There are countless differences between men and women, I am sure you will agree.
Now I have no wish to go into detail on those differences, except for the one; the ability to keep your mind focused in an alternative direction when......it starts to be a long time since you coloured with your special friend (I'm back to Sex and the City here.....the Movie, to be exact).
A man, I am told, will automatically think about colouring; it is part of their make-up to want to colour after a certain number of days. So they will go off and colour on their own somewhere, assuming their special friend is not available to colour with them. Apparently some are so keen to colour that they will even choose to not go for an early morning run, preferring to stay in bed and knock out some nifty artwork on their lonesome.
A woman, however, can simply switch off from colouring until such time as her special friend is available to create another masterpiece.
I am one such woman. In years gone by I have not so much as even glanced in the direction of the crayola for many a month, perhaps even years in some instances (please don't feel too sorry for me, I have been very liberal of late with my use of watercolours...)
That is all well and good, until the time someone describes, in very fine and perfect detail, what a "banya" is. And the reason they tell you is because that is where they are headed to shortly. Mmm.
In the interest of providing an accurate account I just typed the term into Google and found that the "Banya is a traditional Russian steam bath, where people go to wash, relax, and socialize". The one that receives much acclaim according to the web is Sandunovskie Banya in Moscow, which I have to say looks breathtakingly beautiful.
So, back to said description; this is the information I was given:
"I'm going to a banya, men only, getting severely hot, severely cold, beaten with eucalyptus twigs, then a massage, you get the smell of eucalyptus, plus all the toxins come to the surface and then cold, then hot, tea with honey the whole way through, then they cover you in honey head to toe, and you sauna the lot off.
OK, I must go, sleep well x"
Well...... thank you for that; I now have so many images dancing around in my head, men in a banya (which sounds like the best reason I've heard in a long time to get a visa sorted and head to Moscow), eucalyptus twigs, beatings, honey and saunas. Sleep well? I somehow think that is unlikely.
That is the problem when you miss your special colouring friend. A mere mention of the banya and suddenly the urge to get the pastels out is overwhelming.
And when you enjoy having supper, talking and laughing with your special friend, in addition to the oh-so-amazing colouring, you then miss them even more.
But the really great thing is this:
Soon he will be back. And we have, I can assure you, an infinite number of pictures left to create together......
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
The needs and the wants (and why we all just want to be rescued)
Many moons ago and during what now seems like another lifetime, I underwent a huge number of training courses in preparation for and the development of my sales career. Some would teach you fact-finding techniques, others how to uncover client hot buttons but they all did one thing (along with ensuring you spent too long in the bar the night before with your colleagues…), they all talked about needs and wants.
Needs were the boring, had-to-do’s:
“I need to go to the dry cleaners”
“I need to pay the electricity bill”
“I need to stop talking drivel”
Wants, on the other hand, are much more interesting, and a little bit sexy in the notion of a demand being on the table:
“I want champagne, not 3 for 2 dodgy Spanish table wine”
“I want that pair of Manolo Blahniks, dammit”
“I want ice cubes sending to my room now!”
There’s a bit of the prima donna in the wants, but apparently and according to the very best sales training courses, it is the wants and not the needs that will cause a person (i.e. your prospect) to take action.
Of course, in my twenties and as a fresh-faced eager-to-please sales recruit, I took all this on board without question. Off I went into the blue commercial yonder, keen to do business and full of unbridled enthusiasm.
Some twenty years down the line and I realise that the sales techniques of yesteryear are still being applied sadly. How many times do I have to practically hang my phone up when someone calls to try and sell me advertising? It’s not a great feeling, I can assure you; cold calling to me was like the sales version of having a root canal. But it appears some companies are still stuck there right back in the eighties, refusing to use up-to-date and more subtle techniques to attract custom (another post, another day, methinks)
They clearly need to up date their methods, but they obviously don’t want to.
So, at the risk of pushing the envelope beyond what is an acceptable use of paper, I would hazard a guess that the old needs and wants theory may be a little frayed around the edges, too.
“Why so?” I hear you ask.
Why? Because I now realise that many of the things we tell ourselves we don’t need, we actually do. And most probably in spade-loads.
I’m thinking here about taking time to sit and clear your mind every day of the constant mayhem that rages through it and about promising yourself that once a week you will have half an hour of “you-downtime” to do whatever takes your fancy. And most of all, I’m talking of learning to accept a helping hand when you are mentally and emotionally spent.
We don’t actually “need” any of these things on paper, but I will stick my neck out here and say that because we’ve probably shunned them for so long, we both need and want them now.
There is, as my friend Natalie will tell you, an episode of Sex and the City to mirror every eventuality in a woman’s life (and possibly for many men, too).
The episode “Where There’s Smoke..” sees the four girls discussing over brunch (as they do…as all girls do…) why firemen seem to be the archetypal female fantasy.
The very pretty yet seemingly naïve Charlotte blurts out “because deep down women just want to be rescued”
The other three sit motionless for a moment, catching each others’ eyes in the uncomfortable and silent acknowledgment of the truth.
Now I’m not too sure about when that episode was filmed, but I’d take a stab at around eight years ago at least, and as ever, we've moved on and our needs and wants have moved with us. I don’t believe women want to be rescued anymore; I think we need to be.
Of course the real challenge for a man here is, as we know, being able to identify when to switch into “fireman mode” and to haul you over his shoulder.
As a dyed-in-the-wool sales person I would recommend uncovering the need, and the want won’t be too far behind.
Needs were the boring, had-to-do’s:
“I need to go to the dry cleaners”
“I need to pay the electricity bill”
“I need to stop talking drivel”
Wants, on the other hand, are much more interesting, and a little bit sexy in the notion of a demand being on the table:
“I want champagne, not 3 for 2 dodgy Spanish table wine”
“I want that pair of Manolo Blahniks, dammit”
“I want ice cubes sending to my room now!”
There’s a bit of the prima donna in the wants, but apparently and according to the very best sales training courses, it is the wants and not the needs that will cause a person (i.e. your prospect) to take action.
Of course, in my twenties and as a fresh-faced eager-to-please sales recruit, I took all this on board without question. Off I went into the blue commercial yonder, keen to do business and full of unbridled enthusiasm.
Some twenty years down the line and I realise that the sales techniques of yesteryear are still being applied sadly. How many times do I have to practically hang my phone up when someone calls to try and sell me advertising? It’s not a great feeling, I can assure you; cold calling to me was like the sales version of having a root canal. But it appears some companies are still stuck there right back in the eighties, refusing to use up-to-date and more subtle techniques to attract custom (another post, another day, methinks)
They clearly need to up date their methods, but they obviously don’t want to.
So, at the risk of pushing the envelope beyond what is an acceptable use of paper, I would hazard a guess that the old needs and wants theory may be a little frayed around the edges, too.
“Why so?” I hear you ask.
Why? Because I now realise that many of the things we tell ourselves we don’t need, we actually do. And most probably in spade-loads.
I’m thinking here about taking time to sit and clear your mind every day of the constant mayhem that rages through it and about promising yourself that once a week you will have half an hour of “you-downtime” to do whatever takes your fancy. And most of all, I’m talking of learning to accept a helping hand when you are mentally and emotionally spent.
We don’t actually “need” any of these things on paper, but I will stick my neck out here and say that because we’ve probably shunned them for so long, we both need and want them now.
There is, as my friend Natalie will tell you, an episode of Sex and the City to mirror every eventuality in a woman’s life (and possibly for many men, too).
The episode “Where There’s Smoke..” sees the four girls discussing over brunch (as they do…as all girls do…) why firemen seem to be the archetypal female fantasy.
The very pretty yet seemingly naïve Charlotte blurts out “because deep down women just want to be rescued”
The other three sit motionless for a moment, catching each others’ eyes in the uncomfortable and silent acknowledgment of the truth.
Now I’m not too sure about when that episode was filmed, but I’d take a stab at around eight years ago at least, and as ever, we've moved on and our needs and wants have moved with us. I don’t believe women want to be rescued anymore; I think we need to be.
Of course the real challenge for a man here is, as we know, being able to identify when to switch into “fireman mode” and to haul you over his shoulder.
As a dyed-in-the-wool sales person I would recommend uncovering the need, and the want won’t be too far behind.
Monday, October 13, 2008
La douleur exquise....pts. 1 and 2
Into every seemingly blissful life, a little pain must fall.
I collected my tiny, tiny little boy from school on Friday afternoon to find fingernail scratch marks down his left cheek. Actually he is nowhere near being a tiny, tiny little boy but I've never forgotten that moment when I first held him and I scared myself rigid that he would break. A friend at the time wisely commented that it was statistically far more likely that he would break me. It never really came to that but I soon realised she had a point.
As a moderately over-protective parent I strode up to his teacher and asked what had happened, and the only explanation I was given was that there had been some playground altercation although it was all a bit foggy as to what had happened...
Uncharacteristically he was very quiet when asked about how he got them, but I managed twenty-four hours later to extract from him that two of his classmates had chased him and scratched him on purpose.
When asked if he had told a teacher about it, he said no. When I asked if he had cried, he said no.
Then he looked pleadingly at me and asked if I was cross with him. Like a knife into my chest, I decided that this job is really too hard at times......
Rather predictably my father said he needed to learn how to deliver a sly punch on the quiet; I pointed out that, whilst I could see the need to defend himself, it may be difficult to explain the peculiarities and vagaries of self-defence to a four year old.
Sometimes, however, the universe decides it isn't just going to put you to the test in one area (in this instance it was resisting the temptation to pin my son's teacher against the wall and demand an explanation as to why she could not explain his lacerated face.....). Sometimes it decides that you've scraped through the audition, so you're off to boot camp. Oh goodie.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
"If you have an issue with something I've done, can you tell me before you publish it on the internet?"
Oh. Hmmm.
You can see his point, I guess......
Then I remembered the tortured state of disarray I was in on Friday evening and I, thankfully, came to my senses.
"This, you have to understand, is therapy to me; twenty years ago I would have written everything in a diary and stuffed it under the bed" He concedes that point; the world, I point out, has moved on.
Thirty years ago and it would have been in the diary and hidden in a place where I thought no-one went. No-one, that is, except my mother, apparently.
I feel I should point out that the disarray was caused by a brusque comment made by him to me to my entirely vacuous question "are you OK?"
Not that big a deal in the scheme of things, and I know that, all things being equal, I should have cast it off in the manner in which it was intended. Yes, I know I should have.....
So the pain here is actually twofold as the brusque episode and the ensuing shaking of the head and the soul searching seems to go on for hours, days..... And then the squirming on realisation that publishing your pain on the internet may be more than a little unfair when it involves your paramour, someone that you would take a bullet for.
(Don't get too excited; I fired the bullet into that last comment for dramatic effect)
The wild and obtuse tangents caused by misunderstandings can always be solved by one thing. Every time.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
I collected my tiny, tiny little boy from school on Friday afternoon to find fingernail scratch marks down his left cheek. Actually he is nowhere near being a tiny, tiny little boy but I've never forgotten that moment when I first held him and I scared myself rigid that he would break. A friend at the time wisely commented that it was statistically far more likely that he would break me. It never really came to that but I soon realised she had a point.
As a moderately over-protective parent I strode up to his teacher and asked what had happened, and the only explanation I was given was that there had been some playground altercation although it was all a bit foggy as to what had happened...
Uncharacteristically he was very quiet when asked about how he got them, but I managed twenty-four hours later to extract from him that two of his classmates had chased him and scratched him on purpose.
When asked if he had told a teacher about it, he said no. When I asked if he had cried, he said no.
Then he looked pleadingly at me and asked if I was cross with him. Like a knife into my chest, I decided that this job is really too hard at times......
Rather predictably my father said he needed to learn how to deliver a sly punch on the quiet; I pointed out that, whilst I could see the need to defend himself, it may be difficult to explain the peculiarities and vagaries of self-defence to a four year old.
Sometimes, however, the universe decides it isn't just going to put you to the test in one area (in this instance it was resisting the temptation to pin my son's teacher against the wall and demand an explanation as to why she could not explain his lacerated face.....). Sometimes it decides that you've scraped through the audition, so you're off to boot camp. Oh goodie.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
"If you have an issue with something I've done, can you tell me before you publish it on the internet?"
Oh. Hmmm.
You can see his point, I guess......
Then I remembered the tortured state of disarray I was in on Friday evening and I, thankfully, came to my senses.
"This, you have to understand, is therapy to me; twenty years ago I would have written everything in a diary and stuffed it under the bed" He concedes that point; the world, I point out, has moved on.
Thirty years ago and it would have been in the diary and hidden in a place where I thought no-one went. No-one, that is, except my mother, apparently.
I feel I should point out that the disarray was caused by a brusque comment made by him to me to my entirely vacuous question "are you OK?"
Not that big a deal in the scheme of things, and I know that, all things being equal, I should have cast it off in the manner in which it was intended. Yes, I know I should have.....
So the pain here is actually twofold as the brusque episode and the ensuing shaking of the head and the soul searching seems to go on for hours, days..... And then the squirming on realisation that publishing your pain on the internet may be more than a little unfair when it involves your paramour, someone that you would take a bullet for.
(Don't get too excited; I fired the bullet into that last comment for dramatic effect)
The wild and obtuse tangents caused by misunderstandings can always be solved by one thing. Every time.
A phone call. That's all it takes.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Unacceptable behaviour; how far is too far?
I don't think I've given this question much thought at all over the past few years. I have blindly accepted some atrocious treatment, some rather expectedly doled out by business rivals, other times, more disappointingly, by so-called friends.
And, of course, who could forget the apology for manners and good grace displayed by ex-partners? This, I would have to say, has not usually been owing to their innate bad character; it's been more a case of an inability to tell the truth. Perhaps they had previously dated bunny-boiling tyre-slashers and preferred to run for the hills as a result rather than utter phrases such as "it's over", "there's someone else" or "it's not you, it's me"....
I never have felt the need to wreak revenge; why do people do that? Why bother wasting more time on someone who clearly doesn't want to be with you? Which is why it has always disappointed me when men are not honest; the silent treatment is, to be perfectly frank, far more annoying. Now that does stir up a need to damage something dear to the offending party, preferably his ego.
My girls and I have sat for many an evening and lamented this issue. Our theories have ranged from men never wanting to truly burn their bridges (our favourite), to them being too cowardly (also a strong contender) right across to he is probably seeing someone else, possibly several, and he's not going silent, he just doesn't have time to call in between dates and planning his next conquest.
In the final analysis it doesn't matter a jot to me; going silent is unacceptable behaviour irrespective of the reason. There really is no excuse; if someone is old enough to vote that means that technically they are an adult. You would hope.
So, how do I define unacceptable behaviour? Very simple; the old-fashioned way. I expect to be treated the way same way I treat others; that is a very fair arrangement. In truth I believe most of us overlook the fact that usually what we tolerate is way below that standard.
You may wonder why I'm debating this point at length; it has, of course, to do with Duz. I have to offload here as Adrian has this morning announced he will not respond or communicate any further with me on the subject of "the D word". I find that a little stern, I have to say....
But the time has come to make a decision here; too much angst-ridden wringing of hands has taken place on the subject of Duz already. This time it's serious.
He is pulling back again, not communicating, the usual story. And so the pattern repeats itself.
This time however, things are slightly different. A couple of business projects are taking off; I am off my starting blocks and ready to fly.
When it's good, it's fabulous, but when it's bad, it is unbearable. The pleasure and the pain.
Why, oh why?
And, of course, who could forget the apology for manners and good grace displayed by ex-partners? This, I would have to say, has not usually been owing to their innate bad character; it's been more a case of an inability to tell the truth. Perhaps they had previously dated bunny-boiling tyre-slashers and preferred to run for the hills as a result rather than utter phrases such as "it's over", "there's someone else" or "it's not you, it's me"....
I never have felt the need to wreak revenge; why do people do that? Why bother wasting more time on someone who clearly doesn't want to be with you? Which is why it has always disappointed me when men are not honest; the silent treatment is, to be perfectly frank, far more annoying. Now that does stir up a need to damage something dear to the offending party, preferably his ego.
My girls and I have sat for many an evening and lamented this issue. Our theories have ranged from men never wanting to truly burn their bridges (our favourite), to them being too cowardly (also a strong contender) right across to he is probably seeing someone else, possibly several, and he's not going silent, he just doesn't have time to call in between dates and planning his next conquest.
In the final analysis it doesn't matter a jot to me; going silent is unacceptable behaviour irrespective of the reason. There really is no excuse; if someone is old enough to vote that means that technically they are an adult. You would hope.
So, how do I define unacceptable behaviour? Very simple; the old-fashioned way. I expect to be treated the way same way I treat others; that is a very fair arrangement. In truth I believe most of us overlook the fact that usually what we tolerate is way below that standard.
You may wonder why I'm debating this point at length; it has, of course, to do with Duz. I have to offload here as Adrian has this morning announced he will not respond or communicate any further with me on the subject of "the D word". I find that a little stern, I have to say....
But the time has come to make a decision here; too much angst-ridden wringing of hands has taken place on the subject of Duz already. This time it's serious.
He is pulling back again, not communicating, the usual story. And so the pattern repeats itself.
This time however, things are slightly different. A couple of business projects are taking off; I am off my starting blocks and ready to fly.
When it's good, it's fabulous, but when it's bad, it is unbearable. The pleasure and the pain.
Why, oh why?
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The fall and the rise...
Whenever life starts to get interesting I have to pinch myself. It's akin to a massive change in weather conditions; one minute you're battening down the hatches hoping to keep the wind and rain out, then the sun comes out and you marvel at the sudden warmth on your skin, all the while carefully eying your galoshes in case there's another unexpected outburst.
In the space of two weeks I've given three interviews, all concerning various aspects of my life to date. I guess three marriages, a dose of plastic surgery, an upheaval to a part of the country that most residents of the South East think warrants carrying a phrasebook at all times and meeting my very own version of Carrie's Big is enough to send a journalist reaching for a notepad.
In isolation none of this seems extraordinary, but I had a moment of truth dawn on me yesterday; I don't tolerate boring, staid and uninteresting. If it can be improved, I will give it my very best shot and then some. I don't believe in reinventing the wheel; stay with it and put it right. If you pour every ounce of yourself into it and nothing changes, turn around and show a clean pair of heels.
My marriages took every ounce of effort, several times over. But I put the weight back on again, thankfully.
The plastic surgery just took nerve and vast amounts of cash. If you add into the mix a charming surgeon who tells you that he is going to make you pretty, then that works too (actually he didn't say that, but if they ever make the film, that is definitely going to be the line that has Debsy reaching for her chequebook....)
The move to Lincolnshire was the sensible thing to do given the circumstances. It is slower here in every sense of the word, but there are hidden treasures that make up for the feeling that some days you are wading through treacle. One of those treasures is the post office at a place called Middle Rasen (entirely a different place to Market Rasen; never confuse your Middle with your Market).
Said post office is so much more than just that, a post office. It cannot occupy much more than 100 square feet, but somehow it seems to function as a greengrocer, a newsagent, a hardware store, a confectioners and a freezer centre. Oh, and did I mention the post office? Not just a post office, but one that actually wants to offer a level of service that impresses you to the point that you tell others of it, rare phenomenen that it is. That, my friends, you do not find in the South East. I remember my local post office in Berkshire; acres of dusty half-empty shelves laden with tat, simply because the miserable owners made enough from selling tax discs and doling out pensions once a week.
And so I come to Duz (or Carrie's Big). I have made comment often that I have never been in love, not properly. Not that heart-stopping, yearning and all-consuming feeling that renders everything in it's wake insignificant.
No, he's not an easy man, but when did I ever expect for one moment that an easy man was right for me? When he's beside me sleeping I absorb the feeling and take it to a place in my mind that I can easily call on when he isn't there. When he pulls me to him and puts his arms around me it makes everything go away, just for that moment. To me, that is my completion.
Is my completion also love? If it isn't, I'm not sure what other description would do it justice.
A media-savvy friend told me the other day to leave my relationships out of this blog if I wanted them to survive. Posting your inner most thoughts and fears for the world to prod and poke is leaving yourself vulnerable to attack.
I understand that, but isn't that what the "delete" button is for?
In the space of two weeks I've given three interviews, all concerning various aspects of my life to date. I guess three marriages, a dose of plastic surgery, an upheaval to a part of the country that most residents of the South East think warrants carrying a phrasebook at all times and meeting my very own version of Carrie's Big is enough to send a journalist reaching for a notepad.
In isolation none of this seems extraordinary, but I had a moment of truth dawn on me yesterday; I don't tolerate boring, staid and uninteresting. If it can be improved, I will give it my very best shot and then some. I don't believe in reinventing the wheel; stay with it and put it right. If you pour every ounce of yourself into it and nothing changes, turn around and show a clean pair of heels.
My marriages took every ounce of effort, several times over. But I put the weight back on again, thankfully.
The plastic surgery just took nerve and vast amounts of cash. If you add into the mix a charming surgeon who tells you that he is going to make you pretty, then that works too (actually he didn't say that, but if they ever make the film, that is definitely going to be the line that has Debsy reaching for her chequebook....)
The move to Lincolnshire was the sensible thing to do given the circumstances. It is slower here in every sense of the word, but there are hidden treasures that make up for the feeling that some days you are wading through treacle. One of those treasures is the post office at a place called Middle Rasen (entirely a different place to Market Rasen; never confuse your Middle with your Market).
Said post office is so much more than just that, a post office. It cannot occupy much more than 100 square feet, but somehow it seems to function as a greengrocer, a newsagent, a hardware store, a confectioners and a freezer centre. Oh, and did I mention the post office? Not just a post office, but one that actually wants to offer a level of service that impresses you to the point that you tell others of it, rare phenomenen that it is. That, my friends, you do not find in the South East. I remember my local post office in Berkshire; acres of dusty half-empty shelves laden with tat, simply because the miserable owners made enough from selling tax discs and doling out pensions once a week.
And so I come to Duz (or Carrie's Big). I have made comment often that I have never been in love, not properly. Not that heart-stopping, yearning and all-consuming feeling that renders everything in it's wake insignificant.
No, he's not an easy man, but when did I ever expect for one moment that an easy man was right for me? When he's beside me sleeping I absorb the feeling and take it to a place in my mind that I can easily call on when he isn't there. When he pulls me to him and puts his arms around me it makes everything go away, just for that moment. To me, that is my completion.
Is my completion also love? If it isn't, I'm not sure what other description would do it justice.
A media-savvy friend told me the other day to leave my relationships out of this blog if I wanted them to survive. Posting your inner most thoughts and fears for the world to prod and poke is leaving yourself vulnerable to attack.
I understand that, but isn't that what the "delete" button is for?
Saturday, October 4, 2008
My marriages: the best laid plans.......
I had a very conventional upbringing; the eldest of two children, I was taught to respect my elders and not to answer back. I worked hard at school and I fully expected to marry reasonably young, to have two children and to broadly have the updated version of the life my mum had.
It's funny how life never really pans out as you expect.
Instead I was married at twenty-two to a man who was the first adult to really show me attention; I was so grateful I let him put a ring on my finger. It broke my dad's heart; my mum told me the day I got married was the second of the two times she has ever seen him cry. The marriage lasted less than two years; I returned home to my parents.
At twenty-eight I was married for a second time to a man three years younger than me; he worked hard and our backgrounds were similar. He had told me he wanted children so imagine my surprise and frustration when, eighteen months into the marriage, he announced he didn't want them. He sat and watched my heart break in front of his eyes; I pleaded and begged him to change his mind but he refused to budge. Marriage number two was over.
I met my last husband in my early thirties having recently relocated from Sheffield to Harrogate. He was tall, handsome and seven years younger than me. We had a matchmaker, Jenny, who worked for him as a receptionist at the local swimming pool where he was the manager. We quickly became an item.
A year after meeting we were married in the Caribbean; this time I felt I had met someone who doted on me and who would look after me. He looked after me in the practical sense; the rubbish was always put out, he could vacuum a carpet to within an inch of it's life and Saturday morning saw him cleaning the bathroom with remarkable regularity. My mum frequently commented on how unusual it was to find a man so domesticated; it was like having a built-in housekeeper. Lucky me.
There is always a trade-off, though. In this instance it was emotional immaturity for a spic-and-span house. I remember having an argument about six months into our marriage during a week we had taken off to spend with each other. His friends had called and asked him to go out to play golf and I made it known I wasn't happy; we were newly weds when all was said and done. He told me he thought I was being totally unreasonable and that he wanted a divorce.
I finally realised when our son was two years old that we were never going to be happy. At this point we had slept in separate beds for seven of the nine years we were married; our evenings were spent in different rooms in the house. The realisation dawned on me that our son was going to grow up thinking this was what a relationship looked like. Coupled with that, if we continued in the same vain he would leave home at eighteen and I would sit and wonder how on earth I would fill my life up from thereon.
Many people say they stay together for the sake of their children, and I think that is admirable. For me that was never an option. If we had done that I would have become a sullen, drawn and embittered mother; someone very different from the girl who existed deep down.
We parted; it was painful and, if I'm honest, it still is at times even though two years has passed.
But now my son and I laugh on a daily basis, we regularly dance around the kitchen at breakfast time and we are forever hugging and kissing each other. If I wear something new or do my hair differently, he tells me how pretty I am; he effortlessly makes my eyes water with tears of joy. I am now the mother I was meant to be, not a miserable shadow of someone who felt burdened and old beyond her years.
So when people have commented that I selfishly bailed out of my marriage and should have thought more about Ben, I reply that it was because of Ben that I did it. A happy, empowered and strong mother is what my son needs, that is the sort of mother he is likely to remember fondly in years to come.
What comes next? A journalist recently asked me if I would ever get married again and rather bizarrely I had to stop and think about it.
The truth is that getting the relationship right is what is important to me now. And if I really felt deep down that this time I had done that, then hell yes, why not?
There ain't nothing like the real thing, to quote Aretha Franklin.
It's funny how life never really pans out as you expect.
Instead I was married at twenty-two to a man who was the first adult to really show me attention; I was so grateful I let him put a ring on my finger. It broke my dad's heart; my mum told me the day I got married was the second of the two times she has ever seen him cry. The marriage lasted less than two years; I returned home to my parents.
At twenty-eight I was married for a second time to a man three years younger than me; he worked hard and our backgrounds were similar. He had told me he wanted children so imagine my surprise and frustration when, eighteen months into the marriage, he announced he didn't want them. He sat and watched my heart break in front of his eyes; I pleaded and begged him to change his mind but he refused to budge. Marriage number two was over.
I met my last husband in my early thirties having recently relocated from Sheffield to Harrogate. He was tall, handsome and seven years younger than me. We had a matchmaker, Jenny, who worked for him as a receptionist at the local swimming pool where he was the manager. We quickly became an item.
A year after meeting we were married in the Caribbean; this time I felt I had met someone who doted on me and who would look after me. He looked after me in the practical sense; the rubbish was always put out, he could vacuum a carpet to within an inch of it's life and Saturday morning saw him cleaning the bathroom with remarkable regularity. My mum frequently commented on how unusual it was to find a man so domesticated; it was like having a built-in housekeeper. Lucky me.
There is always a trade-off, though. In this instance it was emotional immaturity for a spic-and-span house. I remember having an argument about six months into our marriage during a week we had taken off to spend with each other. His friends had called and asked him to go out to play golf and I made it known I wasn't happy; we were newly weds when all was said and done. He told me he thought I was being totally unreasonable and that he wanted a divorce.
I finally realised when our son was two years old that we were never going to be happy. At this point we had slept in separate beds for seven of the nine years we were married; our evenings were spent in different rooms in the house. The realisation dawned on me that our son was going to grow up thinking this was what a relationship looked like. Coupled with that, if we continued in the same vain he would leave home at eighteen and I would sit and wonder how on earth I would fill my life up from thereon.
Many people say they stay together for the sake of their children, and I think that is admirable. For me that was never an option. If we had done that I would have become a sullen, drawn and embittered mother; someone very different from the girl who existed deep down.
We parted; it was painful and, if I'm honest, it still is at times even though two years has passed.
But now my son and I laugh on a daily basis, we regularly dance around the kitchen at breakfast time and we are forever hugging and kissing each other. If I wear something new or do my hair differently, he tells me how pretty I am; he effortlessly makes my eyes water with tears of joy. I am now the mother I was meant to be, not a miserable shadow of someone who felt burdened and old beyond her years.
So when people have commented that I selfishly bailed out of my marriage and should have thought more about Ben, I reply that it was because of Ben that I did it. A happy, empowered and strong mother is what my son needs, that is the sort of mother he is likely to remember fondly in years to come.
What comes next? A journalist recently asked me if I would ever get married again and rather bizarrely I had to stop and think about it.
The truth is that getting the relationship right is what is important to me now. And if I really felt deep down that this time I had done that, then hell yes, why not?
There ain't nothing like the real thing, to quote Aretha Franklin.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Seeing is believing...
I've always thought that the time comes to celebrate our mistakes in life; often our mistakes are what lead us to our destiny. This undoubtedly is only apparent during the later acts, but we can see how critical moments and events that we thought were earth-shatteringly awful at the time actually come to steer us in the direction that we need to go.
Last night I met with Duz for the first time since "the split", "the split" being my rather dramatic e-mail to him of a few weeks ago entitled "closure". He rather interestingly drew attention to my love of all things drama-laden by saying I had actually penned "closure!" I pointed out that the word "closure" needs no exclamation mark; the mere sight of the word would strike fear into the bravest of men. He fell silent. Motion carried.
Break-up assessment meetings are by nature the most volatile of beasts. You agree to turn up hoping that your partner's agenda and motives will be broadly similar to your own. Indeed, why else would you both be there? Why take time out to discuss at length something that was ebbing away silently without you both deciding to prod and poke, unless you think there may be life left there after all...
And so I sat and waited for him to arrive. He is not the sort to take time out, to drive over on the eve of most probably losing his licence (101mph on the motorway.....court tomorrow) unless there are matters of great significance to discuss.
I was right. I usually am, but rarely for the reasons I thought I would be.
My opening gambit in any type of "drains up" discussion is always "so, what happened here?" It is masterful in it's simplicity. It implies a yearning desire to get to the root of the calamity, it resonates with importance and it sounds vaguely like it was uttered on Hill Street Blues, which is undoubtedly why I've retained it for regular usage.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. I know only part of it". Time to outline that part, I think.
To say I was in shock following his account would be totally inadequate. He cited all the feelings, all the thoughts and all the fears I had experienced during my time with him.
It was as if he had reached inside my mind and stolen my thoughts, my fears, my paranoid tendencies. How can we mirror fear like that in relationships? How did I not see it happening? Because we never acknowledged it.
We never verbalised any of it at the time that it really mattered, before it was possibly too late. I tried to point out to him that the last time we met I had driven over to see him in a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate what we had. I reminded him of a glib comment he made, "don't give up the the tenancy on your house anytime soon". He couldn't remember saying it, but I remember the hurt it generated all too well.
He described me last night as "cool, together, guarded". Of course, this is an alien concept to me as I sit and type this post, but I know that is the image I have strived so hard to craft over the years. Never the push-over, a resilient survivor who barely feels hurt at times of relationship crisis. A victim of my own success, it seems; I actually managed to fool someone who was meant to see past that persona.
We stayed up til late talking. He needs time to get his head around what was said as he had come to terms with the fact that it was all over, that I had moved on (I play my part to perfection, it seems)
Duz looked very fragile and strangely smaller last night. And vulnerable too; that most attractive of qualities when displayed in the right amount and at the right time.
The waiting line beckons, I think.
relationships
Last night I met with Duz for the first time since "the split", "the split" being my rather dramatic e-mail to him of a few weeks ago entitled "closure". He rather interestingly drew attention to my love of all things drama-laden by saying I had actually penned "closure!" I pointed out that the word "closure" needs no exclamation mark; the mere sight of the word would strike fear into the bravest of men. He fell silent. Motion carried.
Break-up assessment meetings are by nature the most volatile of beasts. You agree to turn up hoping that your partner's agenda and motives will be broadly similar to your own. Indeed, why else would you both be there? Why take time out to discuss at length something that was ebbing away silently without you both deciding to prod and poke, unless you think there may be life left there after all...
And so I sat and waited for him to arrive. He is not the sort to take time out, to drive over on the eve of most probably losing his licence (101mph on the motorway.....court tomorrow) unless there are matters of great significance to discuss.
I was right. I usually am, but rarely for the reasons I thought I would be.
My opening gambit in any type of "drains up" discussion is always "so, what happened here?" It is masterful in it's simplicity. It implies a yearning desire to get to the root of the calamity, it resonates with importance and it sounds vaguely like it was uttered on Hill Street Blues, which is undoubtedly why I've retained it for regular usage.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. I know only part of it". Time to outline that part, I think.
To say I was in shock following his account would be totally inadequate. He cited all the feelings, all the thoughts and all the fears I had experienced during my time with him.
It was as if he had reached inside my mind and stolen my thoughts, my fears, my paranoid tendencies. How can we mirror fear like that in relationships? How did I not see it happening? Because we never acknowledged it.
We never verbalised any of it at the time that it really mattered, before it was possibly too late. I tried to point out to him that the last time we met I had driven over to see him in a last-ditch attempt to resuscitate what we had. I reminded him of a glib comment he made, "don't give up the the tenancy on your house anytime soon". He couldn't remember saying it, but I remember the hurt it generated all too well.
He described me last night as "cool, together, guarded". Of course, this is an alien concept to me as I sit and type this post, but I know that is the image I have strived so hard to craft over the years. Never the push-over, a resilient survivor who barely feels hurt at times of relationship crisis. A victim of my own success, it seems; I actually managed to fool someone who was meant to see past that persona.
We stayed up til late talking. He needs time to get his head around what was said as he had come to terms with the fact that it was all over, that I had moved on (I play my part to perfection, it seems)
Duz looked very fragile and strangely smaller last night. And vulnerable too; that most attractive of qualities when displayed in the right amount and at the right time.
The waiting line beckons, I think.
relationships
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How to get over your ex, pt. one.......
The thing that has always astounded me when I've broken up with someone is how I veer from spewing venom at the mere mention of his name one moment to sending semi-optimistic texts the next in the hope that he will respond with a message that says "I'm the most stupid man in world; forgive me....take me back, I beg you..."
That was where I found myself, fairly and squarely, a few days ago. I had been in regular contact with my friend Adrian, who happened to be in a fairly similar situation with his lady. We were propping each other up emotionally as friends do, providing much needed validation to each other, a critically important service to offer your friends at their darkest relationship hour.
Although I kind of despised Duz for how he had treated me, i.e. with Disdain (note the all-telling capital D), there was a part of me that was desperate to hear from him and to pick up where we left off (albeit picking up in a fairly remote wasteland of relationship backdrop).
I missed him, I missed his voice, I missed seeing his name flash up on my phone, I missed not talking to my friends about him in glowing terms. What we had was now just smoking embers; it was finished. And I was hurting.
Under normal circumstances, and had I been still in Berkshire, I would have hit the town with my girls. We would have consumed ridiculous amounts of alcohol and almost certainly made fools of ourselves with boys who would have labelled us "Mrs Robinson" in later years. I would have woken the next day with a monumental hangover, yet still smiling at the previous evening's antics. Possibly the girls would have exchanged text messages congratulating each other on surpassing ourselves in terms of our outraged-ness.
And then in the cold light of the afternoon, I would have realised that nothing had actually changed. I was still alone, and to cap it all, I was probably about a hundred quid lighter.
That was then, this is now.
During one of our chats that possibly started with me pleading with Adrian to help me get out of my Duz-induced hangover, he said simply "write a list".
"A list of what?" I cautiously enquire.
"A list of all his qualities/faults that, in a perfect world, you would not choose in a partner. And then keep it to hand to read at the time you feel yourself faltering"
Hmmm. Interesting concept, I thought. Interesting in that I knew there were a few things that I had chosen to ignore (as you do when you fancy someone rotten)
So I set about writing my list. Cup of coffee, comfortable chair and a slight feeling of concern that there may not be that many things on the final list that would serve to strengthen my resolve at my hour of need.
I need not have worried. My pen almost took on a life of it's own.
I stopped, as a mark of respect to the brief relationship I had enjoyed.......perhaps that should have been "endured" having read the list.
Since then I have not felt one split-second of desire to contact him; the thought of seeing his name flash on my phone has a lesser affect. I mean, when all is said and done, making quips about my height may not be that bad, but couple it with his tendency to ignore me for days on end, well that simply becomes a deal-breaker.
I believe I may well have laid his memory to rest, thanks to Adrian's list.
relationships
That was where I found myself, fairly and squarely, a few days ago. I had been in regular contact with my friend Adrian, who happened to be in a fairly similar situation with his lady. We were propping each other up emotionally as friends do, providing much needed validation to each other, a critically important service to offer your friends at their darkest relationship hour.
Although I kind of despised Duz for how he had treated me, i.e. with Disdain (note the all-telling capital D), there was a part of me that was desperate to hear from him and to pick up where we left off (albeit picking up in a fairly remote wasteland of relationship backdrop).
I missed him, I missed his voice, I missed seeing his name flash up on my phone, I missed not talking to my friends about him in glowing terms. What we had was now just smoking embers; it was finished. And I was hurting.
Under normal circumstances, and had I been still in Berkshire, I would have hit the town with my girls. We would have consumed ridiculous amounts of alcohol and almost certainly made fools of ourselves with boys who would have labelled us "Mrs Robinson" in later years. I would have woken the next day with a monumental hangover, yet still smiling at the previous evening's antics. Possibly the girls would have exchanged text messages congratulating each other on surpassing ourselves in terms of our outraged-ness.
And then in the cold light of the afternoon, I would have realised that nothing had actually changed. I was still alone, and to cap it all, I was probably about a hundred quid lighter.
That was then, this is now.
During one of our chats that possibly started with me pleading with Adrian to help me get out of my Duz-induced hangover, he said simply "write a list".
"A list of what?" I cautiously enquire.
"A list of all his qualities/faults that, in a perfect world, you would not choose in a partner. And then keep it to hand to read at the time you feel yourself faltering"
Hmmm. Interesting concept, I thought. Interesting in that I knew there were a few things that I had chosen to ignore (as you do when you fancy someone rotten)
So I set about writing my list. Cup of coffee, comfortable chair and a slight feeling of concern that there may not be that many things on the final list that would serve to strengthen my resolve at my hour of need.
I need not have worried. My pen almost took on a life of it's own.
I stopped, as a mark of respect to the brief relationship I had enjoyed.......perhaps that should have been "endured" having read the list.
Since then I have not felt one split-second of desire to contact him; the thought of seeing his name flash on my phone has a lesser affect. I mean, when all is said and done, making quips about my height may not be that bad, but couple it with his tendency to ignore me for days on end, well that simply becomes a deal-breaker.
I believe I may well have laid his memory to rest, thanks to Adrian's list.
relationships
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Just when you thought...
...something happens to suggest you were wrong, right?
Now I'm usually one positive, "up and at 'em" kind of girl, but lately I've been wondering if my life really is a merry-go-round, full of incidents but recurring ones, the type that give you a feeling of deja-vu?
No point in sugaring the pill here, chaps; I'm talking relationships. Those of the man-woman variety, those that look very nice on the packet but you can never get them to look like that in real life...
Following my recent Berkshire-Lincolnshire shift (from the former to the latter) I met a local man who rather surprisingly, ticked all my boxes and a few more. I say surprisingly because I never thought meeting a man of business, of my age (ish), with experience of children and who had been out of a prior marriage (and over it) for some time would be easy here- I have to say it was well nigh impossible in Berkshire, and that was with a higher head count per square mile.
He (let's call him Duz....I initially called him Big after Big in Sex and the City- no imagination....Duz is short for Duzi, which is Polish for big- there, still no imagination) is all these things and more, has an air of assured confidence about him with a touch of gravitas and presence. Very nice, and all without asking for it- I felt like I had stumbled across 6 numbers on a Saturday night.
So, it's going swimmingly well, save for the fact that.......I cannot just let things happen in their own time. I seem to want everything now, I want his unequivocal declaration of his undying love for me signed in blood along with our place in the history books reserved as the happiest couple that ever lived. But not always....hereby hangs the issue:
Now I'm usually one positive, "up and at 'em" kind of girl, but lately I've been wondering if my life really is a merry-go-round, full of incidents but recurring ones, the type that give you a feeling of deja-vu?
No point in sugaring the pill here, chaps; I'm talking relationships. Those of the man-woman variety, those that look very nice on the packet but you can never get them to look like that in real life...
Following my recent Berkshire-Lincolnshire shift (from the former to the latter) I met a local man who rather surprisingly, ticked all my boxes and a few more. I say surprisingly because I never thought meeting a man of business, of my age (ish), with experience of children and who had been out of a prior marriage (and over it) for some time would be easy here- I have to say it was well nigh impossible in Berkshire, and that was with a higher head count per square mile.
He (let's call him Duz....I initially called him Big after Big in Sex and the City- no imagination....Duz is short for Duzi, which is Polish for big- there, still no imagination) is all these things and more, has an air of assured confidence about him with a touch of gravitas and presence. Very nice, and all without asking for it- I felt like I had stumbled across 6 numbers on a Saturday night.
So, it's going swimmingly well, save for the fact that.......I cannot just let things happen in their own time. I seem to want everything now, I want his unequivocal declaration of his undying love for me signed in blood along with our place in the history books reserved as the happiest couple that ever lived. But not always....hereby hangs the issue:
- When we are together, I need no such assurance. I am just happy.
- I am also happy shortly after we've parted.
- A day or two later I'm looking for problems..."why has he not called....." etc, etc
- Anytime after that I've convinced myself he is a waste of time and I should do myself a favour and get out now.
Which is a problem only if he is not attentive. I really hate admitting all this because it makes me sound needy and clingy, two labels I have tried to avoid my whole life.
So, do I weather the storm and hope that I can hold my tongue long enough for him to see all he needs to see before making a firm offer to commit? Or do I bow out?? I'm reasonably sure that men and women are such different creatures that it would be futile to think that I'm going to find all I'm looking for in the shape of just one man, so maybe I just need to be the one who commits. The one who commits to trying to do things differently this time, to taking some time out, to slow the pace down a bit.
Just when you thought you were ready to stand down, you realise actually you need to step up, and up to the mark this time.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Scrambling, Not Climbing....
Can I be the only woman of a certain age who goes out into the world, full of excitement at the possibilities lurking round every corner, only to feel an abject failure following my attempts to turn my life into something that looks vaguely normal, something that my parents will approve of?
Being the single mother of a four year old brings a level of responsibility, duty and scheduled phone calls from the father (sadly) to periodically shout at each other; it is the best and the hardest of jobs. Ben (said four year old) is a flawless diamond in an array of paste jewellery; his laughter and his incessant questions never cease, he is, unwittingly, my rock.
I remain steadfast in the knowledge that I will get back on top, it is merely taking longer than I anticipated and it is throwing me a few curved balls I'd not expected. It is showing me that there are two types of men- the ones who cannot fathom their own feelings, that unknowingly have deep-rooted issues that colour their everyday existence and that say everything is fine with such conviction that they too think it is true........and the ones who are gay.
So, in an attempt to get back on top I occasionally loose my footing and scramble to get there, rather than maintain an altogether more dignified pose as I ascend to the peak.
"Rambling, not scrambling" I can hear you mutter. And you'd be right. The reason for my malaise is lack of sleep, a list of unsatisfactory attempts at relationships and a lack of money (yes- the last one shows lack of depth and fibre.....but I am what I am and I like my pedicures and lip gloss ;-) ).
I am about to lay myself bare, to launch my history into cyberspace for judgement and to gratefully accept any morsels of advice or observation that will help me make sense of it all.
The unparalleled Carrie Bradshaw commented "“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate"; maybe my mistakes are my paradox- excruciatingly painful and embarrassing, and yet comforting in that I was brave enough to pick myself up after making them.
People say "you only get one life". Seriously, how many would any sane person want?!
Being the single mother of a four year old brings a level of responsibility, duty and scheduled phone calls from the father (sadly) to periodically shout at each other; it is the best and the hardest of jobs. Ben (said four year old) is a flawless diamond in an array of paste jewellery; his laughter and his incessant questions never cease, he is, unwittingly, my rock.
I remain steadfast in the knowledge that I will get back on top, it is merely taking longer than I anticipated and it is throwing me a few curved balls I'd not expected. It is showing me that there are two types of men- the ones who cannot fathom their own feelings, that unknowingly have deep-rooted issues that colour their everyday existence and that say everything is fine with such conviction that they too think it is true........and the ones who are gay.
So, in an attempt to get back on top I occasionally loose my footing and scramble to get there, rather than maintain an altogether more dignified pose as I ascend to the peak.
"Rambling, not scrambling" I can hear you mutter. And you'd be right. The reason for my malaise is lack of sleep, a list of unsatisfactory attempts at relationships and a lack of money (yes- the last one shows lack of depth and fibre.....but I am what I am and I like my pedicures and lip gloss ;-) ).
I am about to lay myself bare, to launch my history into cyberspace for judgement and to gratefully accept any morsels of advice or observation that will help me make sense of it all.
The unparalleled Carrie Bradshaw commented "“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate"; maybe my mistakes are my paradox- excruciatingly painful and embarrassing, and yet comforting in that I was brave enough to pick myself up after making them.
People say "you only get one life". Seriously, how many would any sane person want?!
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