Autumn (In)Action

So it has obviously been a ludicrous amount of time since my last entry. Who starts a blog, writes two posts and then leaves it for five months!?

Well…apparently I do.

Whilst I could make many excuses as to why I have failed in keeping track of my Murphy’s Law existence, the truth of the matter is this; this blog and I have a relationship much like the one I have with my gym – it takes all the will in the world to get me started, the process is mentally taxing and often sweat inducing, and in the end, I’d rather be sitting sprawled on my sofa indulging in a shed load of carbs and watching ugly people shag like rabbits on Jersey Shore.

However, I vowed when I started this blog, to write it no matter how long the interludes, and no matter how shameful the stories. So with all that said, I suppose it is time for an update!

The great news is I have finally wangled myself a job working at a major record label in London. I should state that before you all break open the bubbly, which is exactly what I did when I was given the job, the comedown from Simon Cowell shaped mirages is a swift one when on your first day you realize you’re actually going to be making tea and burning CD’s for those who are a million steps closer to Simon than you will ever be. The truth is, the closest I will come to the man himself, is watching him on XFactor on a Saturday night like every other sod in this town. BUT on the plus side, I’m in a bloody lively office with lots of people my age, listening to unreleased music and blagging tickets to any show in London I want. Considering I also spend most of my day ordering Addison Lee’s for the disgustingly rich and famous, it also seems only fair to allow myself the perk of ordering taxis home on the company using their secret passwords. Didn’t think that one through did they!? SO all in all, we’re off to a good start.

The man situation however is not so fruitful. Thankfully I haven’t spent the last five months a born-again-virgin, though it was looking like it was headed that way for a while. No, you will be pleased to hear that there have been some summer snogs and sexual deviance these past few months, none of which praise the lord, has been wholly embarrassing either. Aside from one instance that is, whereby myself and the lucky guy in question were mid-tryst when his lonesome dog decided to join us for a spot of voyeurism. If you think trying to ride a guy whilst a pooch stares at you isn’t bad enough, then how about the moment it jumps on the bed and starts humping your partner’s leg? And we thought putting on a condom was the biggest passion killer facing us in the bedroom...

Still, at least it was his leg and not mine; it’s the little things in life.

But as we know, Autumn is now well and truly upon us, and despite myself being more than happy with my summer dalliances being nothing more than that, I am now very aware that Winter is this way headed which in a city like London means only one thing; hibernation. Within a few weeks, all those coupled up friends that I spent many a summer evening in beer gardens or parties with shall most certainly retreat together to their warm abodes, preferring to see in the cold nights tucked up in bed with a DVD and a take away, but not before they’ve sent me a text to tell me to have a good night.

SO where do I go from here? In all fairness I could stay in and be a responsible human being, waking up smug, sans hangover on a Saturday but let’s be honest, that’s one affirmative step into spinsterhood that I’m just not going to take. I mean how are we meant to meet a man and become part of the couples hibernation club if we’re home eating our bodyweight in Humous instead of peacocking ourselves at the busiest party spot?

Well dear friends, I am overjoyed to tell you that there might in fact be a happy medium in our midst, yes that’s right, the happy medium we fondly now call; Tinder. For those of you that haven’t been exposed to the gritty underbelly of single social networking, Tinder is the heterosexual version of the now infamous Grinder iPhone app. Pulling photos from your Facebook profile, it allows you to see single people -you’d hope though I’ve heard many story to the contrary- within your area, who you charmingly reject or like based solely on their looks. Some have called it depressingly superficial, I however, call it genius. Heralded by The Times as ‘more addictive than crack’, I have now wiled away more hours than I care to mention being brazenly rude about strangers, and strikingly up oddly flirtatious conversations with others, knowing full well that the only reason we’re talking is that we’d most likely want to have sex with each other if we were to meet in real life. And that is where the real beauty of this soon to be million pound making app lies.

Gone are the ‘FOMO’ nights (you know the ones- fear of missing out) where you fight every instinct telling you to stay at home, in the hope that ‘that guy’ or even ‘A guy’ will be where you’re headed. Gone are the hours of dolling yourself up and schlepping across your city in the bitter cold just so you may or may not end up having a kiss with someone who doesn’t even take your number before disappearing into the mire. No, what we are dealing with here is the technological reality that you can give the thumbs up to someone’s face from the comfort of your home (and your pyjamas) before deciding whether or not they’re worthy of all the above effort, and therefore meeting them for a date.  

This is modern dating at its most time and effort-efficient best.

So as this flag flyer for the Tinder generation I’m sure people are wondering how my dates have gone so far. Well, to be truthful, they haven’t. As a newbie to the Tinder scene – and frankly one who’s always going to assume everyone I meet in the cyber sphere is a rapist until proven otherwise- I haven’t actually been on a Tinder date as yet.  But for the sake of this blog and for that of my inner hibernator I have this very evening in fact secured myself a date with William, (26, 3 mile radius, likes The Black Keys) for next week.

Will we have fun? Here’s hoping. Will he look like his pictures? He better do. Will I carry a rape alarm? Most definitely.

Whatever the outcome I shall be sure to keep you all updated and in the meantime you can count on one thing; if it’s a success and this guy ends up being my lobster, we’re definitely going to lie about how we met.

 

Free Willy

There are very few times that I can recall being embarrassed. Honestly, there really are. Aside from the very rare occasions when I have vomited on a club dancefloor (once) or been rejected as I drunkenly lunged at the guy I fancied (definitely more than once), there are very few things that get me embarrassed, or at least embarrass me to the point that I can't hide it. My secret weapon in hiding any embarrassment, comes from the fact that I have never been a “blusher”. Of course it would be a lie to say I have never got a little hot in the face- like the time I had to serve a pint to a one night stand the morning after the night before - but all in all, I'm just not the blushing kinda gal and have taught myself to breathe and use humour to diffuse any awkward situation which in turn, leaves me looking (she says now doubting herself) cool, calm and collected until said awkward scenario is over and I can walk away...and try not to throw myself under the next moving vehicle.

Having said all of this, there are of course chinks in my outwardly impervious armour. There are of course things that no amount of breathing, fake laughing or joke making, can overcome. One such "thing" is my physique.

Now I'm not clinically obese by any stretch of the imagination, but from around the age of 12 when I first discovered my school's "tuck shop", my body and I have been engaged in an ongoing argument; I want to eat the whole tub of Ben and Jerry's, my body doesn't. Of course, I win every time, but like the devil incarnate, my body seeks its revenge for said gluttony and its punishment is unforgiving. Hello orange peel.

Now most real women that don’t grace the pages of Vogue have at one time or another faced the depressing reality that their body will stage a coup against them, so, being one of these real women means that most of the time the stretch marks on my thighs, or the cellulite on my bum doesn't get me too down. That was of course, until I found it on my arms.

Wibbling away in the Topshop dressing room with that cruel garish light showing up every bulge, I recently stood there in my underwear wondering where the slim outline of yesteryear had gone and questioning how I hadn’t noticed my body violating itself this past decade?! I mean sure, I couldn’t miss the purply lines stretching across my now rather Beyonce'd posterior, and yes I may have caught a glimpse of the cottage cheesed dimples my mother warned me of creeping slowly -but very self assuredly-across my thighs, but when oh when had my tummy got bigger than my tits!?! When had cellulite, which I was almost certain only ever invaded women's lower halves, managed to worm its way to my exposed torso! I mean give me a fucking break here, on the bum is bad enough but at least that pain can be lessened with the right knickers or some mood lighting! But the arms! When and how had it got to the arms!! With a lump throated call to Annie and admittedly a little tear, I came to a crossroads in my life; it was either go to the gym and do something about this beastly disease, or wear a polo neck everyday for the rest of my life. Decisions, decisions…

So last week I did the unthinkable, and booked myself in for a trial at the gym.

After about 10 minutes on the treadmill (setting 2 clearly- you don't want to be too overzealous on the first day, that's how injuries happen), I decided I'd get a better workout- and could perhaps ease the leg muscle I was sure I had just pulled- if I tried the Olympic size pool they had to offer. That meant one thing and one thing only…a bikini.

Shit.

Now for me to continue with this story, I need to first describe the gym/pool set up, just so we can all get a clear picture of the horror that is my everyday, sod's law life.

At this swanky famous health centre, the gym overlooks the swimming pool so when you’re exercising, you can look down onto the pool itself- something which provides much amusement when you’re jogging on a machine and see some beast trying to butterfly- but also rather intimidating when you're suddenly the one in the bikini trying to sly it out of the water with, let's face it, a sucked in tummy highlighted by the less than flattering light.

Now, back to the horror at hand. Having managed to skulk through the changing room, towel wrapped firmly around me so the surrounding fitness freaks aren't disgusted, I slip into the water almost unnoticed. The pool is empty except for me and some slim-lined show off with a swimcap. She thinks she's a pro, I think she's a twat. With a great body. Damnit.

So there I am ten minutes later gliding through the water- okay not so much gliding as red in the face, viciously breathing in an attempt to keep myself afloat- when I look up to see none other than my brother's best friend and thus my childhood fantasy (that didn't stop at childhood) looking down on me from the gym above. Through chlorined eyes I do a double take.

It can't be him.

Oh fuck shit bollocks it most definitely is.

Weights in hand, like a bewildered Adonis he's staring at me from above, and within a moment the recognition on his face means only one thing. He knows it’s me. The pasty rotund girl in the centre of the swimming pool is me.

I died.

Heart in mouth, stomach flipping, hair in a bun, make up down face, IN A BIKINI. Ground, for the love of God, open. Though I couldn't see myself, I can guarantee that at this point my secret "I’m not a blusher" armour went flying out the fucking window. If only it had been heavy enough to drown me. Feeling as though I had just rubbed deep heat on my face I would go as far as to say I had turned a dark purple colour. Aubergine if you will.

So now I bet your wondering, what the hell did I do? Did I swim furiously away, lunge up that stupid little ladder and save the last shred of dignity I had?! Did I go up to him afterwards and breathe, joke and laugh off the trauma both he and I had no doubt suffered from seeing me in a bikini?

Did I fuck.

For SOME REASON which astonishes me now to think about, I froze in the middle of the water….and waved. Like a madman. Waved and waved, palm outstretched like a 5 year old.

It gets worse.

Though the waving is rather mortifying in itself, what well and truly hammered that final nail in, was that instead of waving back as any appeasing "oh god ill try and lessen the humiliation for that chubby girl that's always fancied me" boy would do, my crush looked around, leant forward, furrowed his brow, and gave me the most awkward slow wave in return.

At first, hand still in the air, I smiled thinking he had only just realized who I was (in which case I was a total arse for even stopping and waving) but as I focused more on the downturned smile, I realized that no, this was not a look of delayed awkward recognition, but in fact one of pure unadulterated embarrassment.

Raising his eyebrows to the sky, his finger began to raise with a significance I couldn’t yet fathom.

Suddenly the world was slowing down as the air around my face pressed hot into my already fiery cheeks. Coming over all insecure and a little cold, I looked down.

Yup, both boobs. Both boobs out.

My overeager waving from the water meant that Primark's very best bikini had failed me, abandoning my nipples as it settled itself southward around my cylindrical tummy, and so there I was, little old me, tits out for town, hand still in the air, in front of my first ever crush.

Of course my head went straight under the water as I furiously tried to sort out the stupid twisty bandeau with chlorinated blurred vision, inhaling water and getting claustrophobically hotter and redder with each passing second….

I can’t tell you how long I was down there, but I can say it felt like forever.

Eventually needing to breathe and having just about sorted myself out, I surfaced doing a 360 degree spin to find many a face looking at me. Just in case you've forgotten, this whole episode had occurred in the CENTRE of the swimming pool, for all of Gymgoer's viewing displeasure.

As I looked at them from face to face, I mentally thanked them for not openly laughing or grabbing their iPhones- I wouldn't have blamed them- but the looks of embarrassment on my behalf were frankly just as mortifying. To top it off, as I looked up at my crush, with make up'd eyes resembling Alice Cooper, I realized I wasn’t looking at the man I’d fantasized about since I was 12, but in fact a better looking stranger.

You would think that I would have been filled with relief not to have exposed myself to one of my brother’s friends but I then realized in one heart-stopping second that if I had only noticed this case of mistaken identity a moment earlier, then I would never have waved/flashed/died inside at my Bridget Jones existence, and in turn, could probably have gone back to that gym one day.

Needless to say, I practically ran out of the water, traumatised to the point that not even a steam room and sauna could tempt me to stay, instead I just hightailed it out of there and never called their recruits back.

So that was my Thursday night. How very uneventful.

Little remains for me to say except from here on in, I think it’s going to be a case of no gyms for me; just Ben & Jerry, cellulite and polo necks....

Ground Zero

So here's the deal.

London born and bred, I am turning 25 in two months time, and genuinely feel as though the crisis is no longer a privilege of the mid lifed, but has in fact slithered its way into the lives of every person nearing the dreaded Quarter Century; a sweat bead inducing point in time that I feel is definitely deserving of capital lettering.

I can actually pinpoint the beginnings of my mental breakdown to an exact date nearly two years ago. June 2nd, 2011. My 23rd birthday.

For the last 23 years I had been loving everything my adolescence had to throw at me. Sure I'd had my bad times; break up's with boyfriends, bust up's with girlfriends, and even the dawning realization that my cookie-cutter mother was an alcoholic; but enveloped in the idyllic bubble of college, university, good friends and great times, I was more than happy to brush aside all negativity, instead favouring the mantra of everyone's beloved Bob "don't worry, be happy" Marley, something I succeeded in doing until that fateful stroke of Midnight in December. Twenty Three. Fuck. When did that happen!?

So there I was, in my lounge with a bottle of Sainsbury's finest (Basics) with my best friend; ladette extraordinaire and thus favourite partner in crime- Annie, when it really dawned on me; I was turning 23. I had finished university, and after 18 years in education, I was finally free. With no career in mind, no man holding me back, no strings attached to anything, least of all sex (sigh) and no set path in life, I was free to do whatever I wanted, it was all up to me, and only me.

It was about then that I felt the heart palpitations.

See it's at these cornerstone moments in life that you want to punch whoever coined the phrase "the grass is greener" for being a know-it-all smug bastard. Despite the past five years being some of the funnest times in my life, fuelled by debauchery of nearly every kind, I had always yearned for the days where I didn't have to cram cheat notes in my knickers for those all important "you will not amount to anything unless you pass these" examinations, for the days where boys were men and sex was on a private jet to Monaco as opposed to a crusty sheeted single bed in a Uni hellhole, and where I could finally cut the institutional ties and be left alone to get a job, a huge house and live the London version of Sex and the City. That was my plan. Except it wasnt. At the stroke of Midnight I realised I had no plan. I had ideas of my life, sure, but no actual plan. No hard and fast way as to secure the dream trips to the Maldives, the big house or the sexy man. Oh Christ. All at once I was wishing I was back at University, bring spoonfed my every move in life, in fact I was feeling so panicked, I'd have been hooked up to the IV of life if they'd have let me, but no, it was too late, I had been granted my wish; I had finally been left alone to my life and what became of it was all up to me. 

Fuck.

So here we are nearly two years on from that fateful night and by now, I'm hoping it's become clear why I have felt the need to start this blog. Yes, 21 whole months on and despite having a CV bulging with work experience - all unpaid of course- and a now apparently irrelevant degree, I am still without employment. Many an inbox overloaded with resumes, and even a few phone calls bordering on harassment but so far, Im still waiting for a response more than "don't call us, we'll call you". As for the manhunt, it's going swimmingly. I have a very good relationship with the local barmen who serve me overpriced gallons of wine as I drown my sorrows, trying to forget the last person I attempted to facerape- yes, attempted. Still, on the odd occasion, I get a glass for free which considering I have to live off my parents because I cant get any paid work is at least some sort of silver lining. Okay maybe tin. And that brings me onto my final dilemma- scrounging off the rentals despite the fact that "at my age" they'd already spat out three sproglings, had a mortgage, were starting a business despite having nothing yada yada yada. Self esteem soaring.

Anyway so here we are- ground zero. Welcome to my world. Let's just hope 80's group Yazz had it right and the only way is up...