No, just...no.

It is a well-known fact that I loathe reality television - unless it involves cooking because, as I've mentioned previously, I am somewhat of a gastropod.  My aversion to the idea of marriage is just as well-documented, so you can imagine my joy when I saw an ad for a reality show called 'Please Marry My Boy.'  I managed to watch a couple of episodes before the urge to throw a brick at my TV overwhelmed me and I had to change the channel.  The concept of the show bothers me for three reasons, all of which are possibly a reflection of my increasingly cynical view of the world at large, but are compelling nonetheless.

1.  Why does it have to be about marriage?  While I understand that there are still some people who believe in it, is it really advantageous for a guy to start the search for love with the words 'I NEED A WIFE - NOW!' written all over his face in permanent marker?  It's positively Dickensian!

2.  The Cattle Call.  Choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with should not be something you take lightly, and weighing up the pros and cons of this potentially life-altering decision is essential, I get that; but is it really necessary for these guys to make women feel like they're at an audition?  I'll bet questions like 'How many times have you had sex?'  Never came up on Idol.  At least, not while the cameras were rolling.

3.  Who in their right mind lets their mother choose a woman for them?!  You'll pardon my creative use of punctuation there, but I find it both questionable and alarming that any man would relinquish control of his love life to his mother.  Any girl with a 'questionable' past (i.e: any girl who has had sex, hasn't been to church in the last five years or has her own mind) would surely be cut straight away, regardless of any and all great qualities they might possess.  And something the contestants, (which is exactly what these poor women are, let's face it), should consider before deciding to continue pursuing things is how far into these guy's lives does mummy's influence extend?  Picking the reception venue?  Naming the kids?  She's run his life for this long, who's to say that will stop once the vows have been exchanged?  I already have a female authority figure in my life to remind me of the myriad of mistakes I make on a daily basis; the prospect of adding another to the mix would make the idea of growing old with only cats for company irresistibly appealing. 


  

I don't.

My mother and I are two very different people and, as I have discussed here before, I suspect she's always been a little disappointed that she didn't get the best friend she wanted in me, but there is one issue on which we agree whole-heartedly: marriage or, more specifically, the determination to avoid it.  We came to this decision for different, but equally compelling reasons.

For mum, it was experience.  She married my father in 1968, having had to practically scream her acceptance of his proposal to be heard above the operatic din of friends and relatives trying to prevent her from making the biggest mistake of her life. 

She loved him. 

She knew him better than any of them. 

She could change him. 

Her honeymoon was spent in a sparsely furnished one bedroom flat which was extremely ecologically friendly for the time - thanks to the power being cut off the month before.  She hung in through seven years of utility restrictions, eviction notices, soup dinners and Dad's virtuosic ability to quite literally charm the pants off any female within a ten mile radius (including her bridesmaid and best friend across the street), until he finally exhausted her patience by selling their house while she was in hospital to cover personal debts.  The only man she has even considered marrying since then was engaged to her for thirteen years before the realisation finally hit that he wasn't planning on buying a partner for her lovely diamond solitaire ring any time soon.  Understandably, all of this has left her somewhat sceptical of the concept of wedded bliss.

I have never been married.  The closest I ever came was living with the father of my son in a de-facto relationship for five years, the demise of which, I can admit now, was as much my fault as it was his.  My aversion to matrimony, therefore, can not be attributed to experience.  My motivation for staying single, despite exasperated argument against it by my best friend who, bless her, still believes in happily ever after, is a selfish one.  I am what I am, and I ain't gonna change.  I have been living on my own for twelve years, and have consequently developed a lifestyle.  It isn't always a happy one, but it is a comfortable one.  I keep house appallingly, I shop with gay abandon, I eat like a condemned man, and I raise my son according to the unfortunately named 'Free Range' philosophy.  These are just some of the things on which I am unwilling to compromise.  From what I've observed of other people's marriages, the words 'I will tweak my life until it comfortably blends with his/hers' should be included in every honest couple's wedding vows.  

I suppose chucking the idea of marriage over mid-week chocolate feasts, relaxed bed times and a mild eBay addiction seems trivial, but these little things and many others make me who I am.  Were I to get myself into a situation where I allowed someone to chip away at my little habits and routines, I'd be losing myself, piece by piece, until it wasn't even my life I was sharing anymore, and the man laying next to me would eventually wake up wondering where the woman he married had gotten to.  I want love, but I'm not sacrificing myself to keep it.  I am a slovenly, gluttonous, stuff-addicted hippy.

I am me. 

If you can't see yourself standing with me before a full length mirror without wanting to flip it over, don't bother taking the tux off the hanger.   

          

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!      



   

            

Typo.

Despite strenuous arguments, denials, and emphatic statements to the contrary, I have had to admit recently that I do in fact have a type.  Not a physical one exactly, although most of the men I fancy do remind me uncannily of either Jason Bateman or a young Davy Jones, (shut up! it's the dark hair, dark eyes combination, okay?).  I do find a guy with brains, sensitivity, a cracking sense of humour and a healthy dose of arrogant charm more than a little intoxicating, but it isn't exactly about personality traits, either.  What seems to attract me like a death row inmate to a loose-moralled appeals judge is not the handsome guy, the cheeky guy, the smart guy or the funny guy...it is the unattainable guy.

You know the guy I mean; he's the one who, despite your best efforts, seems determined not to test the friendship.  The one who affectionately refers to you as his 'Best Friend,' or 'The sister I never had.'  The one who sends you a smiley face, then liberally hands out wink emoticons to all two hundred and fifty eight of his other female Twitter followers and Facebook friends.  You could carry on an entire Skype conversation with him, wearing nothing but a smile, and he would still regale you with details of his naughty night out with the deceptively sedate looking school teacher he met on E-harmony.  My mother sagely advised me as a teenager that, when it came to women, men loved a challenge.  Not for them, the loyal, dependable, readily available girl who hung on their every word.  The chick who promised them the least would invariably end up being the one they wanted most.  I don't believe this is true of all men, any more than I believe that all men love football and hate quiche.  Furthermore, I don't believe that it is an exclusively male behaviour quirk.  How could I, when it informs my very own choices? 

You could stick identical twins before me, each boasting the same dark eyes, the same cheeky smile, the same irresistible Buddy Love type humour and bravado, the same leg-opening sensitivity, and I would still go for the one cruising Facebook chicks on his Iphone.  And now I know why. 

The challenge of it!  Fabulous as it is to be wanted by anyone, there's still no better ego stroker than snaring the creature who you had to chase through miles of rough terrain to get a clear shot at.  The one who put up the biggest fight is the one whose skin feels the most exquisite wrapped around your own on the living room floor in front of a roaring log fire.  I realise now that I've been choosing men like this my entire life and although I know that it's a pretty self-defeating practice, I can't seem to stop, and I have to wonder; is my need for gratification going to end up costing me long term satisfaction?

Am I the only woman who does this?  Let me know in the comments...I'm begging you.  Lol.      

One Fat Mother.

I love chips.  I love TV.  I'm a size fourteen when I should be a size ten.  I also have a tummy I sometimes have to cinch into my jeans by pulling on my belt a little harder than I'd like to, thanks to the eight and a half pound male tenant who moved out of there almost fourteen years ago.  According to designer Karl Lagerfeld's definition of the term, that would make me a Curvy Woman, were it not for one tiny thing:  I have never called anyone, be they large, medium or small, ugly in my life.  Yes, I have been known to shake my head when I see pretty young girls walking stony-faced down a runway, ribs poking out through dresses that hang on them like living room curtains, but I don't disparage them.  Far from it; I worry for them.  I worry that they are making themselves ill in order to fit someone Else's definition of the word 'Beautiful.'  I worry that they feel they have to live up to the standards of elderly fashion designers whose opinions should actually resonate with them at their age about as much as a fly fart in a hurricane.  I also worry that they hate themselves for going balls out and eating a cheeseburger.  Mainly, I worry about what will become of their self esteem when they are batted around like tennis balls by the sharply contrasting appraisals of people who have no idea what they're going through; it's just as hateful and ignorant for a person in the street or in a club to dismissively tell them to 'eat something, for fucks sake,' as it is for their bosses to guilt them into staying thin.

'What would you know about it?'  I hear some of you ask, and rightly so.  Being thirty nine years of age and having a kid in high school, one would think I had more important things to worry about than how my butt looked in a pair of jeans, but the fact is, I do still struggle with insecurity over my appearance.  I sometimes worry that the sight of me naked might send potential suitors screaming for the exit, which is categorically insane, because I'm only two sizes above what is considered 'normal.'  When you add this to the myriad of issues I already have with my self worth, it's a wonder I'm not posting this from within a rubber room.  Despite this, I'm happy to say intermittent, lack of self esteem, Lagerfeld's assertion that people did not want to see Curvy Women didn't make me hate myself. 

I did, indeed, scream obscenities at my TV the night Lagerfeld's wretched opinion aired on the news, but it wasn't at skinny models.  It wasn't even at Lagerfeld.  It was at myself.  The words of an octogenarian fashion designer caused me to drop what I was doing, go to my room, strip down to my undies, look at myself in the mirror and say:

'Shit; I'm hot!'

Polar opposites attract.

My high school teachers, my schoolmates, my best friend, and even my own mother will tell you that I am a confounding mess of contradictions and, interesting though it might make me, this dychotomy can also be extremely frustrating to deal with, particularly when it acts as a roadblock, standing between where I need to go and where I actually want to be.  Correction; roadblock isn't quite right.  A more fitting analogy would be to imagine a giant fork in the middle of a road, with a dirty, sweltering metropolis on one side, and a hippy commune on the other. 

Most liberal-minded single women of my age and disposition would flick the indicator to the left, and cruise down that humble looking little dirt road in search of a fellow free thinking peace monger, only of the male variety, with whom to sing acoustic guitar ballads on the porch and make love in a daisy field.  I more often than not tend make a hard right, with no warning whatsoever, and scream through the city streets with a thousand watt spotlight mounted on the hood of my car, scouring underground taverns for the most arrogant, smart-arsed, right-radical mouthpiece I can find, just because my brain wants me to do the opposite. 

Maybe it's the rebel in me, but despite my left wing, fair's fair leanings, it's the guys who I know I'm going to spend most of my time screaming with righteous indignation at that really push my buttons, (the fun buttons).  If you were to line up my boyfriends thus far and make them sit a personality test, their compatability scores with me would be on par with Sarah Palin's presidential suitability rating.  Now, every time I enter into something with one of these guys, I know it isn't going to end well - the most I can ever usually hope to get out of these trists is mind-blowing post-tyrade sex which, spectacular as it is, doesn't last; so why do I keep making the same mistake? 

Shouldn't I know better at my age? 

The answer is yes, I should, and I will learn my lesson one day. 

But for now I'm cutting class to Skype with a hot guy in his twenties who plays guitar like the devil and thinks socialists are Commies. 

It's fun because I know it's wrong.

Hey, I'm not dead yet.     




    

Confusion.

As I sit here, pondering the failures and successes of my life thus far, as I tend to do when I'm terribly bored and similarly un-motivated to do anything about it, it has occurred to me that I have been complicating things unnecessarily, particularly when it comes to my love life (or more specifically, the lack of one).  While it is certainly true that I suffer from anxiety, mild depression and low self-esteem, and that they have impeded what progress I might have made socially if I were of a 'normal' disposition, (if there is such a thing as 'normal' nowadays), shrink wrapping the problem has only made it seem worse than it really is.  There is one obvious, divinely simple explanation for my perpetually static relationship status.

Confusion. 

I'd love a boyfriend.  Having someone around who shares my refreshingly loud and inappropriate sense of humour, who isn't afraid to disagree with me, and who can keep up the same mental and physical pace as I do would be delightful. 

But then...

I don't want a boyfriend.  Having someone around who doesn't understand that I sometimes feel bombarded and need to be by myself, who isn't willing to concede defeat when I think they're wrong, (read: is just as stubborn as I am), and whose opinions and desires don't always coincide with mine would be irritating.

To summarise, I need someone who is loud and funny, but quiet and contemplative; sparky and confident, but contrite and humble; sharp and virile, but on my terms.  Confusing, isn't it?  The funny thing is, if I ever met a guy with the same set of requirements in a girlfriend, I'd think he was a spoilt, arrogant prick. 

But then...

...most of my boyfriends have been spoilt, arrogant pricks. 

If someone could please explain the Darwinian cock-up that is my mind, before my head explodes, I'd sure appreciate it.