Signs of Singledom

Being single comes with unique characteristics

“Are you single?”

In the right context, it’s a promising question. It was half term Friday. I was mid-ludicrous story and being loud and drunk, when a relative stranger inquired into my relationship status. All it took were these four words to turn that my smile into my ‘I wish I could stab you with my eyes’ look:

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What the hell does ‘single’ look like? Say it!

“I can see why.”

You’ve seen it in movies when someone says the wrong thing; the scratch of vinyl as a record comes to an abrupt halt. That pin drop silence.

What the fuck did he mean by that?

Am I single because of my behaviour? Was he implying I had no choice in being single?

No, he meant it in the good way. There’s a good way. The “No man could handle you!” way.

It was fast becoming clear to me that this guy a) had archaic notions about the liveliness of a woman being directly proportional to how likely she is to be available and b) wanted to be kicked in the crotch.

I didn’t get it. He was recently divorced. (You can see why. I mean that in the good way.) He didn’t fall into his own labelling system. Perhaps marriage had made him docile and lacking in personality, thus more likely to take a bride.

Maybe he was onto something though. What if I do have distinguishing features that set me apart from women more likely to take a groom/partner?

I used to think I was a fun loving, alcohol abusing, wiseass. Little did I know I was manifesting the symptoms of being single and incapable of being domesticated.

Perhaps single people everywhere are subtly evolving. Currently we have the ability to be shown a genital shot at any time without flinching. Eventually, I’ll have evolved physically to have extra long arms, so I can zip up my own dresses.

Lord knows I can already eat a meal for two by myself.

One day in the future, we’ll all develop a Tinder shaped birthmark about our person that will fade along with our personalities when we meet our match. You know, the one who is out there, somewhere, waiting (knowing my luck, in the bushes).

Maybe then people won’t ask me stupid questions and waste my hard earned drinking time.

Photography credit: http://www.gratisphotography.com

Hell is Other People

The hunt for digs is on. What fresh hell will I discover this time round.

I hate flat hunting.

It’s a reminder that you can put a price on freedom and it’s somewhere between  £600 and £800 pcm. It’s a small price to pay for sanity I suppose. That’s only if this group of flatmates doesn’t drive me up the wall.

On the whole I’m a live alone type of gal.

I did it for 5 years quite happily and enjoy my own company. There was no one to answer to. I could have whoever I wanted over, for as long as I wanted. No one complained about me smoking, or told me I couldn’t have a pet. I could dance around in my underwear eating Cheetos, listening to Nina Simone.

They were truly great times.

The only downsides were when I’d freak out after a Special Victims Unit marathon and barricade myself in the bedroom with the cat for protection. Or when my pervy landlord would decide to pay a visit while I was in the shower.

It was still bearable for a rent controlled, two bedroom apartment in an up and coming part of Mexico City. And all at the bargain cost of £350 a month.

I should never have left.

I definitely shouldn’t have moved into student housing.

Sharing a bathroom is the quickest way of learning that hell is other people. There’s nothing like realising someone’s been using your razor to shave their face, or your Femfresh to shower, to make you want to use their toothbrush to clean the thick ring they left in the bath tub.

I don’t like inconsiderate people.

How do you fail to realise that your hair won’t clean itself out of the drain?  Or that screaming about your love life with your rabbi over Skype at 11pm on a school night isn’t considerate?

It’s a catch 22 situation.

They seem nice, like all people do in the wild. But you’re only going to really get to know them by living with them. Sometimes it’s great- like my first flatshare in Barcelona- or the well intentioned, albeit stingy, clown who would practice his schtick on me.

And sometimes you are woken up by a woman who has decided to dress exactly like you, in your clothes, and even squeeze her size 5 feet into your size 3 Nikes.

It’s like Russian roulette. Only instead of shooting yourself, you may end up with a flatmate who gets drunk and mutters menacing threats through your door, as you cry into a body pillow.

Let’s hope speed flat mate hunting holds a regular couple of alcohol loving, neat freaks to bunk down with.

Pray for me.

 

Situationships

Every now and then a guy will resurface on my whatsapp, or chat, that I’d completely forgotten about.

You know ‘dem ones.’

The mandatory maintenance text that outwardly says ‘sup’ but means ‘I haven’t forgot you. We could still hook up.’

The situationship.

These monosyllabic reminders of the fuck ton of bad choices I once made keep me real. They taught me to discern the fuckboys from the sexual opportunists. I can tell a waste of my time in under 10 characters now. It’s like being able to find my way home drunk. Second nature to me.

After oh so many mini relationships that went no where, booty calls who I’d catch feelings for, and average sex I could live without, I decided to stop wasting my time.

These people were not making me happy. I wish them the best, but they got all the time out of me that they were going to. If I was going to spend my time frivolously, I’d rather waste 20 pokeballs trying to catch an angry Seadra, than maintaining sporadic contact through a series of boring whatsapps.

I stopped getting in touch. Not because I was bitter, or mad at them. It was the sanest thing to do.

Yet, much like the elusive bus that only appears when you light a fag, the minute you stop bothering with some guys they step up their text game.sex-love-life-2014-10-text-from-ex-main

Why get in touch with someone you aren’t interested in?  Why assume some type of emotional vigil is being held for you? If you want to get all nostalgic have a wank over your mum’s Mary Kay catalogue, or watch The Goonies.

I don’t get guys who flip their shit because I won’t assist them in the delusion that they were my best pal and would put my life on hold, until they got their shit together.

Case in point: Colombian fuckboy.

It started with ‘Hey’
Seriously dude, get a thesaurus. What followed was monosyllabic inane small talk and questions about my love life, which culminated in him asking when I would be coming to see him in Colombia.

I haven’t seen this guy in 2 years. The only response I could think of that was both honest and appropriate was LOL.

He did not take this well and told me I obviously didn’t care and to forget he’d said anything.

1412194655565_wps_57_image001_pngtexts_from_yo.jpgHey buddy, chill. You text me. Remember? I was happily eating Jaffa cakes in a dick free zone when you felt lonely.

A month later my pal text me again to tell me he’d moved to Mexico and to ask whether there was a chance I’d be moving back there. Or was I still mad at him?

Say what now?

Nothing makes me find block and delete quicker than a guy who doesn’t have a clue. I get that he thinks he made a mistake. I didn’t though. Maybe he can use this story to hit on new chicas.

What he won’t be doing is interrupting biscuit time again.

 

The Menstruation Myth

Period, period, period, period, period. Are you comfortable with it yet?

When I was 17 years old I tried to send my brother to the local pharmacy because I needed tampons. Before he could step out of the door I could hear a mumbled conversation and then a resounding WHAT, before he was loudly told to get upstairs and my father stormed into the living room to give me a piece of his mind.

 Little had I known that my insensitive request had nearly turned my brother gay, or worse, transgender.

I was astounded by the ignorance flowing out of the mouth of someone I respected. A well educated, well read individual, and one who had no problem discussing fashion and makeup with me, hardly the manliest of conversations.

The line was drawn at periods.

The attitude towards periods he had experienced growing up was one where they were treated as a curse, a sign of uncleanliness, a burden women had to endure as discreetly as possible without tainting any innocent men with it. In the later years we managed to educate my father away from the fears borne from menstrual ignorance; he no longer handles a box of tampons at arms length, nor washes his hands compulsively afterwards.

My mum remains quite sheltered on the topic, like many Indian women of her generation. It was something whispered behind closed doors. Uttering it too loudly may cause your uterus to explode. She was taught that it was something to be ashamed of, something women suffered.

Maybe it was a good thing that she wasn’t around to give me the talk. I had to rely on my sister and PSHE for my information. My dad’s only recognition of the event was adding sanitary towels to the shopping list and then promptly reminding me I had to help him buy them, else he be considered a pervert by the rest of London. By the time she came home, my dad was now privy to my cycle, and I was using tampons.

Revelations that garnered an “Oh lord, the shame!” and an afternoon of praying.

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“They attract bears”

The ignorance surrounding the menstrual cycle used to really anger me as a young woman. Periods make women ‘unclean’ in my culture. You are not meant to enter a holy place when menstruating, nor are you meant to touch a man about to pray, or give offerings to god, and a whole other list of things you can’t do because you are tainted by your own biology. The most embarrassing part when I was a young teen, was you would be asked whether you had your period. I could understand this from a doctor, but not when all I wanted to do was step into a building. My mother would discreetly inquire if I had my period and if I did I didn’t have to go to temple, or religious events, or partake in religious ceremonies.

Needless to say, I was always on my period during such occasions.

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Yeah, he’s not convinced

For some of the men I dated ‘that time of the month’ was a punchline and an inconvenience. Periods meant sex was now a hassle. Ignorant fears of fathering a brain damaged baby, or seeing tampax in the bathroom were too much for a minority. In fairness these comments were made by the Bricks of this world who believe periods opened them up to bear attacks.

Most men my age aren’t that ignorant.

But that isn’t to say they are well informed, or that they want to be. An ex once asked me how I was able to be in the swimming pool of our local gym if I was on my period. Confused, I replied tampons. He continued to look at me awaiting an explanation. Why would he know the difference between a sanitary towel or a tampon? Why would he care? The Bodyform woman’s roar was obviously a signal to put the kettle on for him. What he could do though was wipe the terrified look off his face and stop scanning the water for Sharks.

A uniquely female experience doesn’t have be seen as a curse, or unclean, or a negative.

 Man up. It’s just a little blood.

 

British Comedy

Goodbye Europe. I always loved being inside you.

Since Thursday’s vote I’ve been a whirlwind of emotions.

Mainly disbelief and embarrassment.

I didn’t vote for Cameron and can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. But I was able to put my personal feelings aside to vote for something I believed in. A unified Europe.

Unlike some voters, who decided the thinking part was optional and eenie meenie minie moed our way out of a Union I was proud to be a part of.

Democracy has never looked like more of a farce. Especially when you listen to the motivation behind some of those Brexit votes.

 

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Oh Sunny, how do you not understand how a vote works?

 

Now as someone who knows a few Brexit voters, I can say not everyone is a xenophobe, ignorant about the EU, or the voting process.

Some were the children of immigrants and even so wanted to vote out. Not because they hate foreigners, not because they thought their eggs would be better from British chickens, and not because they expected mass deportations.

Some did it because they saw no future in the EU and genuinely believed the move could be better for the country. And they had their right to exercise that belief through their vote.

Whether you like it or not, that’s what democracy entails.

However the reasons below are a pretty compelling argument for an IQ test before you get a vote:

  • You didn’t think your vote would count.
  • You got gypped out of five euros last time you went to Disneyland Paris.
  • You hate watching the Euro Championship.
  • We never fucking get any points in Eurovision.
  • You magically want to see the country restored to all white pre- war Britain before you kick the bucket.
  • You think we are now going to become like Alcatraz and no one will be able to get in or out.
  • You believe thousands of immigrants and migrant workers will be frog marched out of the country and you will be given a pile of cash.

The backlash of videos, memes, tweets and updates have been hilarious. If you don’t laugh you’re bound to cry. More so when some of the dumbest points being made are given so earnestly. Full of confidence. Completely devoid of any doubts.

As one smiling lass put it:

“Britain’s on the map now!”

Yes, my moronic compatriot. That’s what mattered. Visibility.

There has to be a sitcom in all of this.

 

 

 

 

 

Vicious Cycle

The only person you can change is yourself

Einstein once said that the definition of madness was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

You can fall into unhealthy patterns with certain people. I always thought if I tried harder, compromised and practiced patience, things would improve.

But people show you what they’re about. Ignore what they say. Mute and watch.

You’re not supposed to call it. You’re not supposed to change. You’re meant to perpetuate the cycle.

My relationship with my parents is a vicious cycle I have often tried to escape from. The stuff that Grimm Fairy tales are made of. I’ve always been quite wary of people and their intentions as a result.

If it was still socially acceptable to dump a daughter in a forest for not agreeing with you, my dad would be all over that, and my mum would blindly second him.

Why it’s like this is a mystery to me. My parents have always seen me as a troublemaker. My mother says it’s because I was a horrible child. Always crying. Having to defend why I cried as a baby was a particular low point.

I talk a lot. I have a fiery temper. I stand up for myself. I sing in the shower.

Not everyone likes that.

I was always pleasantly surprised by people who enjoyed my company. Growing up, being me was something I was told was offensive to others. The friends with ulterior motives, cheating partners, and bullying exes were to be expected, if I believed what my dad had to say.

It was easy to leave home. But cycles aren’t broken by walking away. You find a way to continue them.

If I kept asking people who didn’t value me what I was worth, I would keep on getting the same miserable answer and feeling bad about myself. There were better people to ask.

Saner people too.

I have had nothing but time on my hands in the last few months. Time to sort out my affairs, make plans for the future and readdress relationships I have had that have been one sided, disrespectful and disloyal.

It’s made me happier, albeit a few friends lighter.

There is no winning at home. If I’m not there I’m ungrateful, if I am there I wasn’t welcome in the first place.

You can’t argue with that.

You can put on headphones on and look for jobs abroad, or somewhere else to live.

It’s nice to be supported and liked by your parents. But not necessary.

My sanity and happiness, I can’t live without.

 

Main Image courtesy of Gratis Photography.

Mentruation Myth: Trump Edition

When I was 17 years old I tried to send my brother to the local pharmacy because I needed tampons. My brother, being the absolute sweetheart that he is, said sure and took the money off me and headed to the door. Within 5 minutes I could hear a mumbled conversation and then a loud resounding What?! before he was loudly told to get upstairs and my father stormed into the living room to give me a piece of his mind. Little had I known that my insensitive request had nearly turned my brother gay, or worse, transgender. I was astounded by the ignorance flowing out of the mouth of someone I respected as a well educated, well read individual, and one who had no problem discussing fashion and make up with me, hardly the manliest of conversations. However, the line was drawn at periods. The attitude towards periods he had experienced growing up was one where they were treated as a curse, a sign of uncleanliness, a burden women had to endure as discreetly as possible without tainting any innocent men with it.

In the later years we managed to educate my father away from the fears borne from menstrual ignorance; he no longer handles a box of tampons at arms length or washes his hands compulsively afterwards. My mother however remains, like many Indian women, quite sheltered on the topic. I remember as a child, watching her lead my older sister away secretly and giving her a bag of things and when I asked my sister what was happening, she gave me that annoying smile siblings do: “You’re too little to know. It’s a grown up conversation.” A few years later, when my mother was not around to share this important information, my sister looked a little less smug and a lot more panicked when she tried to explain to me how the whole thing worked. I was terrified, no wonder people only whispered about it and would stop talking when a man came into the room. My mum would be away the rest of the year and my dad’s only recognition of the event was when he had to add sanitary towels to the shopping list. He promptly reminded me I had to help him buy them, else he be considered a pervert by the rest of London. When my mum returned, the fact my dad was now privy to my cycle and I was now using tampons which was worthy of an “Oh lord, the shame!” and an afternoon of praying. She will never see it as a positive, as something life affirming. She was taught that it was something to be ashamed of, something women suffered. I’m not going to lie and say it’s a pleasant time of the month, but I never felt suffered, nor would I allowed myself to be shamed because of it.

Maybe it’s that attitude that explains the continued general ignorance regarding the menstrual cycle. Some of the men I dated were aware of periods, but only in terms of it being an inconvenience. To them. It meant that sex was now a hassle or had to be moved to a shower. They may get their bedsheets stained. Or worse: father a brain damaged baby. They may have to deal with an exorcist like being. One who put you at risk of a bear attack. Yeah, these are the same men who believed it was impossible to get a woman pregnant in the shower because the water would wash away all the annoying sperm. From her ovaries. Men who would glare at you if you said the word period loudly or forced them to enquire whether female members of their family might have any tampons.

To be fair, this kind of attitude is better attributed to men like Mr Trump, Ron Burgundy, or members of my father’s generation. Not all men think women are untouchable while menstruating. Some don’t oversimplify the hormones involved by claiming women turn into a demonised version of themselves, nor do they ascribe being impassioned, angered or aggressive to the fact that it was her time of the month.  Unlike Presidential candidate Trump, who implied as much with his recent asinine comments. Personally, I think his inability to answer Megyn Kelly’s questions intelligently was what he should have focused on. More time preparing, less time blaming her hormones for your inability to answer a tough question.

Luckily today, most men my age aren’t as ignorant or sexist as Trump is. That isn’t to say they are well informed though or that they want to be. A few months back, my boyfriend asked me how I was able to be in the swimming pool of our local gym if I was on my period. Confused, I replied tampons. He continued to look at me waiting for an explanation and it dawned on me: Why would a man know the difference between a sanitary towel or a tampon? Or how they worked Why would he care? My dad hadn’t known, hence why I was allowed to just buy them, much to the horror of my mum. There had been years of Bodyform adverts with sexy shapely females, roller blading carefree, and even the launch of sanitary line, Carefree, questioning why we should stop because our periods started. But men normally switched off at this point and went to make a cuppa. So did my boyfriend have to know how they worked? Not really. Did he want to know? Not really. But could he wipe the terrified look off his face and stop scanning the water for Sharks. If he knew what was good for him- yes.

The ignorance surrounding the menstrual cycle used to really anger me as a young woman. Periods are considered unclean in my culture. You are not meant to enter a holy place when menstruating nor are you meant to touch a man who about to pray or give offerings to god. Not being religious myself, the whole idea seemed ludicrous. It wasn’t my culture alone though. In some indigenous cultures they would send the women away from their village until their cycle was complete. There was actually a time of the month where we were better off not coming into contact with anything for fear of spiritual contamination- something I didn’t quite understand. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the real fear was from actual contamination, women having accidents and soiling holy terrain. Once again something that seemed really stupid to me. The most embarrassing part when I was a young teen, was you would be asked whether you had your period. I could understand this from a doctor, but not when all I wanted to do was step into a building. My mother would discreetly inquire if I had my period and if I did I didn’t have to go to temple, or religious events, or partake in religious ceremonies. Needless to say, I was always on my period during such occasions.

“What bleeds for five days but doesn’t die?” Yeah, funny. How some men have demonised women, and turned them into a supernatural other just because of a biological process we have and men don’t, is worrying. I think it might do some men well to remember that without the existence of the menstruation cycle they would not exist. The fact that men can’t really experience this and can only know of it from a scientific stance, might explain the ignorant attitudes possessed. A uniquely female experience doesn’t have be seen as a curse, or unclean, or a negative. It amuses me that these female experiences are often depicted as embarrassing, horrifying and something men should be grateful they don’t have to suffer.  Only we’re not suffering. We’re just different. Thankfully, plenty of men already get this and leave the archaic comments to the Trumps of this world.