The Chat-Up

Just over a month ago, I announced that I was going to go out and have the mother of all celebrations for my fortieth birthday.  For a number of reasons, some of which were beyond my control, the shindig didn't eventuate, and my best mate has been at me to reschedule ever since.  Well, thanks to her incessant pleading/nagging/threats of bodily harm, I finally gave in.  Next Saturday, we are hitting the Irish pubs of Melbourne for a night of Bailey's, Boys and Bad Karaoke - but my chronic shyness has had a major resurgence of late, and is threatening to put the kibosh on all but two of these activities.  Fortunately, my best mate is the most stubborn, bull-headed woman in the universe, and will have none of my refusals or excuses this time around.  She told me that my inability to initiate conversation with men, (while sober), could be solved by the implementation of a time-honoured practice that has been used the world over since social interaction began all those years ago - you know, before women waxed their legs.

The icebreaker.

'All you need is a really great line, delivered in just the right way.  Men do it all the time.  It can't be that hard.'

So sayeth the tall, gorgeous, blue-eyed Rachel McAdams lookalike who has never had to approach a man in her life.  Still, a conversation starter might not be a bad idea, and I think I've come up with a good one: I'm going to tell them about the blog!

It might sound crazy to try to capture the attention of potential suitors by telling them that if we do decide to take things further, thousands of other people will be reading all about it.  Well, not ALL of it - I'm not      angling for an HBO series.  I do have to wonder about the types of men this approach would attract.  I mean, do I really want to share physical space with a guy who would read my blog the following week, eagerly searching for a mention of himself like he was trying out for a football team?  (And yes, I do know what that analogy suggests - shut up).  Some guys would understandably be put off by it, particularly if they had never actually read the blog.  For all they know, it could be a performance review, (something I would NEVER partake in, unless I was assessing my own talents, or lack thereof).  Everyone I've told about this, which no doubt now includes you, thinks it's insane and, you know what I say to that?

Thank you.

Why?  Because it's a compliment.  It takes bravery to put ones self out there and do the crazy thing, and if you guys think that much of me, then I must be a lot gutsier than I thought I was.

Or just crazy.

Time will tell.  

*Note:  I just realised that the phrase 'Take things further' may be misconstrued as code for 'Engage in non-committal carnal festivities.'  This was not my intention.  At least at the time of writing.          

Party plan.

I will be celebrating my fortieth birthday this June.  My regular readers will be familiar with my chronic shyness, and would naturally therefore assume that it would prevent me from doing anything to commemorate the occasion, other than watch 80's teen movies, screaming 'You can do better, you stupid cow!' at my TV with Bailey's Irish Cream fuelled fervour.  I would have assumed the same thing not so long ago, but a friend of mine said something to me last week that brought about an epiphany.

We were discussing the way some women treat social outings as man-hunting exhibitions.  They put on their most dazzling camouflage paint, slip into their shimmering, semi-backless safari garb and head out on a mission to capture their quarry, (I know, I mercilessly kicked the crap out of a guy for using the very same word in a dating 'advice' site a while back; I'm using it in a different context, and I can't think of another word that fits the hunting motif I'm running with - shut up).  I was never comfortable with it, but for some reason I just assumed (there's that horrible word again) that this was what I was supposed to do, given my age and lack of marital status.  The fact that I'm not at all interested in marriage did nothing to deter me from following the same carcass-laden track whenever I ventured out into the neon jungle, and I always returned empty handed.  Despite the music, the bright lights and the abundance of alcoholic beverages at my disposal, it never occurred to me that I was supposed to have fun so, invariably, I didn't, and consequently just stopped going out altogether.

Thus, getting plastered and watching DVDs was looking like an extremely attractive way to kick off my fourth decade on the planet, until my friend Patrick gave me an unintentional come-to-your-senses slap across the face with the following words:

Why does it have to be about men; can't you just have a good time?

It was a bit radical, but I decided to go with it, in my own inimitable fashion.  To psych myself up, I started cruising eBay for going-out clothes, it won't shock you to know that I don't have many, and before long I had bought three dresses, two necklaces and a pair of the most gorgeous vintage shoes I'd seen since I visited a pop art exhibition eight years ago.  Then I went onto Google Images and saved a picture to show my hairdresser of Lily Allen sporting a beautiful layered bob that would set off the nod to the sixties look I envisaged.  All this planning worked a treat, and now I'm as excited about my fortieth birthday as I was about my thirteenth.  It might seem anal to you, but believe me...

...this is me relaxed!      



   

            

My glittering anti-social life.

I was scrolling through the friends list on my Facebook page when I came to the realisation that I had more Facebook friends than regular friends.  I know I'm not alone there; most profiles have a one to two hundred strong friends list, and nobody can say they've actually met that many people, but what if I was to tell you that my tally came to a grand total of eight?  Yes, you read right, eight.  I then did some investigating into why my social circle was so small, and once again, my trusty laptop provided the answer.  The grid list that pops up on screen whenever I open up a new tab revealed something startling: I was addicted to social media.  Saturday nights for my flesh and blood friends (all three of them) consist of drinking, partying, eating food that doesn't come flat-packed in cardboard and meeting real live men.  A kid-free Saturday evening at Mel's is usually spent adding to the list of people I follow on Twitter who will never follow me back, eating pizza that could double as a steering wheel for Mario Kart, laughing at dating site profiles, and posting hourly status updates on Facebook (8.00 p.m: ate dinner...9.00 pm: watched Buffy...10.00 p.m: hid the painkillers...you get the idea). 

My shyness has been with me for as long as I can remember, and the reason I find it difficult to let go of, believe it or not, is that it has been as much a friend as it has an enemy.  Had I not been too shy to go out and play with the kids in my neighbourhood as a little girl, I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with writing as early as I did.  But who's to say I wouldn't have fallen in love with it anyway, at some point?  I have spent the past few days dreaming up dozens of plausible sounding excuses to get me out of going out this Saturday night on what my regular readers will know is the first date I've had in over a year.  Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?  Well, the madness doesn't stop there.  My best friend Corrina turns forty in two weeks time, and has invited me to her party.  Given the fact that she is the closest thing I've ever had to a sister, and that we've known each other since we were eleven and twelve, you would think I'd be dress shopping and writing a speech.  Instead, I'm sweating bullets at the thought of her twenty plus guests seeing me out of my jeans and judging my style.  I'm letting something I can control take control of me and jip me out of what will probably be an absolute blast.  What's worse is that I did actually manage to kick the shyness habit for a long time.  Once high school was behind me, I went wild.  A large chunk of the first half of my twenties is a blissful blur; I made all the mistakes and faux pas I should have made in my teens, and then some...it was awesome!  Somewhere around the time of my thirty seventh birthday, however, a toxic relationship (I call it a relationship because I can't think of a PG euphemism for it), and dozens of other little things ganged up to wage an all out assault on my ego, which resulted in me bowing to the irresistible temptation to throw in the towel and weld my rapidly expanding bum to the couch.  I've since dropped all the weight, but can't quite seem to shift the ten kilos of self doubt that's crushing down on my brain like a bag of cement. 

To put it simply; I know I'm a cool, interesting, funny person with a lot to say; the thing that's intermittently holding me back is that I'm terrified no one else will listen.  I feel utterly ridiculous just reading that back; I've spent the past four weeks or so telling you all to get off your arses and get what you want before someone else grabs it, yet I'm stuck posing for the before shot in a self esteem wonder drug ad!  Okay, enough of this.  This post was really just to let you know that we all have our down days/weeks/months/years, and that they do pass; whether these dark times stroll off at an infuriatingly leisurely pace, or streak by and jump out the window to a grizzly death is up to one person, and one person alone.  I am now about to tear that person a new one, thereby forcing her to take those dark times and send them to the Bermuda Triangle in a single engine plane.