Life Lessons

This year, my birthday was an education. Putting aside my delight at hearing from some people and my disappointment at hearing nothing from others, many valuable lessons were on offer. Being an open-minded sort of puss, I've decided not to sink into self-pity, to bemoan that nobody loves me, to take up the mantle of 'not deserving better', and instead, I decided to learn. Here, Gentle Reader, for your edification, I present my anniversary education:

What I Learned over my Birthday:

• Don’t tell a man how much you enjoyed lunch with two other men – no matter how innocent an occasion it was.

• Don’t try to avoid embarrassment all round by cutting off a man who tells you he hasn’t got you anything for your birthday with the words ‘That’s okay. I don’t expect you to.’ - unless you want to open yourself to accusations of not wanting to hear what he did have planned.

• Don’t look super cute on successive days, thereby playing to any possible insecurities.

• When asked what you’d like to eat from the available options on the station concourse, do say honestly that you’re not hungry, rather than try to humour your interlocutor by saying you’re not that bothered, and do ask him what he wants, and not trust that he will take care of his own needs. This will avoid accusations of turning your nose up at everything and being stroppy.

• Do listen to the alarm bells that go off when your date nearly gets in a fight with some drunk youth who (admittedly rudely) bumps into him.

• Do walk swiftly away when your date turns on you, tells you not to question him, becomes aggressive and nasty and walks off. Do not follow him onto a train and attempt to make sense of the situation. Do not try to reason with him. Do not get frustrated and annoyed when he will not let you speak, interrupts, tells you everything you say is stupid nonsense and a lie and that you are playing out your issues on him. Follow your instinct and go home – alone.

• When you arrive back at your date’s house, paralysed by fear, either call a taxi or go to bed. Do not stand indecisively until you attract ire.

• When in bed, do not try to kiss him goodnight and end the day peacefully – nothing you do will pacify him or be right because by sticking around, you have tacitly colluded in his view of the situation. Telling him no, you will not get out of the house now when he goes ballistic at you, and telling him to fuck off if he doesn’t like it will ensure he goes to sleep in the spare room and leaves you well alone for the first time in hours. However, you are unlikely to get any sleep if you have a history of violent relationships with men – this situation will feed into your fears and erode your self-worth.

• After being driven home the following morning, do not let him come in to your house for a cup of tea unless you want another hour-long 'discussion'. Do not expect him to have the grace or the manners to wish you happy birthday, and if you do let him bully you to the point of submission, having the strength to tell him no, you won’t give him a blow job ensures the last shred of your self-respect does not shrivel and die.

• Playing into someone's need for control by accepting the answer that they have not decided yet if they will stick to their word and come out with you that evening only weakens you in their eyes and sets you up for more transference of their baggage. When he tells you he doesn’t need to do what you want him to do because you’re not his wife, understand that he is saying that more to himself than to you and it is no reflection of who you are. Future birthdays will be happier occasions if you can find the strength to tell him you don’t want to see him anyway, and find someone else to spend the evening with - preferably someone prepared to pay you more respect.
  

• Five hours of restless sleep are not enough if you are to have the energy to work hard and go out in the evening.

• Feeling frightened as you make your way to meet someone is a bad sign.

• Volupte make good champagne cocktails. The food is average.

• Watching burlesque will lift my mood, especially when accompanied by numerous cocktails.

• There’s nothing guaranteed to put you on edge and stop the conversation flowing more than someone telling you you’re miserable and hard work. Don’t expect that person to understand that the sullenness they accuse you of is impotence borne of fear of them. Don't expect them to respond favourably to your attempts at peace and jollity - you're more useful to them miserable.

• The passive aggressive will delight in offloading all his or her aggression onto you and will go to extraordinary lengths to get a rise out of you. This may include insisting you spend the rest of your birthday sat at the back of a crowded, noisy pub while he watches a football match on a television you cannot see, telling you ‘I’ve done what you wanted to do now it’s your turn to do what I want to do’, ignoring you and then telling you off for being grumpy and miserable for not wanting to watch the match, and accusing you of ignoring him when you resort to flicking through the paper and texting your friends. Detaching from the situation and amusing yourself by saying things to him that he cannot hear will ameliorate your boredom, but having the courage to walk out and go home alone would be a better option.

• Allowing someone to stay the night after they’ve told you they won’t will only let them believe in their rectitude and respect you less. Ditto sticking their clothes in the washing machine for them. While letting them get up early and spend forty minutes ironing their shirt dry will only irritate them further.
  

• Schadenfreude can be most pleasurable.

• Growing up with a mother who took your father’s shit for over twenty years before she left him does not equip you to stand up to men who treat you badly, but it does teach you how to endure. Realising this is ridiculous and that you do not have to put up with this crap represents progress. Realising you don’t have to be a victim or a martyr where men are concerned is healthy. Realising you don’t have to face every battle head-on is also healthy, as is realising the pointlessness of arguing with someone for whom transference is second nature.

• It is okay to be angry with people who behave like shits – even if they deny their shittiness and/or tell you you’re the shit.

• You don’t have to believe what other people say about you, even if they tell you you’re wrong and they’re right. In fact, what other people and think and say about you is none of your business and the less you care about it the better.

• Retreating emotionally from people who flout your boundaries frustrates the shit out of them – if they can’t get a rise out of you, they’re left with their aggression. Seeing the realisation in their eyes that they’ve gone too far and lost you is both sad and satisfying at the same time.

• Detachment brings peace.

• Watching someone rant at you then storm out of the house is upsetting but the sense of relief that follows their departure is euphoric.

• Unkindness is ugly.

• It is hard to respect someone whose behaviour lacks grace and manners.

• Unpleasantness is exhausting.

• Compassion does not include letting people crap on you.

• Space provides respite, the chance to process, evaluate and decide if things can be salvaged. Space also makes it easier to walk away.

For all the shit, I call that progress. Silvertongue can go fuck himself. Maybe I'll feel differently in a few days, maybe I won't, but one thing's for sure, I no longer feel I have no choice but to be a man's victim and suck up whatever shit he chooses to throw at me. That feels good.

No Cigar

Tuesday lunchtime seems a long time ago, a very long time ago. So much has happened in the interim that it requires conscious effort to roll back the clouds that have gathered in its place.

What made Tuesday lunchtime so delightful was the company, for it was my pleasure to meet and lunch with Ben and Bill, who turned out to be every bit as lovely as I suspected they might be. We met at well-known Belgravia gastro-pub, the Thomas Cubitt, where my yellow handbag and fabulous shoes ensured they recognised me instantly. Being gents, they were kind enough to buy me lunch and give me a copy of their most amusing book, it being the eve of my birthday and all, and we spent a good couple of hours conversing animatedly. Really, it has been a long while since I’ve enjoyed such sparky conversation and I found it invigorating, convincing me of the validity of the blogosphere – a place where we are drawn to people solely by their words and their outlook, and so find friendship in pure form.

Such a lovely afternoon looked to be followed by an equally stimulating evening; Jolly Boss had invited me to attend a recording of Qi with him and his wife – a friend of mine. He asked if I wanted to bring anyone with me, and knowing that Qi is Silvertongue’s favourite television programme, I asked him if he’d like to along. Of course, he said ‘yes’, so I met him at Waterloo Station early Tuesday evening where, after a swift drink, we met up with the rest of our party. The queue to get in surrounded the building, and we were not among the first two hundred to turn up, so were turned away instead. No matter; we repaired to a local wine bar and polished off a couple of bottles over conversation instead. It was most pleasant – everyone got along famously, and when we went our separate ways, it was full of good cheer – or so I thought.

I had noticed that Silvertongue seemed a little distant all evening, and he’d been a bit spiky when we met at the station, and yes, I had been mildly piqued that he hadn’t expressed gratitude for the opportunity of watching his favourite show, and that he had kept me waiting regarding confirming birthday arrangements, but when he turned on me, as we stood waiting for a train, I was both unprepared and shocked. In hindsight, I should’ve walked away there and then, but being a bit tipsy, at the end of a lovely day, I didn’t. Instead, I tried to reason with him, but that didn’t work and things rapidly deteriorated so I sit here, on Thursday afternoon, still confused as hell about what it was all about, but convinced I don’t want to see him for a good long while, if ever again.

I’m not ready to write about what happened, but it was horrible. My birthday was not a pleasant day at all, and frankly, I’m just glad it’s over. Where we go from here, I don’t know, but I learned a valuable lesson and came to an important realisation. I don’t even really care why he behaved the way he did, or whether he felt it was justified; I’m a very tolerant soul, but I simply cannot abide unkindness, and he was very, very unkind at times. He stomped out of my house in a temper this morning then later sent a text suggesting we give each other some space. I told him I agreed, that I could not relate to him at present and do not know where we go from here; our separate ways, I suspect.

EDW: I Pity The Fool!

For this week’s EDW, I thought it might be a nice touch to feature an elegant dresser who shares this author’s birthday, and who will thus be celebrating their anniversary today. ‘21st May’ was duly typed into Wikipedia and the list of births examined. Sadly, the pickings were rather on the slim side. Aside from sharing a birthday with three notable porn stars, (Briana Banks, Jesse Capelli and Belladonna), a serial killer (Jeffrey Dahmer), a Canadian wrestler who murdered his whole family before committing suicide, Leo Sayer and Ireland’s first female president, Mary Robinson, my fellow May-twenty-firsters, with the exception of Noel Fielding who was voted this year’s best dressed male by the NME (rather like being voted Bricklayer of the Year by the Surrey Tropical Fish Appreciation Society methinks), have not been lauded for their sartorial elegance.

Alexander Pope may have been noted for his elegant couplets, but in sartorial matters, he was widely known to be smelly and crumpled. And the less said about Albrecht Dürer on that front, the better. This leaves me with little choice. Hence, this week’s nominee for Elegantly Dressed Wednesday is Mr. T. What? Quit yo jibber-jabber!

Happy birthday, Mr. T. - never knowingly under-accessorised.

Cake and Cant

As Monday’s go, yesterday was pretty good. This was in large measure due to Minxy, who met me at Harrods, where we were duly quizzed by a reporter from a disreputable rag of a newspaper about our views on al fresco dining. Having given said views, some short-fat, sweaty bloke with a camera and high blood pressure or an alcohol problem, took our photograph beside a Bentley. Most bizarre. Then it was into Laduree for lunch, where we sat in the swanky black and silver dining room, eating light and fluffy omelettes and talking about blokes and birthdays. After a cup of violet tea and something pink and sweet from the pastry counter, Minxy kindly bought me a box of birthday macaroons, and we made our way up to the lingerie department for some vicarious thrills. Not being a shoe person, Minxy looked on as I nearly hyperventilated in the Harrods ‘shoe boudoir’, where the most exclusive footwear they had to offer was richly displayed, but shoes aside, the second floor was disappointing. I remember Harrods lingerie department as being one of the best in London, but although the store remains the largest in Europe, KaDeWe in Berlin far exceeds it where smalls are concerned.

From there it was back to the office, displeasure from the boss for having stayed out so long, and an audible ‘tut’ when I left half an hour early to go to physio. Irritatingly, when I got there, I was told my appointment was half an hour later than I had been informed it was when I called earlier in the day. As I sat brooding, Silvertongue called and felt the sharp end of my tongue. He was unfazed and just laughed at me, which made me even grumpier and not want to talk to him, so I said I’d call him back later, which I did as I sat on the train home, feeling decidedly sore from some intense manipulation at the hands of the physio.

On the plus side, it was remarked that everything felt a lot better and my shoulders are opening up noticeably. Apparently, it is rare indeed to see things improve so markedly in such a short space of time. As I start pole dancing again next week, that was very welcome news. But still, when I called Silvertongue, I felt quite tender – literally as well as metaphorically, and his brusque banter fell flat. He’s one of those men who likes to fix things, and if he can’t fix it, he’s at a bit of a loss and thinks one should just buck one’s ideas up, or get drunk, or preferably both. But he genuinely surprised me when his tone became kinder and he attempted to make me feel better, urging me to go home and look after myself. It may be a tiny thing, but a little kindness goes a long way with me, so rather than retreating further into my shell in the face of bluff, masculine insensitivity, I felt better, spent the evening pottering about, and took my sore shoulder to bed at a reasonable hour.

The truth is, birthdays are difficult for me. It has little to do with getting older, and more to do with a childhood spent feeling guilty for having a birthday at all because, really, who was I to demand attention and special treatment? I could regale you with tales of birthday horror, but will settle for saying that birthdays make me want to hide. If I get the attention, I feel embarrassed, and if I don't, it merely confirms my unworthiness. It's not logical, it's just childhood emotional programming and I'm determined to beat it. This year, for the first time, I've talked about my birthday before the fact, unapologetically, and although I'm not quite at the stage of organising a party - my worst fear - I am practising accepting the goodness that comes my way, and remembering that the sense of isolation, embarrassment and guilt all belong to the past. So, tomorrow, the 21st May, is my birthday - feel free to wish me many happy returns.

Gang Aft Agley

I’m sorry to report that no fingernails were painted this weekend, fancy pants were removed due to chafing potential, and the kittens frolicked in someone else's dreamscape. Instead, I worked hard. Physio on Friday included some new exercises, a lesson in headstands and some painful soft tissue massage, but at least it shifted the headache that had gathered. Then on Saturday, after teaching was over, I went to the gym, spent much time chatting to one of the staff – an ex-gymnast interested in circus training, took a turn on the exercise bike and then spent almost an hour stretching and going through the aforementioned physio exercises. While on Sunday, I came up to London for a three-hour yoga workshop. Unsurprisingly, I feel a bit achy today.

In between all this exercise, I met up with a friend I haven’t seen in a while – an ex-pupil of mine. We enjoyed a good meal and a proper catch-up. I’m fond of her, and like that our friendship has transcended the classroom relationship. It’s not something I ever initiate, but I am always flattered when those I have taught wish to keep in touch, and there are a few with whom friendship has blossomed. Such things remind me my teaching career wasn’t all bleak and unremitting misery, for which I am grateful.

So after a good night’s sleep and a morning of pottering and playing with my new toy (pictured left), a birthday present from the ever-generous Mac the Nice, I got on a London-bound train, regretting signing up for more exercise, when I’d have preferred to lie in bed and drink tea. Eventually, I found the place, tucked away behind London Bridge, surrounded my barbed wire and intimidating gates. I was late and stressed, but the studio was such an oasis of light and calm, that I immediately knew I’d done the right thing.

The workshop wasn’t your run-of-the-mill yoga fare, it was Acroyoga, and it was run by Jaqui Wan, a woman I’d been very much looking forward to meeting. Acroyoga is a combination of acrobatics, yoga and thai massage. I first read about it a couple of years ago in a New Age magazine, bookmarked the website with the intention of going, and then forgot all about it. Then late last year, two people mentioned it to me in quick succession and I took the universe’s hint and contacted Jaqui. With everything else I get up to, fitting some Acroyoga in proved a bit of a challenge, but a Sunday workshop was do-able, so I signed up for the May one.

As the weekend came around, I wondered if three hours of yoga with a knackered shoulder was sensible, but the workshop was focussed on back bends and chest opening, and turned out to be perfect for me. There also turned out to be only three of us – Jaqui, myself, and another lovely lady. Acroyoga involves three people – a spotter, a base and a flyer, meaning we were lucky enough to enjoy what equated to a private lesson.

The warm-up was thorough and intense. I’ve practised yoga, off and on, my whole life, but I’m rather out of practice so felt more than a little ungainly at times. From there, we moved onto back bends, and then to the lifts, which resemble assisted stretches more than anything. Much of it was familiar from my circus training, and from my yoga practice, but the combination was rather wonderful, and with its Thai massage elements, rather therapeutic as well.

I particularly enjoyed being the base – holding my partner in the air, supporting her with my legs and arms, and deepening the stretch by flexing or pointing my toes or, when in Downward Dog, getting a stretch myself as my partner lifted herself forward into a handstand. But flying was pretty cool, too, and there’s no doubt my shoulders got a thorough stretch. We started with individual asanas and moved onto sequences, working through the stages with increasing confidence and sitting suspended in the air, held up by the base’s feet in my armpits, was great fun.

I have no idea where the three hours went, but when we sat down for a closing meditation, I felt distinct disappointment that the workshop was over. I’ve practised yoga with many teachers, and it’s hard to find a good one; Jaqui was very good, and she made me feel nostalgic for my yoga bunny days, when I went to classes three or four times a week and felt calm and clear and bendy and bright. We chatted amicably at the end of the class as I helped her pack away the mats, and I found myself opening up, telling her things I generally keep to myself, because, believe it or not, in ‘real life’, I’m choosy about who I share with. Interestingly, Jaqui’s a little older than me, but in so many ways, her path has been the same – post-grad study to a career in the caring professions and then to a more commercial environment, but whereas I am wondering what the next step is, Jaqui has taken it, now working full time as a yoga instructor, and I took heart from her success.

We hugged warmly and went our separate ways. On the train home, I thought about my perfect day and how we always meet the right people at the right time. She told me what I needed to hear, probably without even realising it, and I look forward to meeting her again. If time and money allow, I’d like her to be my yoga teacher – it’s time I started regular practice again. It wasn’t until I got home that I realised how knackered it was, so after a light supper, I took myself off to bed, determined to focus and break down the block that currently frustrates me; my enormous fear of success.

Peonies and Pearls, Macaroons and Manicures

Yesterday was dull as ditchwater with the exception of two things. Firstly, I received my first birthday card – a most amusing missive, complete with little present inside from the delicious Amy Tree. Being the queen of delayed gratification, I have resisted opening said gift and will save it for my actual birthday next Wednesday. Gratitude and thanks to Amy for her generosity and kind thoughts – what a star she is.

Secondly, The Boy Racer sent a text also wishing me a happy birthday – only six days early, but more than he usually manages, so I was touched. But that was it. Physio was postponed until today, and it appears I didn’t write down an acupuncture appointment because they called last night asking where I was. Arse. And now I can’t see him until the middle of June. Double arse. Prayers to the migraine fairies are needed because typically, I feel a headache coming on.

This may explain the slightly manic compulsion to spend money that has gripped me this week. Sadly, being poor as the proverbial church mouse, I cannot indulge myself, but there’s a definite sense of entitlement at play, which I’m going to put down to the impending birthday – after all, if you can’t spend frivolously on yourself for your birthday, when can you? I spent yesterday lunchtime looking lasciviously at strings of pearls in the jewellers and even went so far as to try on a 60” string of the things. The effect was instant, and I found myself feeling every inch the flapper. Sadly, they went back into the case and I carried my covetousness elsewhere. Sigh.

From there I found myself toying with the idea of a lunchtime manicure, another extravagance I cannot justify. And then moved on to staring wistfully at fat bunches of pink peonies – one of my favourite flowers and just in season, before considering a quick trip to Laduree for macaroons. But like a good puss, I simply bought myself a fresh roll to eat with the homemade leek and potato soup waiting for me back at the office and cursed my penury.

Birthdays bring out the girl in me, it seems. When The Pink Pound called that afternoon asking about my birthday plans, I agreed to let him buy me a celebratory cocktail somewhere glamorous. And this weekend, I am determined to paint my own fingernails, wear inadequate but devastatingly pretty knickers, and dream of kittens. Probably.

Let's Get Physical

It’s been a long time since I’ve set foot in a gym. As a general rule, I find them obnoxious – full of cliques and narcissism and petty competition, but as I’m not able to train on the trapeze and pole at the moment, and as I think I should probably be doing more cardio, and as I couldn’t get my tits into that pretty dress I ordered, I thought it was time I took action. So, my local gym has kindly offered me a students’ temporary pass; one month for £40, which will tide me over nicely until classes and courses start at the beginning of June.

Coming out of the train station last night, I turned left instead of right and stepped into the air conditioned starkness of the gym. The staff were very nice, but I was on my own, so felt bit of a prat as I walked into the changing room. Between yoga, pole dance and aerial circus training, I don’t really own any garments that might be considered especially suitable for the gym – everything is either baggy, teeny-tiny, or lycra and tight. I opted for lycra and tight, pulled on a pair of leggings and a vest, and feeling self-conscious but determined not to care, I made my way into the gym. I headed straight for the exercise bikes, set up one of those programmes on it, and pedalled away for half an hour up steep hills. It was hard work, and it was also very dull, so I started to look about me at my fellow exercisers.

As I said, historically, I’ve always felt very inadequate in these places – everyone else seems to know what they are doing, and they go about it joylessly, sneaking looks at everyone else out of the corners of their eyes. The same was true here, but I just found it funny, and realised I wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Now that I train with some remarkable people – people with strength and grace and flexibility that are genuinely impressive, my perspective appears to have shifted. Next to my pole and trapeze pals, I often feel fat and stiff, but next to your average gym bunny, I realised I am comparatively strong and graceful and flexible myself. It probably seems an obvious point to make, but it became very apparent when I got off the bike – heart pounding, and took advantage of the nice warm muscles by having a good stretching session. People openly gawped at me, which was most disconcerting, so I focussed intently on the spot just in front of me and did not look up until I’d finished half an hour later. Then I left, quickly, and walked home feeling disgustingly virtuous.

Shortly after arriving at Chez Glamour, Silvertongue rang, in the midst of my endorphin rush, and told me, yes, I should eat something. He wasn’t feeling well and sounded groggy, but confessed he was still wearing my knickers. See? I told you he was a pervert. We bantered pleasantly, he said he’d be happy to take me out on my birthday, and that he was up for seeing some more contemporary dance soon, which kind of surprises me, but which also weighs in his favour. I left him to his early night and spent the next hour or so trying not to watch The Apprentice, but finding myself horribly drawn in by it all – are there people really that stupid, un-self-aware, and deluded about their own abilities? It must surely be a joke, mustn’t it?

Admittedly, I feel a little stiff today, but I’m going to aim for four visits a week and so hope to get into the swing of it shortly. If I’m honest, it almost feels like penance and I simply cannot understand how anyone could enjoy the boring, mindless, repetitive tasks a gym offers. Standing in front of a huge mirror watching myself puff and sweat is uniformly unpleasant – give me the challenge of a pole or a trapeze any day. But there’s nothing to be done, so I must focus on the outcome and dream of a return to the things I love.