love; I mean, can you imagine if you actually said that to someone?
Until recently I didn’t think it was possible for it to ‘happen like the movies’. That is until I met the all-singing, all-dancing, all Ivy-league Americans that are Lauren and Michael.
She had natural cheerleader looks: perfect teeth, hair, skin, a winning smile, and a place at a top university.
He was also too good to be true. He had films star looks: perfect teeth, skin winning smile, was slightly older so had already graduated from a top university. He was now a top estate agent, loaded and in love.
Most importantly, they had each other.
They’d been set up by mutual friends at a party, fallen in love at first sight, after a month were engaged, and are now planning a big white wedding, held at her parents’ palatial house on a tree-lined street. And yes it does have a swing on the porch, which is where he proposed while sitting wrapped together in a blanket on a cool night in the fall.
But that’s in America. However, they do say that there is someone for everyone, you just have to get out there and find them, so maybe I’m looking in the wrong country?
They, whoever they may be, do also say that when it’s love, you’ll know.
And so the question of all questions — how do you define love? And what’s the difference between loving someone, and being in love with someone?
Love n: to delight in with exclusive affection.
But take a closer look.
Love n: the score of nothing in games,
This column was brought to you by the letter L and the number one — because I’ve fallen out of love with playing games when the score is ultimately zero.
