Archive

me

It’s safe to say that I’ve had some pretty terrible relationships in the past, with men who probably weren’t the best fit for me. However, it’s nothing to regret or wish away. Every relationship we have will end until the one that doesn’t anymore. And every interaction with another person, be it for a month or five years, allows us to learn more about ourselves, as well as what we need from a relationship and a partner. However, this process of learning is made useless if we can’t articulate it. And so, bear with me as I try to define to you how I will know when I’ve found him, the man of my dreams.

He’ll buy me books. And not because I can’t afford to. Oh no. It’s usually a safe bet to assume that I’d rather live off cereal for a month than go a couple of weeks without the purchase of a new book. He will buy me books because he’ll know how very happy it makes me. He’ll know how in love I am with the weight of an entire world in my hands, and the smell and feel of the pages as I follow the author’s words on a journey unlike any other. And because he loves me, he will buy me books.

He’ll be nice to me. My parents have been married for 42 years, and when asked what the secret was to their success, the answer was simple. It was a reference to the film Venus, wherein a senior citizen explores a love affair with a much younger woman. When asked what it is he can provide her that no other man has given her before, he merely replies: “I’m nice to her.” This moment dictates my parents’ relationship in that they realised that it was the very least you could do for the person with which you intended to spend the majority of your life. So, the man of my dreams will be nice to me. And not because I ask him to be, or because he’ll feel he has to be. He’ll be nice to me, because being any other way towards me never even crossed his mind.

There will be no need to imagine the potential in him, or us, because it will be all I ever dreamt it would be – and more. This may sound like a tall order, but when it comes to forever and finding the one person next to whom you want to wake up for everyday of the rest of your life, we should never, ever drop our standards. He will be the kind of man with whom I can be whether things are going well or not. I don’t care if we make millions in our first year together and live comfortably for the rest of our days, or if we’re bankrupt and sleeping under bridges every night. He will want to be with me regardless, and I with him. It won’t be about putting off our happiness until things are better, because no matter how things are in that moment, happiness will be he and I. Together.

He will go on adventures with me – even if it entails nothing more than trying to find a different route home in the dead of night. Impulsivity is, I believe, the key to staying young. That doesn’t mean never making plans or sticking to the plans you’ve made. But there are few things more riveting than coming home one day to find both of your bags packed because he’s decided you’re getting out of the city for the weekend. Or perhaps, you want to try something new such as surfing or kloofing. If I suggest it, the best answer he could ever give me would be “why not?” It may sound a cliche, but I want to live a big and beautiful life – and he’ll want to live one with me.

As bad as any fight gets, I won’t be afraid that he’ll leave me. It may stem from the many experiences I’ve had with men over the years, or the fact that I never saw my parents fight and make up when I was growing up. But when I fight with him, I won’t be gripped by the fear that it will end us. It’s taken me a while, but I’m slowly learning that couples can – and ought to – fight, without it being the be all and end all of the entire relationship. And whilst I know I’ll still get scared, he’ll understand this. And he’ll remember to remind me, even in the middle of the screaming match in which plates and pillows are flying at one another’s heads, that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

He’ll be real, flaws and all. I don’t want perfect. I want flawed. Because I’m flawed. Oh man, am I flawed. These flaws will never mean we treat one another badly, however. And whilst we may take one another for granted sometimes, it won’t be too hard to remember how wildly, crazily and incomprehensibly we love one another. I want to know him, warts and all. And I want to be known. I want that connection wherein words need not be used, but everything is understood and clear. Even if we aren’t near one another the whole night we’re out with friends, a single look need be all that lets me know I’m the one he came with, and I’ll be the one he leaves with. And if that look has a smile beneath it that makes me blush, well, that’s alright too.

He will make me understand why cliches are cliches, and what all of those love songs were trying to say. The words of love penned by poets and authors will take on a new meaning, and every sense of mine will tingle with a renewed awareness. He will listen to me, he will hear me, and he’ll know when there’s nothing to be heard. There are so many things we can look for in our significant other. And maybe we spend too long waiting for a partner who ticks all the boxes. But I’m lucky, perhaps, in that I have a heart that let’s me know exactly what it wants. And so I trust that it will invariably shout and kick and scream with delight when it finds the man of my dreams. And maybe he won’t be at all as I imagined. Whoever he is, here’s hoping I have the courage to go and get him…

I am extremely dedicated when it comes to liking someone. I am picky, that’s for sure. I don’t just romantically like anyone. A whole bunch of things need to be ‘just right’ to inspire the butterflies in my tummy, and the sparkle in my eye. But once it actually happens, and I end up liking you, my dedication is quite spectacular. However, I am decidedly useless when it comes to romantic interactions with members of the opposite sex. I will probably end up screwing it all up in one way or another, leaving you decidedly certain that you’d never like to see me again and/or filing for a restraining order. That’s a joke. That’s never really happened… I don’t think. So, really, if there’s one piece of advice I can give you for when my heart quickens its pace in your direction, it’s to run. As far and as fast as you can. Or else face the threat of a hopelessly romantic and idealistic writer developing feelings for you.
And we don’t want that, do we?

Now, you may wonder how to tell if I like you; and what warning signs there might be? Well – and let’s all release an audibly loud sigh of relief – I will tell you. I have no illusions when it comes to just how tactful I am. And this means that I can tell you without a single doubt, that I’m not. Yes, I love words. I’m obsessed with them. But I don’t know how to not put my very heart into them. I may have an Honours degree in Performance, but pretending not to like you just seems futile. So, chances are, I will tell you that I like you. And it won’t be done in a simple SMS or in a blunt proclamation in person. Oh no. The romantic in me will come up with some plan that’ll see me jumping through hoops in an effort to perform a feat of emotional confession worthy of any RomCom. And as an added warning, it may include a mix tape/CD of some kind and/or photographs of the things I like about you written out on paper all around the room. When this happens, run.

Once you know I like you, because in all honesty, it will be impossible to ignore (I have been known to be as subtle as a falling tree), you may have a varied array of reactions. But be warned – the slightest bit of hope will see me resolve not to give up. I may have my own reasons, imagined or real. I’ll believe in facts as simple as the fact that I like who I am when I’m around you, or that we can talk about anything and everything for hours. Hey, perhaps our shared obsession with the chocolate flavoured Steri Stumpie will even be good enough for me. Whatever it is, if you have no intention of seeing what there is between us, it’s best you tell me as soon as possible and in as blunt a means as possible. And don’t even think about asking if we can just be friends, because I’ll need time to get to that point. Otherwise, I will daydream about you finally seeing just what we could be, and I’ll probably end up liking you more. And that’s no good for anyone.

At some point, it will all get too much. I may go on a rampage and drink too much, turning me into a sniffling and sobbing wreck. Ignore this. In fact, it’s best if you just leave. Because I have no filter, and will talk to pretty much anyone about how I feel about you. The next day I’ll realise what an idiot move this is, and I’ll also know I probably exaggerated a bit when I told the hobo on the side of the road that we were “made for one another”. But in those moments, I will believe it. So, I suggest you leave and pretend it never happened. Hey, if you’re up for a drunken screaming match at 4 in the morning, whilst I make proclamations about my feelings for you that I probably will never remember, stick around. That truly is some people’s ideas of fun. Just do me a favour. Note the following disclaimer, you have been warned. If you choose to stick around during my far-from-sober moments, you have no right to make me feel worse the next day by reiterating what an idiot I am when I call to apologise. I’m already beating myself up about it enough as it is. Don’t kick me when I’m down. That’s just mean, yo.

In the end, I will make many mistakes. I’ll like you too much. I’ll fluctuate between putting it all out there and telling you exactly how I feel, and playing hard to get. I don’t do this on purpose, you must understand. I do it because when it comes to relationships, I’m probably the biggest idiot on Earth. And not because I want to be. I blame my idealistic and hopelessly romantic nature, coupled with my moments of braveness which then result in me back-peddling as quickly as possible in an effort to not scare you completely away. So, let’s save ourselves some time.
Unless you like me too, let’s swear to conduct ourselves as follows:
When we both respectively realise that I like you, run.
Run far, and run fast.
Because I like you.
Now, run.

Left to my own devices when you’re gone, I will reread old text messages from you. I mean, I didn’t save them for this purpose… But if they’re automatically saved to my phone, well, best I make use of them. And chances are, I’ll smile just as widely as I did when you first sent them. And I’ll hear your voice in my head as I read them. And I’ll end up missing you more.

When I can’t stand to miss you any longer, I’ll go for a run. Once a day, I’ll run. At least 6 kilometres and at most 10 – because we both know my legs are quite short, and to run any further would make me pass out (read: die). So, I’ll run. And whilst I run, I’ll listen to music. There’ll be an assortment of songs playing in my ears, with words that may or may not remind me of you. And I may put our song on repeat, firstly because I like the song, and secondly because every time I listen to it, I hope somehow the words will pop into your mind and make the distance between us that little bit less.

I will say ‘yes’. The key to forgetting how much I miss you, will be to keep busy. So every invite extended my way by a friend or family member will be accepted. Perhaps a long lost friend whose face I haven’t seen in six years will want to catch up over coffee, or perhaps I just won’t be able to say ‘no’ to the 7th night out in a row with friends. Either way, I will say ‘yes’. And wherever these invites end up leading me, I’ll get there and for a second, wish you were with me. But only for a second because I’ll lose myself in the moments shared with the people I find. Until I get home. And crawl into bed. And find myself suspended in the moments between midnight and sunrise, lost beneath the hilly landscape of my duvet… And it is then that I will forget to forget how much I miss you. And I’ll fall asleep fooling myself into believing that the pillow around which my arms rest, will magically restore itself into you. Even if only for a second.

I’ll completely change my life around. I’ll resolve to be more organised, more prepared for things, and more dedicated to work. I’ll launch myself into a new fitness regime and give half my clothes to charity. I’ll move the furniture in my bedroom around, and repaint the walls. I’ll hang new pictures, and immerse myself into creating an entirely new world. And after all of this, I’ll still miss you. Because the letters you wrote me will remain at the bottom of my jewelry box. As much sense as it makes to throw them out, I won’t. And the photographs we took of ourselves that day will still live in the drawer of my bedside table, readily available should I wish to lose myself in them and the memories they represent. And as much as my life and surroundings may have changed, I’ll still be the same. And that means that I’ll still miss you when you’re gone.

I’ll tell everyone in my life how well I’m doing. I’ll be better off, and I’ll ensure everyone knows it, or at least, hears me say it. And there’ll be times when I believe it. Wonderful, flash-in-the-pan kind of moments where I can finally breathe without a memory of you haunting me. But these moments will fade as quickly as they arrived. And I’ll be back to square one. And if you ever decide that you miss me, too, that’s where you’ll find me… Right where you left me.

They say growing old is inevitable, but growing up is optional. And I believe I’m walking, talking proof of this. I may be giving you all a whole lot of somewhat embarrassing evidence to use against me, but I’m not ashamed. And to prove it, just read on and find out what sorts of things I’m not ashamed to admit that I still do.

1. I sleep with a teddy bear, sometimes. Mostly when broken hearted. It helps.
2. I can get scared of the dark, making the space beneath my blankets the safest place to be.
3. I still sing through the alphabet to figure out what goes where.
4. I die laughing at the farting noise the custard box makes when it reaches it’s end.
5. Bubbles are fascinating.
6. I cry when I get overly tired.
7. I can’t resist not stepping on a crack (it’s just not worth the risk!)
8. Skipping is still the best form of manual mobility.
9. Fairy tales are still magical.
10. Cloud busting still ranks in the Top 10 list of ways to waste an afternoon.
11. I can sing the theme tunes to Gummi Bears, Dexter’s Lab and Captain Planet; and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles still rock! 🙂
12. Easter egg hunts remain the only way by which to find chocolates.
13. I will not deal with a spider or Parktown Prawn by myself. Actually, I won’t deal with either of them at all. Unless running in the opposite direction squealing can be defined as dealing with them.
14. I don’t quite know what all the knobs on the washing machine mean, but usually if I fiddle long enough it ends up making a noise and producing wet clothes (that may or may not be discoloured and 3 sizes too small).
15. I don’t like olives or egg plants and I’m pretty sure I never will.
16. I’d rather play outside on a sunny day than work or study.
17. I still forget to floss. Every single day.
18. I never think my actions through, and have thus been referred to as ‘foolishly brave’ (read: impulsively stupid).
19. The Zoo & the Aquarium still fascinate me and jumping castles may still be the best fun you can have with your clothes on!
20. I still frequently hear ‘I told you so,’ in a disapproving tone of voice.
21. I still believe I’m invincible (when it comes to physical activity, mostly: “sure, let’s climb that tree/mountain/100-year old rusty lighthouse.”)
22. I can’t conceive of ever being alive without my parents being alive, too.
23. A fight with a parent/sibling/friend still reduces me to tears.
24. Chocolate Steri Stumpie is STILL the best invention ever (and its arrival in a 1L box just gives new meaning to my existence).
25. Any technological device (a cell phone, laptop, or iPad) will be used primarily for games, and for work and communication second.
26. Jumping on a trampoline still lets me believe that I can fly.
27. I still want to be an explorer.
28. Roald Dahl still blows my mind.
29. Death is still the scariest and most painful loss imaginable.
30. I’ll still always try to run before I can walk, speak before I’ve thought, and surf before I can swim.
31. Jumping into the deep end will always be the only way by which to get into a pool.

The End.

A broken heart sucks balls. It’s crap. If you asked me to choose between a broken heart and taking my chances with Hannibal, I’d order you to lock me up with the man and throw away the key. But what’s worse than the sheer agony of a broken heart, is having to bear the broken heart in public. If you’re at home, no one minds if you rot in your pyjamas all day, or work your way through every make of tissue, grading them on the efficiency when it comes to tear-wiping and the gentleness of nose-blowing. I don’t know how, but movies feature broken hearted men and women who look relatively decent and who can afford to brave the harsh light of day and not be accused of mimicking the living dead. I am not this fortunate. Not only do my bigger-than-average eyes go bloodshot, thus drawing attention to the leaky make-up streaming down my face (which I only put on in the first place, in an attempt to look somewhat normal), but I also cry. And not politely or delicately either. Oh no. Gone are the days of a ladylike sniffle. I blubber, often resulting in the term “ugly crying” to be used as a description. What follows is my list of the Top 5 worst places in which to have a broken heart.

1. On an airplane
This tops the charts as the ultimate horror setting in which to suffer from a broken heart. Not only are you shoved into the plane in a proximity to strangers than not even sardines in a can could even comprehend, but your sniffles and elephant-like nose blows announce to all on board that there’s need for a serious clean up in aisle 2.

2. The dinner table
Not only does one’s appetite diminish or expand when it comes to a broken heart, but in my friendship group, any dinner table event means one thing and one thing only: repeatedly singly me making an odd number beside an empty place setting at a table full of couples in soon-to-be-wedded bliss. Yikes.

3. On social networks
Let’s face it. It’s just added insult to injury when you end your relationship and several people ‘like’ the notification. But having to relive the loss in every photograph and wall post of the past, just kicks you when you’re down. Do me a favour ex-boyfriend, and stop existing. Delete your account and take all of the pain you’ve caused with you. Oh and running commentary, pipe down. Only asshole ‘like’ that a relationship has ended, for all of the world wide web to see.

4. At university/work
Oh, how sweet! You couldn’t have waited until I got home to rip my heart out! You just had to come and see me at university/work to get it done. In public. And in front of all of my friend/colleagues. Well, that was very kind of you. Why didn’t you just ‘tweet’ me? It’d have been far less degrading than sitting here trying not to fall to pieces as you walk away – and then having to go back to my desk and actually function.

5. Anywhere. At. All.
Well done. You have successfully turned me into a wreck. Love songs make me feel ill and if I see one more RomCom that leads me to believe that I’m the exception and not the rule, I may kill someone. By breaking my heart, you’ve stolen a piece of it that I can never get back. A piece of me that you will always hold until my dying day. So, let me give you some advice for your next endeavour into the world of love – advice I wish someone had given you before me. Giving up is for cowards. If you’re a coward, rather don’t try at all. No, we can’t be friends after you’ve murdered every trace of happiness we ever shared. Honesty is all I ever wanted, no lies or deceit.
And the next time you tell someone you’ll love them forever, just the way they are – mean it.

I’m a messy traveller. I can plan as far in advance as even the most paranoid of the population (although I don’t) and still arrive in a flurry of chaos as they announce the final boarding call. Yup. I live on the proverbial edge when it comes to travel – and half of you are still wondering what this final boarding call that I mentioned earlier, might sound like. Me? I have never heard the first boarding call. I consider it a good day when I hear the final boarding call at I reach the check-in. A job well done, indeed!

I am also, unfortunately, not a graceful traveller. Those women who arrive with matching luggage and wrinkle-free clothes are goddesses in my eyes. My luggage resembles what I’d like to imagine a circus might look like when boarding a plan. Colours and shapes vary drastically, and I always board with several (too many) books and writing journals arranged around my person. In addition to this, I am quite unable to move around my house stain free, so hoping for any better when crossing the country, or jumping continents, would be sheer lunacy. When I land, regardless of whether there’s been turbulence or not, I will have a vast array of stains announcing my arrival, and I will also resemble a somewhat dishevelled bushbaby. Use your imagination.

On top of all of this, I am also a decidedly unlucky traveller. Out of all the planes I’ve been on during all the years of my life, I have yet to be seated next to the Ryan Reynolds lookalike. No, no. You’ll find me crammed beside the drunk and obnoxious old man, or the mentally jarring and impossibly loud American tourist. The only time I’m somewhat fortunate when it comes to travel by air, is in getting the window seat (a love instilled in me as a child by my dad). In this way, I have yet to be put off flying completely for the rest of my life. As long as I can gaze out across the quilted landscape as we jet off into the sky, I shall persevere. In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind letting me squeeze by, the baby in the seat next to me just threw up. All over me.

I have no filter. I’m not sure if it was a side-effect of my mum already being 40 when she gave birth to me, but I’ve never had one. If I thought twice before I spoke, I’d never say anything at all. And whilst this may not seem so serious or negative a characteristic with which to be born, it is. As a result of my “I think it therefore I say it” condition, I only ever end up removing my own foot from my mouth, to put the other one in. As a result of this frequently placing me into somewhat awkward situations, I shall now launch myself into a description of what NOT to say when faced with similar situations to those I describe. Note: I don’t take responsibility for any repercussions of your reading this. I have no filter. And you have been warned.

“Oh. That’s nice.”
This phrase is basically the worst phrase in the English language. Deceptively simple and painfully monosyllabic, it is rarely used in the appropriate context and frequently results in an awkward silence that cannot be salvaged. I have been known to utter such a phrase when all other words fail me – and whilst this may not seem possible, it is. One such occasion that springs to mind, is when a young man divulged the details of his seemingly passionate and annoyingly immortal love for me. In person. With chocolates. And a Mix CD (the modern twist on an Old School favourite.) Aghast, and left without a clear notion as to where to begin explaining the myriad of reasons as to why this was just not for me, I choked. My brain blanked and the space where I’m pretty sure my filter ought to be, was flooded with this go-to utterance that left the two of us in a vortex of silence. It seemed as if there wasn’t a single sound in all the world except the echo of these three words off of every surface in the room. I’m not proud, but to be fair, this brain fail was probably the best response I could give. In my defense, a three word cop out was probably a lot kinder than the verbal tidal wave that might’ve bowled him over as every word I knew stumbled out of me in an effort to let this well-intentioned young man down gently, but firmly. Stop judging, I said I’m not proud, alright?

“Are you gay?”
I don’t know if anyone of you know this, but the myth about women having a gaydar that works 100% of the time is just that – a myth. Or at least it is when it comes to me. (Wondering whether I’m life’s personal joke as I fumble my way without either a filter or a gaydar – not ideal.) And whilst I’m pretty sure that when a gay man is around I can tell he’s gay; I can’t entirely tell when a straight man is straight. You must understand, it’s not entirely my fault, too! With the way men’s fashion is going, we’ll soon all be shopping in the same stores – and the stores will all be Forever New and Hip Hop. So, as a result, I may or may not have asked one or two men who may or may not have been trying to pick me up at a club, whether they may or may not have been gay… And I don’t know if any of you know this either, but that’s a question that I don’t think a single straight man anywhere on the planet won’t take offense to. I’m not an entirely awful person, I just genuinely couldn’t tell. And since my ability to shut up is as successful as Julius Malema’s, well, I always end up apologising profusely – and buying the offended individual a drink or ten. My bad.

I’m allergic to heroine.”
What? Stop looking at me like that. It’s not like I’ve tried heroine. I haven’t! And now I bet you’re wondering, how do I know that I’m allergic to it then? Well, smart ass, because I’m allergic to codeine which contains opium which is the base material for morphine and heroine. And yes, I did just stick my tongue out at you. Now, I’m not sure why, but people have begun asking somewhat generalised questions when attempting to get to know me (a practice which I find somewhat nonsensical). And so, when posed with a frustratingly obtuse inquiry such as “what can you tell me about yourself?” I tend to go for shock value. And without a thought of what reaction I might elicit, out rushes this little known fact about myself. I’ve never met anyone whose face hasn’t expressed either surprise, horror, or a resolve never to speak to me again, when I’ve shared this little titbit. In other words, I need to take up a new hobby so I can tell people about that instead.

Come play with me!”
This may come as a surprise – or it may not – but I’m a Never Never Land baby. This said, it means that childish things such as blowing bubbles, jumping in puddles, and building forts are still activities in which I like to take part. With friends. I like to play. And I believe it’s healthy for adults to play. All adults need to find some way of allowing their inner child out, and I do this successfully and frequently. So, when I call on a new friend who has yet to learn this about me, their expectations and reactions to my invite to play can be one of several. In the most extreme case, I never hear from the person again. Good riddance, I say in such a case. Bubble blowing is an activity reserved for the wonderful. Some people seem to understand me straight away and join into this revelry in all that is childlike and happy straight away – a reaction that has resulted in many incredible memories! And the third kind… Well, let’s just say that it’s rather awkward informing an individual what you really meant by play, when it’s been interpreted in a rather more, err, adult way. There’s no pleasant way of telling someone to put their, aah, toy away.

In the end, the examples that lend themselves as evidence to my lack of a filter are numerous and seemingly infinite. I’ve been informed that it’s possible to ‘grow’ a filter by many individuals who seem rather in control of everything they have to say. But on second thought, so long as I say everything I mean and mean everything I say, I’ll stick to this for now. Because that’s how I roll. Bitch.