Lessons in Love

I've been in my element this last week watching a series of programmes on Channel 4 about people looking for love. A fly on the wall documentary, filmed in a restaurant where singletons meet potential suitors for the first time. Particular favourites were 62 year old glamour puss Lynda, whose party piece was doing the splits. She was widowed and searching for a new partner in crime. Then there was the confident 22 year old Londoner who confused himself with JayZ and tried to impress by rapping through most of dinner. A stark contrast to the guy who’s hands shook as he presented his date with a box of chocolates. Some had no clue how to impress; others were hitting it off and having a rare old time. All were open to opportunity and putting themselves forward to at least give it a go.

If you've been following this blog since the very beginning you’ll know that I once ran a dating agency and that I go weak at the knees for a bit of old fashioned romance. This could be the result of reading Rapunzel and Cinderella stories as a child, or my teenage years spent watching Dirty Dancing and longing for someone to say ‘Nobody puts Baby Annie in the corner’. Whatever the reason I just can’t help myself when it comes to affairs of the heart and it seems I'm not alone.

On the tube home the other day a guy was attempting to chat up a girl, and from her body language the attraction was mutual. The 50 something year old man seated beside me winked and said ‘I hope he gets her number.’ The whole carriage tuned in and we were all fighting the temptation to shout ‘Just Ask Her Out’!!!! Everyone loves a bit of romance.

I'm no relationship expert but I think there are lessons for us all to learn in love regardless of our situation. The singletons, the happily married, those who stay with a partner because they are scared of being alone, the ones who want to fix things but can’t find the words to make that happen, the lonely, the stubborn, the dreamers.

The lessons in love are there for all to see if you look closely enough. The parts of the stories I, we, choose to ignore are the blatantly obvious ‘in your face’ realities. I mean can you imagine how painful it must have been for poor Rapunzel’s head whilst that bloke climbed up her ponytail into the tower? Or how nervous Cinderella must have been prancing around in a pair of slippers that were made from glass? Ouch!

If Rapunzel had a voice she’d tell you straight that love can give you a headache but sometimes it's worth buying extra strength conditioner for your hair. Cinderella would show you the blisters she bears from dressing to impress her beau whilst telling you there’s nothing better than shiny new shoes.

Compromise isn't sexy but if you want love to last it seems to be part of the deal. In order to find love in the first place you've got to be willing to give it a go, so next time you're on the subway take your headphones off, put down that paper and have a good look around. You just never know .....

Too Old

More and more I find myself saying the words ‘I’m too old for that’ to which people reply with a list of reasons why I’m not old. I know I’m not old. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow and die people will say, ‘It’s terrible. She was only 37’. So let me explain what I mean and why at this stage in my life, being too old is something worth celebrating.

Yesterday, in a cold and rainy Glasgow, whilst queuing in a shop, I found myself looking at a young woman’s bottom. I prefer big strapping men with hairy chests so this was quite unusual, but it was hard to miss. As I placed my shopping basket on the floor my eyes were in line with her tiny shorts, where her peachy cheeks were on display for all to see. She looked great but I'm so happy that I'm too old to dress like that. My days of literally freezing my ass off in the name of fashion, and the self-consciousness that goes with it, are long gone.

I'm so happy that I'm too old to fancy boys in low slung, waddle walking jeans, with One Direction haircuts. My youth was spent fantasising about Michael Hutchence and Jim Morrison, and let’s not put the cat amongst the pigeons, with those double denim hunks from Bros. 

I'm so happy that I'm too old to go clubbing. My days of batting my eyelashes at the bouncer to try and jump the queue, paying a tenner to get in, and fighting for room on the dance floor are over. Nowadays I do my dancing at gigs, house parties and weddings.

I'm so happy that I'm too old to not be taken seriously because I'm ‘only young’!

Being too old is brilliant because it means that I have worn the mini-skirts, had the bad perm and found out the hard way that drinking Sambuca shots was not a clever idea. I've had my heart broken by a bad boy and know real love isn't like that. Being too old means I don't put up with any nonsense, I've stood up to the pushy people, and found my voice to say No when I was expected to say Yes. I've learned who my real friends are and stuck to them like glue. Some of these experiences were exciting adventures, others big mistakes or huge disappointments but I don't regret any of them. Most were great fun!

So perhaps I need to change my expression from ‘ I'm too old’ to ‘I don’t want to do that any more'.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I'm going out tonight and need to try on every outfit in my wardrobe, faff around for half an hour and then decide to wear the first thing I tried on. I might be too old for hot pants but some things never change …..

image via SomeECards.com

Love at First Sight

This is just beautiful. Take seven minutes out of your life to watch this little film, I guarantee it will make you smile and might even give you some hope!
(If only people's emotions were so obvious as to be sticking out of their chest!)

Vintage Lies and Tangled Webs

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when we practise to deceive.

Lying comes in different forms ranging from the little white lie, the porky pie, the fib or half-truth to the big brazen bare faced variety. Some roll off the tongue to spare people’s feelings whilst others are told to save ourselves….think Lance Armstrong, Tiger Woods, politicians.

In the scale of lying there is a gaping void between claiming the tasteless meal you just ate was delicious, and breaking the Oath made from the witness stand in a court room. It may be that you have been the one to tell the lie or the one on the receiving end. Either way dishonesty has a habit of rearing it's ugly head.

What is the correct term for a situation where an individual intentionally misleads you for their own advantage? They know something that you don’t, but they choose not to tell you in order to get what they want. Does that count as a lie or does it depend on your own moral compass? Does it matter if those involved are strangers, or friends, or lovers?

What about vintage lies? Does discovering now that someone lied to you years ago have little or more punch? Does it sting less when you no longer have the liar in your life? Do you confront the liar and ask them about it? Would you believe their explanation? Does it really matter now?

I've heard of skeletons in the closet but being slapped in the face with a vintage lie is a new experience that I encountered just recently. This vintage lie was told many moons ago by someone who I now rarely see but still have the highest respect and affection for. A person I considered to be a straight talker, one of the good guys, someone I could trust.

The truth was revealed by sheer chance, a random conversation about the past. I doubt the lie was told with malicious intent but it definitely hid the truth and in doing so was unfair and very selfish.

Am I angry about it? I probably should be, but no, I'm not angry.

Am I surprised? Yes, quite shocked in fact.

Am I disappointed? I'm absolutely gutted.

I've had plenty time to think about it and think about my feelings for this person. What did I learn from this experience? Well it's simple - Pedestals are for vases, not people. Everyone makes mistakes, some forgiveable, some not.

What would I like the liar to learn?.... That tangled webs are for spiders and when you really care for someone, they deserve the truth, even if it hurts.

Honesty is always the best policy.

Lost & Found at Harthill Services

Eighteen years ago I dreamed of travelling around France in a camper van, paying my way by working in bars or beach cafes. Instead, I was at college in Edinburgh studying to qualify for a job that I didn't want to do. Like most teenagers I was influenced by the good intentions of adults in my life, who wanted the best for me and who believed that the ‘best’ route was an education. I wasn't strong enough, or good enough at arguing, to follow my dreams so the camper van idea was parked, never to get out the driveway. 

At the start of each term we’d load up the car and drive from Ayr to Edinburgh to the Halls of Residence where I lived. We’d stop at Harthill Services where I’d listen to a pep talk intended to motivate me, to help me appreciate the opportunity I was being given, and to encourage me to knuckle down and just get on with it. The reality was.... I’d feel sick with dread. I lasted one year at college where on the whole I was desperately unhappy, hated not having a job and earning money, and despite making good friends I felt very isolated. I left and got a job as a hotel receptionist where I embraced the real world and educated myself at the school of life. I struggle to think of anything I learned in that year at college that helped me get on in life.

In my 20's I regularly found myself at Harthill Services filling up the car with petrol en route to Edinburgh. For years the place triggered unhappy memories and a feeling of sadness. It reminded me of a book I’d read in school, Death of A Salesman by Arthur Miller, because of all the grey haired men in grey suits, eating sandwiches in their cars on the way to their next meeting. The daily grind was taking it's toll as they all looked miserable. I never want to be grey haired and asking myself the question...what was I working for? Was it worth it? A steady income is one thing but surely life is for living? The important things in life can't be found in a bank account.

Last Sunday, driving back from Fife, where I had visited a good friend from those aforementioned college days, I found myself in the car park of Harthill services. A sanctuary from the snow and hail storm that had made driving too risky. The sinking feeling the place usually gives me had finally gone. 

I thought about my eighteen year old self and the person that I have become. I thought about the experiences, good, bad and ugly, that have shaped my life and the friends I have known since my teenage years. I thought of how far we have come and what we have achieved, and for the first time ever, Harthill Services made me smile. I was thinking of the future not the past.

This blog post has been kicking around in my head for a while. If you spend Monday morning longing for 5pm on Friday ask yourself this question; What would make me happy? Lots of people will answer with statements about having responsibilities and mortgages and bills to pay. I'm not suggesting for a second that you ditch your job and let your children go hungry. I'm just suggesting that there may be more options than A or B. You don't need to follow the crowd down the allocated path.

If you really want change then make it less scary by breaking it down into bite sized chunks. Take an evening class, cut down your hours to 4 days a week and with the 5^th day gain experience in something that you are really passionate about. Explore the options and if an opportunity arises, grab it with both hands. And if an opportunity doesn’t arise? Go out and find it.

I've always known my own mind, but at eighteen I struggled to find my feet. Now in my 30's I know that standing up for what you believe in, being brave enough to make your own path and following your own dreams, not the dreams of other people, is the best way to find happiness.

Comments welcome.