Miss Jones and me

A while back I told someone I loved them. Not because I thought it would change the world. Not because I saw us running off into the sunset together. But because I wanted him to know. To be mindful of my feelings. To be sensitive. In the same conversation string he affectionately joked that he'd recently watched Bridget Jones' Diary and that it reminded him of me. He saw me in her. Bridget. Not Superwoman. Not Erin Brockovich. Not even dorky Mary Poppins. My film persona, to him, is Bridget. Freaking. Jones. 

If you hear a little tinkling noise while reading this, that's the sound of my ego falling to a million little pieces. I don't drink excessively (though I’ considering it). I don't smoke (it’s too much effort). I don't show my bottom on live television (almost certainly a character flaw of mine). I also don’t wear giant knickers. Though I admit I do possess tummy-puller-in underwear for emergencies – in beige. But no one has ever seen these. Nor will they ever.

I’d spent a significant amount of time in a weird on-off, more-than-friendship ‘thing’ with said person. The kind of ‘thing’ that can’t be described using five words or less. The kind that didn’t even warrant the status of ‘it’s complicated’ on Facebook. The kind that meant nothing really. And that was always ok. Until it wasn’t ok. When I decided I’m worth more than a rushed few days of fake togetherness in the lukewarm English summer.

I’ve named this ‘thing’ the sit-down take-away. It’s not a one-night-stand but it’s not a genuine connection. It’s an instant, comfortable, short-term relationship with all the signs of something real. You share about your day, shop together, bounce advice and thoughts off each other, talk through that disagreement with your colleague, and snuggle on chilly evenings. There’s care, kindness and honesty. But it’s temporary. Because there’s too much going on. Because the time isn’t right. Because hearts are in healing. Because a plethora of meaningless reasons.

This kind of relationship lacks nourishment. There are no healthy greens. No carefully blended flavours. No balance of what you need topped with a giant slice of chocolate-covered cheese cake with cream on one side, ice-cream on the other and two forks. It’s all flash fried, easy come, easy go, single portions. Sit down, consume, stay a moment and throw the leftovers away – until next time.

This is normal – many single men and women in my generation will know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s so normal that we start to feel as though we’re not allowed to expect more. 

Call me old-fashioned. Call me a prude. Gosh, call me Bridget, if you must. As my New Year’s gift to myself this year, I’ve deleted all people from my circles who fall within or on the periphery of ‘it’s complicated’. I’m not making space for any Daniel Cleavers who talk sweet but are stale on their delivery. I’m surrounding myself with real friends, special family and maybe even a Mark Darcy.

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Gift box

Last week I received a gift box of goodies. It was one of those subscription boxes where you receive a collection of beauty products each month as a surprise. It’s an awesome gift and I love getting my monthly surprise. This one was a particularly good one, I got eyelash primer, face toner, blusher, a peach lip pencil and some cleanser – all of them completely new to me. I squealed in delight as I opened the lid, which prompted a few colleagues to come rushing over to ogle my booty (of the treasure variety, obviously).

My monthly beauty boxes have become something of interest in the office. As the foreigner in the team, mostly everything I do for the first time becomes a thing of interest in the office. Often a group of ladies will pop round to my desk and watch me unpack my gifts. So there was nothing unusual about this time. I pulled out item by item and explained the magnificence of every product. I got to the cleanser. I opened the lid, gave it a good sniff and proclaimed loudly that I couldn’t wait to use it (on my face). I got a few weird looks and the group soon dispersed back to normal life.

This Saturday while I was looking through each item reading the fine print, I noticed some detail on the cleanser that I’d missed. Firstly, it’s dermatologically approved (very good) and secondly that it is gynaecologically tested (wha-a-a-t?) Yep… it wasn’t face wash. It turned out to be a fairly common ‘intimate’ cleanser available from every store in the first world. It’s designed to help prevent ingrown hairs and the discomfort from shaving certain feminine parts. Perhaps not so appropriate to rub under my colleagues noses while proclaiming how good it’s going to feel on my skin. I. Could. Actually. Die.

Last month marked two years since I jumped on an aeroplane thinking I was temporarily heading off on an adventure. In some ways it feels like twenty years ago. In others, it’s like I just climbed off the boat and am adjusting to wobbly land legs. I’m still figuring out what some road signs mean (slightly scary since I’ve been driving for eight months). I have to Google English-English words from time to time. And for the life of me I can’t understand why the word ‘literally’ is used ‘figuratively’ so casually. I mean, what must the Queen think about that? This is England.

Since I’ve been in the UK I’ve experienced so many new things. Snow falling on my eyelashes. The first taste of Viennese Swirls (which I’m convinced was every bit as addictive as a first hit of heroin). Internet shopping with parcels bravely left outside my front door – including clothing, groceries, jewels and medication (mind blown). Strawberry jammed scones with clotted cream kindly baked by a wonderful colleague (yum). The Great British Bake-off. Walks in nature on my own. Walks through town on my own. Walks in general, on my own. Sleeping with the front door open – by mistake. Buying a down coat (actual tiny feathers – in a coat). Travelling on trains. Travelling on busses. Travelling in taxis.

Kissing French men. Sipping Prosecco. Pronouncing data, ‘date-er’. Going out without sunblock on. Going out in welly boots. Going out in flats and changing into heels at work. Putting on make-up on the underground. Getting my eyeliner straight while administering it on the underground. Going to the corner shop in PJ bottoms and no makeup. Going to the corner shop by foot – with my actual feet, every step.

My new life is a giant leap from my old one in so many ways – some good, some less good. I’ve been homesick, homeless, jobless, broke, lost, alone – so extremely alone. But what’s defined every step of the path is kindness. Every person I’ve reached out to along the way has extended a hand, a hug, some hope. The English may not be renowned for their warmth, but they sure know how to share it when they recognise it’s needed. From the comfort shared with me by my brand new housemate on the eve of Nelson Mandela’s passing, to the embrace from her mum the day my granddad passed and I needed a ‘mummy hug’. From the strangers who have helped me get un-lost to the acquaintances who offered their homes, their families, their special times. I’ve been overwhelmed by so much generosity and kindness.

Two years on I’m still Dorothy on this yellow brick road. I’m surrounded by different people who’ve brought many lessons and so much wonderfulness into my life. But there’s no place like home – kind of literally. Because on my journey I’ve discovered that home is less of a physical place than it is people and a collection of memories. My home is a memory box of love and experiences, gifts that I pack and unpack finding new surprises every time I open the lid. It’s intimate. Personal. Vulnerable. And filled with all the things that make me feel safe, scared, happy and incredibly brave.

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Not my cup of tea

I went on a blind date last week with a really nice guy. Nice like a cup of luke warm tea. Nice like a garden salad, no dressing. Nice like fat free, sugar-free yoghurt... You get the point. This was someone who was really good for me on paper – kind, gentle, smart, healthy. But after talking to him for about three minutes my mind drifted to how I was going to get home and what length of time constituted an actual date. I tried. I really tried to find him interesting. The old me would have thrown in the cocktail napkin within minutes, but the new, improved me gave it two and a half hours. That I’ll never get back. Ever.

At one point desperate to get conversation flowing, I pulled out my fail-safe ‘man card.’ Though I had no desire to launch into a chat about England’s brave, but average, performance in the Ashes series (sorry my lovely Englishes) or the highly anticipated upcoming Rugby World Cup, I had strong desire to break the awkward silence. So I asked the question... “Right, uh… do you like sport?” He paused for a moment, “I’m glad you asked that” said he, “I’m actually really into golf.” Great. I know nothing about golf. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t even technically a sport. I’m sure I get just as much exercise as golfers do from a successful shopping spree – and I carry my own bag. Just saying.

I tried to hide behind my humour – which, to be fair, is an acquired taste – and mentioned my shopping-golf analogy. He didn’t crack the faintest of facial movements. Not even a pity cackle. Nothing. Somehow we got onto the topic of football. Phew! I played a bit of soccer when I was a kid. I was confident I had the conversation back under control. I smugly declared that I knew the offsides rule and that he should test me. Score. He took a polite pause and then even more politely informed me that “most, or perhaps many, people (careful avoidance of gender stereotypes but he was practically screaming “women”) aren't aware that it's changed recently”. Not so smug.

After we finished our first round, he asked if we should get more drinks. “Sure” I answered, even though I was considering propping up my eyelids with ice cubes. He didn't budge. He was being a feminist. When I realised this I jumped up with a little too much enthusiasm and played fetch. Now, call me sexist, but where I come from, guys collect the drinks. If the woman you're with is balancing two glasses filled with ice and two bubbling bottles, stumbling through a crowded pub in heels, you have failed at life. So this weird shift in gentlemanliness left me slightly perplexed. I mean, this guy seemed so well mannered, so well brought up.

On returning from the bar, I downed the drink – I earned it. Then I announced my departure. He waited for me to pass him and as I reached the door awkwardly pushed past me and then clumsily let the door go. It swung back almost knocking this maiden over. At which point I was pretty sure he had no interest in me either. Things got weirder when he gave me the odd cheek peck thing and stated "it would be good to see you again." That’s when I did the swivel and dash. Shamelessly. I practically sprinted up the cobbled high street in heels. It hurt.

So it wasn’t a good experience, in fact it wasn’t even an average one. But I’m glad I went on the date. Because it was good practice. It took me out of my comfort zone and introduced me to a bunch of new things on the list of what I don’t want. Sometimes through experiencing bad, we get closer to identifying good. We learn more about what we truly desire – the right job, real friends, meaningful adventures, the perfectly imperfect partner. Maybe it’s ok to fail at small things, so we can grow and build towards getting the big things right.

After many little moments of wrong maybe one day I’ll meet someone right. Someone who sweeps me off my feet for the right reasons. Who appreciates my weirdness. Who connects with my self-deprecating, warped sense of humour. Who fetches the drinks. Who knows?   

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Drinks only, please

I’m of that age now where people keep reminding me to get on with it and settle down. “Maybe you’re being too picky” I’m told, “You’re not getting any younger,” “If you’re thinking of a family it’s time to sort that out. It’s now or never.” I get some polite insinuations and then some direct stabs about my ‘choice’ to be single and alone.

The thing is… it’s not a choice. Finding someone who fits your lifestyle and your heart when you’re set in your ways, living to work and no longer out partying with the entire population of your age group (who also happen to be single), is near impossible. 95% (possibly not a completely accurate statistic) of the good guys/gals are taken. You’re left searching for the remaining datable 5% who were focussed on their careers, on travelling or on dating the wrong person and who now also happen to be on the hunt. There are plenty of fish in the sea when you’re twenty but when you’re thirty and above you’re fishing in a puddle.

I may be single, but I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by amazing friends, supportive colleagues and a very loving family. I recently had a flashback to a time long ago. A time when I felt most alone. In this memory, I was lying on my bathroom floor, door locked, crying hysterically, half engaging with the drunk, raging words coming from the other side of the door and half wanting the world to stop for a moment, so the psychological warfare would cease. I was feeling hopeless, powerless, terrified, trapped, lost. In a relationship but so tremendously alone. I slept in my bath that night. My wash basket of clothes emptied into the bath and two towels laid neatly on top. It was surprisingly comfortable. The next day I would try to continue my life like everything was ok. But it wasn’t.

It’s been a long journey since that day. And I’m now able to tell a great relationship story, one about how I learnt to love myself again, to set my dreams free and make better choices about who I include in my life. I’ve seen some great people and I’ve been on some hideous dates (which taught me plenty in retrospect and have given my friends hours of entertainment). I’ve also let go of some lovely guys and missed opportunities with others because I wasn’t ready to open my world to someone else yet. I have no regrets about any of the things I’ve done or haven’t done. They’ve all helped me stitch closed some deep wounds and find an inner sense of peace.

So, here I am. 35 and (drum roll) single. I have no children and nor am I convinced that I’ll ever have children, which is ok.  First dates are so nerve-wracking to me that I can barely eat – so I always opt for drinks. On one first date, after much wining the gentleman thought it (justifiably) a good idea to do some dining and ordered everything vegetarian on the menu. He had no idea what I’d like (because I’m a foreign and vegetarian). I was absolutely horrified when tray after tray of food arrived and I could barely nibble on a piece of halloumi cheese without feeling nauseous. We didn’t go on second date, but I was truly touched by the way he tried so hard to impress me. While I was sitting opposite him feeling all those things insecure people feel – ugly, fat, stupid – he was finding me funny, interesting, attractive. I thought he must be an idiot!

Perhaps we judge ourselves most harshly. Which is possibly why we should lay off the criticism of others. You don’t know my story, my hopes, my fears, my dreams and I don’t know yours. How about we give the judgement a break? As the pressure on me increases (it’s clearly not going to ease up until I’m passed childbearing age) I’m just going to carry on doing the things that are right for me. I’m not going to settle for someone who isn’t right for me and I’m not going to enter into a bad relationship – just because it’s the right thing to do. I might not have a great love life, but I have a brilliant relationship with myself and with the wonderful people who populate my world. I believe I’m very lucky.

Being needy

I remember a moment many years ago. The moment when the first person who made my heart flutter, stood frustratedly in front of me on the pavement shouting: "Is there anything you need from me? Anything? You're so independent you make me feel useless." This was coming from a ‘numbers person’, someone (by his own admission) with a very limited emotional vocabulary. And I, with my endless words, was speechless. I’d thought being independent was a good thing. I’d listened to many, many guy friends complaining about their needy girlfriends. I was proud that I wasn’t clingy. I stood there one brow raised, as I do when I’m about to spit fiery words, but silence came out of my mouth.

Days later something was said. I don’t remember what. It was nothing meaningful or civilised and it was delivered loud and raging, lacking maturity or any thought of consequences. He needed me to need him and that infuriated me. I needed to not need anyone for anything. And so began my experiences of the complex modern relationship as my first love walked away defeated by my stubbornness. In time I would realise in winning that fight, I’d lost a much bigger battle.

At some point I went on to start choosing partners who depended me. That way they wouldn’t expect me to need them at all and I wouldn’t have to be one of those ‘needy women’. See? I could remain independent and in control even though I felt completely depleted all the time as I was carrying someone else. There was a point in my life when I was the successful one, the emotional backbone and the spiritual centre. I had learnt to keep giving with little in return. It made me feel powerful. It was the saddest, most exhausting, time of my life.     

I don’t have to run through the clichés of things women can do on their own – we all know the list. And, in the other camp, the guys are perfectly capable of doing all but one of those things on their own too. It’s not the 1920s. A woman doesn’t need a man to keep her financially comfortable and a man doesn’t need a woman to cook his meals and rear his children. We can all flit between the roles we need to (and want to). We’re all capable of surviving independently.

And yet we continue to pair up because life is a little nicer, a little more meaningful, in twos. As I move into a space of wanting to pair up again I’m learning to need. Because truly sharing your life means being vulnerable and letting your partner fill your inadequacies. That means admitting you have inadequacies. And it means admitting that as a couple you are better together than you are on your own. It means putting someone’s needs above your own and them doing the same. It means creating a new you that fits into an ‘us’. Redefining yourself within the boundaries of your relationship zone – and in healthy ways, a little outside of it.

There’s a lot to be said for independence. I’ve loved my years of being single. I’ve been fully self-sufficient, doing what I want, when I want to. I’ve rebuilt my heart, my core, my strength. I’ve taken risks, with little worry of the impact. I’ve made amazing new friends. Travelled to beautiful places. Slept across the whole bed. Spent ridiculous amounts of money on shoes. Eaten the whole box of popcorn, every last kernel, all by myself. I’ve been completely selfish. And as I begin again, I find myself ready to give all that up and willing to be needy. So far, it’s not worked out.

And maybe that’s the point. When a man meets a woman whose (healthy) neediness makes him feel like her hero rather than her parasitic host; that could be the beginning of something good. For so long I’ve felt uneasy about having needs and expectations – as have so many guys and girls that I know. And maybe I’m wrong but I’m letting go of that now. To have needs is to acknowledge your worth. I recently walked away from someone perfectly lovely who was completely unaware of (or interested in) my needs. As a result I felt worthless.

We deserve to have our needs met. Not just romantically, but spiritually, in friendships, at work, as consumers, as humans. We so often make excuses ‘I have to work late every night and over weekends I don’t have a choice’, ‘he really cares, he just doesn’t know how to show it’, ‘my boss is a good person, she just doesn’t know how to motivate the team better.’ The bottom line is that in making excuses for others you’re keeping your needs from being met.  

If I could go back to that moment on the pavement, I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I would change my response. I’d have accepted that I didn’t trust that person with my vulnerability. And that’s why it wasn’t right. And I’d probably have walked away adding a few things to the list of things I’d like in a future partner, rather than a list of things to change in myself.

In a dynamically equal world in which we all work hard to discover our place. It’s a constant compromise, a juggling act of priorities, where we sometimes don’t have a clue where our own needs fit in, or often what they are. The world seems to be pulling us in every direction, desperate for our attention, making empty promises and offering instant gratification. And yet, now more than ever we live in an era where we’re encouraged to focus on living our purpose. It all seems so very conflicting.

Even though it’s contrary to sound relationship advice, I’m going to keep giving neediness a shot (and I’m sure you’ll get to hear some tragic stories as a result!) I’m going to write down the things that I need – in life, love, at work – and I’m going to expect more from myself and from others. In being needy I’m also going to try be less selfish, because when you really think about it, a box of popcorn is tastier when shared.

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