S.O.S. - Save Our Spinsters

A girl in my office spends at least twenty minutes every.single.morning, in detailed analysis of all the reasons why her boyfriend should propose to her, and when, in her estimation, he is going to get down on one knee.  She has his thought processes down to some sort of psychic science, and has been predicting every day, for the past month, the exact date of his proposal, which, will be exactly nine months before the wedding date.  She freely admits that she can think of little else since turning the big THREE-UH-OH two months ago.  All of a sudden, her biological clock, her wedding clock and whatever other clock females are supposed to own, have started ticking.  I can’t help but be ticked off. 

To be frank, I have never reached that point in a relationship, where I crave a ring to the point of creating a science of WillHePropose-ology.  However, I do sincerely hope that if I ever reach said point (the point of ring craving, not science realm creating), I will have the pragmatism to simply say “Yo dude, we having this whole big party thing, I mean wedding, or what?”  I don’t see the point of massive weddings, or huge expenditure on a big day, unless I can justify the financial hemorrhage by granting my guests a universal right of free champagne for all, and hiring a popular live band – like a charity event of sorts.  I do like a good party, so a charity wedding event sounds like a perfectly good excuse to throw one (and if you’ve met me, you know, I will use ANY excuse to throw a party).  At least then, I will feel better about my karmic prospects in the next life.  However, in my humble opinion, true commitment doesn’t require frills. 

Let’s return to Office Girl.  Call me cold, but my inhumane heart remains unsympathetic to her awful plight.  I am not ticked off because you think I am becoming a bitter thirty-*ahem* year old, who can barely find a date, far less send notes telling my nearest and dearest to save one.  I’m ticked off because (a) I have had to listen to the same old song for a month now. I’m bored to tears! Soon I will be writing to Kleenex , begging them to let me be their poster child; (b) I’m driven to nausea and my own version of proverbial morning sickness by her irritating obsession, and (c) because I just want to scream at her “So what?  There are much bigger issues going on in the world than the size of your diamond! Get a life!” Except, I can’t say that.  I hold myself back at the thought of a mysterious P46 appearing on my desk next week, or even worse, becoming the office pariah, for not joining the ranks of the Estrogen Support Group that indulges Office Girl in her borderline pathetic ruminations.

I suppose, at this age, I should be more worried about my spinsterhood and lack of pending nuptials (my mother certainly is; she seems to await my engagement with more fervor and anticipation than the second coming of Jesus).  In fact, Facebook reminds me every day that the only date I am saving is that of my last period.  My news feed is inundated with wedding photos, engagement photos, boyfriend photos, me and my boyfriend on holiday photos, In A Relationship status changes and “My boyfriend is the best” status updates ad nauseum.  [As an aside, it also seems to be full of baby photos, and status updates about the oh so amazing things my 3 year old said today.  News Flash, my dear “facebook friend but not really” friend, kids say some pretty amazing things. All kids.  Yours is not unique, and will not be admitted to a school for prodigies any time soon because he can tell the difference between the sun and the moon].  Yes, it is very apparent that I have become part of a thirty something year old female spinster minority, who still spend their weekends living a very unapologetic, relentlessly single life. 

When I was sixteen, I never imagined that I would still be single at thirty-*ahem*.  Back then, I thought spinsterhood was for lame women; something was wrong with those women.  In all honesty, I have my moments of the typical spinster’s mini-melodramatic meltdown.  I imagine myself at fifty, surrounded by three cats that are playing with my knitting yarn, wrapping Christmas presents for my nieces and nephews – an act of part-stealth bribery, part-blackmail, part-guilt trip that will obligate them to take care of me in my old age.  After all, if they don’t, who else will?  I’m not rich enough (and probably never will be) to have my own male Anna Nicole! I’m going to die alone! In obscurity! Holding on to the faded photograph of Brad Pitt that I hide under my retirement home pillow! I should call my ex now, and take him back, before it’s ALL.TOO.LATE……..

Thankfully, those moments are few and far between.  Brad Pitt really isn’t that hot, and not even under the influence of morphine and meth, will I ever take back my ex.  In reality, I don’t have time for brooding.  I am too busy enjoying my freedom – something which many women in relationships and marriages do not have in such large quantities.   I am not criticizing those women who are not in my position, or poking fun at their choices; I have many friends who are in happy, fulfilling relationships, and I, in turn, am very happy for them.  Acknowledging the privilege of my freedom is a simple exercise in appreciating the bright side of my personal situation (and if the grass always seems greener on the other side, I will make my side a fabulous shade of purple).  My thirties have given me the gift of increased confidence, financial stability, and an arguable level of maturity and wisdom earned from the experiences of my twenties.  These gifts, combined with a strong sense of self, gained from time spent alone (usually with Ben and Jerry's), have allowed me to pursue, and realize many dreams. 

So what I really want to tell Office Girl, and all the other spinsters who have suddenly become obsessive-compulsive ring chasers since they turned thirty is: Stop the madness!  Go buy a cocktail!  Chill out!  My grandmother used to say, “What is to is, must is”.  If you are meant to get married, you will.  In the meantime, make the most of what you have.  It can be hard to accept your status, when everyone around you is biting the dust, while you’re still searching for the Sahara (or, if you’re like a girl I know – still trying to find the Sahara on a map).  We spinsters need to train ourselves to stop comparing our lives to those of others.  Everyone moves through life at their own personal velocity.  So right now, you’re single, with no responsibilities, and an awful lot of time.  Embrace it sister, because one day, you will wish you could use your oven as storage space for your shoes, sleep in until noon on a Saturday, and actually finish an entire edition of your weekly Economist.  Thank your lucky stars for the small mercies!

This Week's Essential Capsule of Knowledge Transfer

“Three Things You Should Never Say On The First Date” 

(not that I have any personal experience whatsoever with any of these statements.  Me? Nahhhh.)

1. Tell you about myself? Let's see....Well, I'm employed full time, shower twice a day when I can, and I’m a universal donor, which means, if we work out, you won’t need a blood bank.*smile proudly*
2. I may not be rich, but my doctor just told me that I have a lot of eggs left in my ovaries, so my wealth is all down there. *innocently point downwards*
3. I think you're really nice,  but right now, I may not have a lot of time for you, as I’m very distracted by my existential crisis.

Two Days Late and (more than a few) Dollars Short

In no world can I claim that Thursday is the new Tuesday.  I am late with this week’s post, and I am still trying to find someone else to blame, other than any of the people in my head.  This week, which is not even over yet, has felt like the longest week of my life.  Time has flown faster for kidnap victims in Somali pirate captivity, than it has for me.  Perhaps my self-imposed house arrest, due to my renewed attempts to save money would have something to do with that.  Don’t let anyone fool you, poverty is a sin.  That crazy nun at my Convent high school was right:  I will never be seen in a habit, because I don’t understand how anyone in their right mind can live life without any money in her bank account.  (Unless, of course, you have the Catholic church and its bottomless coffers of pilfered currency and goods, as your bank account.  I will stop here before I cause any offense;  I have been known to do that from time to time.)

Seriously though, this week has been a very somber one for me.  I attended the funeral of a work colleague on Monday.  She died suddenly, after a few days of illness, at the tender age of 25.  She was three days short of her 26^th birthday.  Her family chose to begin her funeral ceremony with the attendees walking in to strains of Alicia Key’s iconic song, “New York”. She had always wanted to visit New York; one of her closest co-workers would have made the journey with her.  They never got a chance to plan a date.  It had all remained a dream that she spoke about with aching frequency.

I barely knew this girl; shared passing pleasantries with her in the ladies bathroom, worked with her briefly on a few projects.  My knowledge of her as a person was quite limited, to be honest.  Yet, I found the entire scenario extremely sad.  She was so young.  She had so much of her life to live, and, according to her tributes, so much love to give.

Moments, and occasions like these resonate with us all.  They remind us that we all have just this one life, and the clichéd phrases relating to living each day like our last become all the more poignant.  I try not to tell my extreme personality phrases such as those, for fear that I will stand on a table in the middle of the office, dance like nobody’s watching, and “work” like I don’t need the money.  However, living our lives to the fullest is exactly what we should be doing – every single day.  We spend so much time obsessing over the little things, or the big things (like a mortgage, and that fancy schmancy BMW), that we don’t stop for a moment and place it all into perspective: If the world, or our world ended tomorrow, can each of us as individuals say that we lived our dreams? Or at least tried to?  I suppose, given our complete lack of knowledge of the afterlife, we don’t really need to answer those questions.  And perhaps I should not attempt to, given my proclivity towards weekly existential crises.  Yet, the thought is worth mulling over. 

In essence, yours truly has a renewed resolve to stop focusing on the things that don't matter (like how I have managed to gain 3 pounds after alllll that work, why am I suddenly so addicted to tiramisu, did I really forget to pay my rent this month and why am I not at Glastonbury this weekend?). I've reviewed the bucket list, and made some firm decisions about the pursuit of my most fervent goals.  Perhaps I'm being slightly obsessive (who? me? nooooo), but I would prefer the soundtrack of my life to be filled with songs dedicated to all the things I did, as opposed to the things that I didn't do, but always wanted to.  

Contemplation of one's mortality is a morose activity.  The end result though, should be a renewed resolve to live in the now.  We all should take a moment to look at our bucket lists,  and start planning the long-awaited trip to that sweet wherever.  

Love of the Week:  London’s latest obsession with everything Aloe Blacc.  His music is all over the mainstream radio, and his quirky, personal style was featured in an issue of this week’s London Metro.  He is a true musician, the kind that rarely becomes appreciated by the masses.  I accidentally discovered You Make Me Smile on youtube a couple months ago (which was filmed live in the Paris Metro), and I have been a big fan of his ever since. I’m thrilled that the rest of the city is catching on too. 

(and for the record, I would definitely give him a dollar – or two)

Peeve of the Week: People who lack a sense of humour.  Or rather, people whose ability to appreciate humour is limited by their underdeveloped intellect.  I have genuinely aspired to approach every situation from a place of peace, but when someone gets grossly offended that I have (and cleverly, if I may say so myself) likened a job in the corporate world to intellectual prostitution, with your boss as your pimp, I feel no pity for that person.  Get a life, open your mind, and stop using the bare top of your desk to make your sandwiches.

To Avenge is Human

In a recent edition of the online Outlish Magazine, Tracey Edwards explored the pitfalls of seeking revenge on your ex, in her article Bad Breakup: Is Revenge the Best Response?.  The basis of the article is that revenge is not worth it, as it does not solve anything, and the avenger still feels badly after the act of revenge.  Thus, we women, the rational, hormone-less beings that we are, need to exercise some level of self-restraint.  No offense to Tracey, her enviable levels of self-restraint, and her very apparent self-righteous view of lesser mortals who have none, but I have one word to sum up my opinion on her article– FOOEY!

I know, fooey is not a real word, nor does it sound like a mature or reasoned response to such a well-thought out article.  However, it effectively sums up how I felt after reading the article, and therefore, I reserve the right to sound like I just left the primary school playground having just lost my marbles (which is probably not so far from the truth).  The reason why I say fooey, is because I have to wonder if Tracey has ever been so angry, that she needed some kind of release.  A friend of mine said to me recently, in not so flowery terms, “sometimes, you just have to let the pus out”, and frankly, I think she’s right.  Thus, I offer a counter-attack to Tracey’s oh so rational response to thoughts of revenge – A little revenge is good for the soul.  Kudos to those of you calm, well-balanced women out there who can sit in a place of meditation, with your St. John’s Wort, and analyze what has happened to you, consider all the options, and then decide not to take a stroll down Revenge Lane.  I’m not one of those women.  I have a temper, and sometimes I lose it (along with the marbles in primary school).

I’m sure the majority of us have seen the movie, Diary of a Mad, Black, Woman.  (If you haven’t, and would like to, sans spoiler, then I would advise you to stop reading here.  But you aren’t going to stop, are you?)  I am sure that many, if not all of us, cheered when the unceremoniously dumped wife got revenge on her estranged husband.  Come on, as depraved as it was, weren’t we all just a little bit happy that he got what was coming to him?  We knew she wasn’t really going to kill him, but hey, just planting that tiny seed of Inception-esque fear into his brain was enough to make our toes curl, and the corners of our mouths form little, wry smiles.  We inwardly rubbed our hands together in glee, and thought, “Yeessssss, I will remember these antics, just in case one day….”.  Or maybe that was just me. 

I felt compelled to write a response to this Tracey girl (and at this very moment, I’m imagining this Tracey girl with a halo around her head, flanked by some hot heaven angels at her side, looking down at me in abject pity.  Oh fooey!)  So, in my attempt to put on a journalist’s hat, I decided to contrast it to a very opposite view (for the record, I don’t think that hat fits quite right – I have a big head).   I remembered seeing a lady at my office scouring a site for hours, and I returned to that site, as it is, I believe, the complete antithesis, of what Tracey has asserted (Now, let’s for a moment, not highlight that the lady at my office has been known to trawl the internet all day long, and wear the same outfit two days in a row, and let’s not ask what I was doing staring at crazy woman’s screen in disbelief).  Said site is www.revengelady.com.  Apart from its exceptionally high entertainment value, this site offers tips, tales and even assistance for seeking revenge on the man (or woman) who has broken your heart, stolen your dignity, or just made you plain mad.  People, check out this site, if only to nurture your own superiority complex that there are those in the world truly more psycho than yourselves.  However, that is beside the point.  The most interesting part of this site is Revenge Lady’s Rules, which are as follows, complete with Miss Bizzie’s commentary:

1.    Get mad....then get even.  It's justice, plain and simple.

Swift justice, I like it.

2.    Revenge is healthy. Don't listen to those mealymouths who tell you otherwise.  You're teaching people to behave better.  At the same time you're getting icky poisonous feelings out of your system once and for all.  What could be healthier?

See, sometimes you just have to let the pus out! I’m not sure if people start to behave better, but if you have a problem with being obscure, then this rule is for you.  No one will EVER forget you after you exact some revenge on him.  It’s a sure way to immortalize yourself! Let’s face it, we all want to make history.

3.    Remember, Karma is a good thing.  Be sure everyone gets his or hers...in this lifetime. You're helping to bring the scales of justice back into balance and restore order to the universe.

Indeed, because guess what, in your next life, you won’t be absolutely sure where you should be in the pecking order, because you won’t remember what you did in your last life.  So yes, sort that karma out now. 

4.    Revenge is excellent self-therapy. It's far cheaper than a therapist and much healthier than pigging out on a box of donuts.

Revenge is calorie-free! What a powerful argument.

5.    The punishment should always fit the crime. In other words, don't go nuclear over something trivial.

See, now we’re running into murky territory, trivial for some is not trivial for others.  This rule is nebulous and is not good guidance for the psychos and short-tempered that walk among us.

6.    Always aim your revenge where it hurts the most.  Go right for the jugular.

Lady! You’re basically condoning murder.  What is wrong with you? You can’t just tell people to kill someone, you have to insinuate, that way, no one will attribute their incentive to you.

7.    Let your creativity blossom.  Don't go for cliches like slashing tires. Yawn. Be original. Enjoy yourself. Give your mark an experience they'll never ever forget.

See, again, make some history.  Slashing tires is soooo old (and so obvious that it’s you).  Send them an email virus! Sell their FA Cup Final tickets to a wino on the street for $2! Make them an amazing dinner laced with a potent laxative (the night before their super important interview)!  But please, don’t update their facebook status or create an entire facebook album exposing their cheating ways. That’s so 2010.

8.    Don't break the law.

That goes without saying.  Don’t give anyone that much energy that you will spend the rest of your life paying for.  Besides, you can’t get your hair or nails done in jail, the food is pretty awful, and if you’re cute, your girlfriend probably will not be.

9.    If you have to do something you're not proud of, be sure to cover your tracks well.

Again, encouragement of the crazy.  I’m not sure if I can condone this one.

10. Have fun. If you can end up laughing at the jerk who wronged you, you're well on your way to being over it.

Laughter is a powerful medicine, especially when the stories make great rum shop/pub conversation.  Just know your audience, ok?  No guy wants to hear that you have no problem doing xyz to his personal property.  Keep certain things to yourself, but let him know, if wronged, you will attack….


11. Once revenge is consummated, move on. It's over.

Well duh! Living in the past is borderline pathetic, except when you look at Will and Grace re-runs.  That is perfectly acceptable.

Regardless of where you stand on the revenge scale, and as is apparent from the opinions of both authors, we all agree that to stay stuck in the past does you no good.  I think that’s what Tracey was trying to say, and (hopefully) I think Revenge Lady would agree.  From personal experience, of which I cannot and refuse to expand, on the grounds that I will not possibly, but most certainly, incriminate myself, (and probably make any potential suitor run in the opposite direction ) I have to say that I am a flawed human being who sits somewhere in the middle.  We all want to believe that we have the restraint of the Dalai Lama, and are able to turn the other cheek, but sometimes, people piss us off.  We give them our heart, then they chew it up and spit it out in our face, like overused chewing gum.  It hurts, and our natural instinct, which some of us can overcome, is to inflict the same level of pain.

I have been that girl who wanted nothing more than to see the demise of her ex.  And while revenge did offer a temporary relief of my pain (and some hilarious stories for years to come), I had to deal with the angst at some point, before I could move on.   At the end of the day, this is life, some unfair shit happens, and we have no choice but to get over it and keep living.   To avenge is human, but to move on, divine.  And, take it from me, we cannot move on to another healthy relationship, until we have sufficiently dealt with the pain of the previous one. 

However, come on Tracey, what’s a little potato in a muffler?  Surely, SURELY, that can’t be so bad?

Love of the Week:  My new shiny wagon, complete with an anti-pastry, anti-chocolate, and anti-biscuit manifesto.  I’m back on the exercise kick, and I feel hotter than Beyonce, when I’m on that cross trainer, except when I happen to nearly fall off said cross trainer, while oogling the hot guy at the gym.  Yes, the same one who I subsequently discovered,  happens to be gay.

Peeve of the Week:  The cheeky mugger, who actually thought he was going to pry my laptop out of his creepy fingers.  Here’s a light bulb buddy, my kung fu is better than your kung fu, and I am pretty sure I kicked you where it hurts! Attempted muggery is not a good look!

Stuff My Face, Laugh Out (Too) Loud, Lust

"When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings."  

Eat, Pray, Love| Elizabeth Gilbert

Scooby snacks for me! I’m posting to my blog on a Tuesday.  I saw a woman reading Eat, Pray, Love on the tube this morning, and I wanted to hug her.  No, not because I felt something inside of me fall in tune with her humanity, nor because she was so close to me (I might as well have hugged her, instead of trying to hold on to my little piece of the pole while trying to stay upright), but simply because I finally saw someone who had discovered the book even later than I did! Hooray, I’m not last!

I discovered Eat, Pray, Love last August.  Clearly, I had been living in a literary hole, as I had not heard much about the book – and I pride myself on being a bit of a literary whore.  So in my supreme arrogance, I simply assumed that the book was not very well-known (gosh, there really are times when one should pity the fool).  So there I was, reading it  as I was doing my first solo trek around Sri Lanka, thinking that in some past life, Elizabeth Gilbert was my spiritual sister.  I felt as though the book was speaking directly to me.  However, upon my return (and digging myself out of the literary hole), I discovered that the book had already been on the NY Times Bestseller list for months, and that every woman and their grandma thinks that Elizabeth Gilbert is their spiritual sister.  So, either Elizabeth Gilbert has a lot of family, or she has managed to tap into something universal among women, or even something quite gender-neutral – we are all searching for something larger than ourselves, something deep within that gives us eternal peace and everlasting happiness.

It all sounds so melodic, and fantastic just uttering those words – eternal peace and everlasting happiness.  I’m sorry to burst everyone’s bubble, or sound like the Grinch Who Stole Elizabth Gilbert’s Quest for Supreme Enlightenment Mojo, but hello?? How many women, stuck in unhappy situations, can afford to give up everything and travel around the world for a year?? And to add insult to injury, how many women can make heaploads of money after said frolic around the world for a year?  I can’t even afford to be without a job for a month, far less for a year.  Besides, a month off won’t get me much further than mooching off my parental unit, while watching trash television daily.  Not much money to be made in that, let me tell you. 

It’s not that I don’t find her story absolutely inspiring, and the lessons she learned along the way highly relevant to all of us in a very intimate way.  I just don’t have that kind of money to piss off for a year to find myself.  I’d probably piss off quite a few people, most of whom probably work for a financial establishment of some sort. 

I began to wonder if I could embody the spirit of this best-selling tome and embark on my own quest for spiritual enlightenment, and if said quest could possibly be achieved within the confines of the Greater London area.  I concluded that it would not be as easy as it sounds.  Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked Ice-Cream is a wonderful feat of human creativity, but is it really a good substitute for authentic Italian pasta? And is sitting on the couch, mindlessly watching re-runs of Will and Grace, akin to silence and meditation?  I could come up with some stellar arguments for the pro, but frankly, they all lie squarely in the realm of the con.  As for love, let’s just not go there.  I doubt Javier Bardem is going to show up on the doorstep of my flatshare, ready to whisk me away to a romantic weekend on a deserted island off the coast of England.   My version of love these days is a handsome stranger helping me up after (another) fall in the station, giving me as much affection as he would give to his grandmother who has fallen after a hip replacement.  “Oh, you poor, clumsy thing, hope you’re alright.  My hot, Russian girlfriend is going to love this story tonight when we dine at The Ivy.” 

A more realistic description of this Londonized quest, characterized by my penchant for the quirky, the clumsy, the obsessive and the truly strange, would be more like Stuff My Face, Laugh out (too) Loud, Lust.  It may seem slightly banal, but trust me, it's the best you can get when you’re limited to Zones 1 and 2 on your Oyster card, have circa 40 pounds to get you through the rest of the month, and have recently discovered that all the  good looking men on the tube curiously get off at the very next stop because you’ve been staring at them (and in no world is that anything but creepy).  So, Elizabeth, eat your heart out (which you already have).  My story may not take me to Bali, but hey, Balham isn’t so bad. 


Wait, that’s in zone 3. 


Oops.

Love of the Week: My not so new haircut.  Probably worth an entire article of its own, I am still overwhelmed by the liberation of going for a short do – so overwhelmed, in fact, that I relish the extra half an hour I now get in bed every morning.  So what if it makes me late for work?  These not so newly exposed cheekbones could save the world.

Peeve of the Week: The Clapham Crush.  It’s no secret how I feel about the Northern Line and crush hour.  However, I’d like to make this an open message to all the people who stand in the middle of the carriage, comfortably reading their books and newspapers, while the rest of us poor souls try to push our way onto the train – I AM WATCHING YOU.  I JUDGE YOU. And to the lady who complained that I was crushing her precious Mulberry – look on the bright side sister, it's leather, and now it just looks distressed.  Like me.

The Top 10 Things I Learned While Preparing for The Rapture (that never came)

1.       If your friends are a reflection of who you are, then there is no need to say goodbye to mine.  We’re all ending up in the same place.

2.       In what world does the combination of milk and honey taste good? None. It’s gross.

3.       Creating a list of people you need to apologize to makes you realize that you’re not really sorry for 90% of the things you have done.

4.       Clearing out your internet browser history is futile – “they” already know anyway.

5.       There is no need to pack a suitcase – shopping and unlimited credit undoubtedly exists in paradise.

6.       All things considered, hell doesn’t sound so bad to my inner pyromaniac.

7.       There is value in repenting for your sins *wry smile* You take a fun walk down a pretty hilarious memory lane.

8.       I can hold off on paying my bills, just in case I need some additional cash for the “gates of heaven” bribes.

9.       There are a lot of logistical issues that need to be ironed out when you begin to think about the concept of heaven and hell. Like, how big are these places anyway to contain all the people who have ever lived?  Is there a special section for the dinosaurs

10.   I need a “So the World Didn’t Really End” Contingency Plan.

Bush Bath Chic

I know, last week, I was all KumBaYah and Om Shanti about New Beginnings and agitating when things seem to be going wrong.  Last Tuesday, I was in a happy daze, smiling at the sky and walking around with more optimism than a lost hiker in a rescue operation gone right, saved just as he was about to cut off that precious limb.  Yes, I was in that good of a mood. 

Seriously though, SERIOUSLY, the universe is playing some major Jedi mind tricks on me.  The VERY.NEXT.DAY after my blog post (Wednesday, for all you people on the slow boat – though I do fully recognize that today is Saturday, and I am just posting this week’s entry – don’t judge me) the Gods of all Things New and Shiny said “Oh really now? Feeling good huh? Well, let’s see how you handle this…kapow!” And just like that, I woke up the next morning (yes, we’re still on Wednesday) with my flat in complete darkness due to a power cut.  Now, the power cut was nothing nefarious in and of itself, although, if I were to use the power of my wonky memory, I can recall that I have never EVER experienced a power cut in all my days in this city.  I would have treated said power cut as nothing short of coincidental, the ensuing cold shower, as another glitch in the Matrix, if I had not then arrived on the tube platform before rush hour, to find the platform packed, like it was rush hour.  Then, after the usual sardine ride to my overground station, I sat on my train for over half an hour due a suicide jumper on the tracks at the station ahead.  Said delay would have been tolerable, were it not for the wayward youth in my carriage who were obviously illiterate, seeing that they ignored the blatant signs that said Quiet Zone, and proceeded to blast music from their mobile phones, their cacophony characterized by the intermittent “innit!”.  My iPod should have saved me, but lo and behold, I had no battery power! 

Of course, one bad morning, chock full of a series of unfortunate events does not create sufficient evidence for a universal conspiracy.  However, my next two train journeys were full of delays, and I spent an inordinate amount of time inhaling the germs that proliferate on London transport.  Two days of everything going wrong broke me.  Screw the new beginning, I needed to get more proactive! 

Thus, in an effort to maintain optimism and sanity, I decided that I needed a bush bath.  Let me pause to create context here, for those of you scratching your heads, or having curious visions of me, having a shower, in the middle of a forest.  A bush bath is a spiritual cleansing of sorts, used quite often in religious rituals, or by parents who feel the need to torture their children by rubbing them down with blue soap and curious bush leaves, or by thirty-something year old women who have tried everything else and resort to drastic measures in a effort to get their luck to change. 

Of course, my quest to find the ultimate bush bath ingredients was rife with difficulty.  First of all, I had no idea what to use in my bush bath.  I have erased those traumatic childhood memories of funny coloured baths, given to me by my grandmother, usually before exam time, “for my own good”.  I sent an SOS on Twitter and Facebook, asking those in the know to provide some guidance.  I should have known better.  If your friends are a reflection of who you are, then I should be enrolling in a comedy sketch group and Alcoholics Anonymous, or a combination of the two.  The responses could be placed into three basic categories: bush, water and alcohol, with a couple suggestions of lime thrown in for good measure.  How in the free world were those suggestions supposed to take me any closer to my goal?  Bush, water, alcohol and lime?  I might as well take a bath in a mojito. 

Then there was the issue of logistics.  Where would I take said bath?  I’m not sure if the people with whom I share space would be too excited to find that the bathtub had been dyed an odd shade of blue.  The blue being remnants of the blue soap that one is supposed to use in this bush bath ritual.  Its reguIar use is for the strangely counterintuitive laundering task of whitening clothing.  I contemplated an alternative, as I was unable to find blue soap in the store, and the only alternative is Vanish – little white granules that make your clothes white, and come with a very large warning, that the product should not come into contact with human skin – I didn't think that would work.  (Did I mention that when I was five, I took a bath in detergent, in an attempt to create the ultimate bubble bath?  That didn’t go down so well with my mother, nor with my skin.  Since then, I have avoided any kind of baths that involve potent household cleaning products).

One week later, I have still not yet managed to create a list of ingredients, nor find a suitable location for my bush bath.  I certainly don’t want to walk around smelling like limes, because I would definitely become one of those smelly people I talk about.  However, I have to say that perhaps there is some credence to this whole positive thinking malarkey.  As soon as I made my announcement to the universe that I was planning to have a bush bath, my mornings got a whole lot better, I became more productive at work, and I survived an entire week without embarrassing myself.

 

Perhaps the universe treats bush baths like death threats, and I became some sort of karma Al-Qae-doo-da terrorist, scaring the gods of all Things New and Shiny into retraction of their sneaky challenge.  I wonder if the gods of Shopping react in the same way? – now there’s a whole new beginning right there! 

New Beginnings

There comes a day in everyone’s life (usually about every three days or so in mine) where just about everything seems to be going wrong. The tube is delayed, you spill coffee all over yourself on the day you decide to wear the crisp white shirt you soaked for hours in blue soap, your boss decides to demote you to cane cutter status and makes you work until stupid o’clock, and then you come home hungry, only to realize that the entire contents of your fridge amount to soggy, old lettuce and an egg. Sounds familiar? Ok, maybe not. I accept that my life operates in its own prism, with its primary purpose to create entertainment for all mankind. However, we’ve all had bad days, or bad periods, where nothing seems to be going right, and you begin to wonder if there really is a worldwide Jedimindtrick conspiracy against you.

It’s been one of those periods for me. I freely admit that I did succumb to the despair, and spent a few days brooding (ok, a week, but who’s counting?). I was one of those people you talk about. I had become a parody in a slapstick American movie, eating copious amounts of junk food and crying at the end of each episode during a Grey’s Anatomy marathon. This, my friends, is what we can safely label - a rut (and a pretty pathetic, calorie accumulating one at that). So one morning, I woke up, and instead of jumping out of bed at the first sound of my alarm, I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. I ignored the yampie in my eye. I embraced the silence, and I laid very still. And then it came to me. Well, two things came to me. The first, and more minor of the two was the realization that I was starting to look like the bag lady who wanders up and down my high street, and that I should probably reacquaint myself with a comb and makeup. The second, and arguably more profound thought (depending on if you’ve ever seen me after a few days without the use of a comb and makeup) was this – you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Yes, big surprise, my profound thought was closely linked to food. Work with me here. The point is, if your life is going well, you probably don’t see the need to change anything , unless of course, you’re the most recent lottery powerball winner, in which case, your life is just one big party. For the rest of us mere, unlucky mortals, we often become caught up in a daze of stagnation. And, there would be no agitation to progress towards self-actualization without a series of unfortunate events (you know, like multiple coffee spills in a 24 hour period, and a nasty fall down the escalator in the tube station in the same said 24 hour period). It is at that this point, you realize that something needs to change, and that’s where the change begins. Sometimes, in order to make something beautiful (like a wonderful omelette with cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes, and some coriander for added flavour), bad stuff needs to happen first.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, in his book, Love in the Time of Cholera wrote: Human beings are not born once and for all on the days their mothers give birth to them. Life obliges us over and over again to give birth to ourselves. It’s never too late to start over, to see the world with fresh eyes, and to start making changes in your life. New beginnings are always necessary, if only to allow you to see the humour of being squished up against a man on the tube who clearly has not acquainted himself with deodorant, while you’re late for work because of a delay, knowing all the while that he’s going to discover a very curious lipstick stain on his shirt when he gets to work.