(Too) Great Expectations
28 Feb 2011 Leave a Comment
I started off so promisingly.
Now I sit on facebook and email on a box office computer (since it is dead. Joy) reading about the success of my peers and crying into my keyboard. Whether they are acting, travelling or becoming even more qualified they are all surpassing me in the career stakes. When the highlight of your day is a grande skinny latte you know you’ve gone wrong somewhere.
Husband is of the opinion you are not what you do, having that classic 80s child rebellion from yuppidom fight club mentality. Whilst I agree per se with the statement I cannot apply it to myself (like all good advice. It trips off the tongue in conversation but in your private monologues the kind voice is mute). In fact I get down disheartened with the state of my working life that as soon as I get home I crash, unable to be creative in any way other than concoting a sugar based snack and turning the tv to csi or scrubs. When that is your most scintilatuing task your inner artist starts to weep amd chant ‘be afraid. be very afraid’.
And the most frustrating thing is I had so much potential when I was younger. Very few friends, no boyfriend or popularity to speak of, but so much ability and hope. I sang solos, was in orchestras and music groups and choirs. I even managed to be the geeky girl who overturned the stereotype to play the lead in the school musical. I wrote my own songs and performed them year after year, feeling proud of my progress.
Where did it all go wrong?!
Probarbly university. I don’t know why, but that’s when my inner creative genius told me to sod off and i found solace in mars bars and caffeine. I tried songwriting, I even managed one music gig over my three years before the duvet beckoned once more. I told myself it was the course. I had to focus. Streamline my mental activities.
This is called denial.
And yes I could rattle off many other excuses from my inexhaustible list:
I had a wedding to plan
I graduated in a recession
I suffer from depression (hey that rhymes!)
I am exhausted by my current mind numbing job.
Yet however many reasons with which I console myself, in the end I am still ultimately failing in the artistic sense.
Perhaps it is because I want too much. I fantasise about being tori amos/ carrie bradshaw/ helena bonham carter and natalie portman’s prima ballerina in black swan. Sometimes these dreams collide in one solitary day. However I can’t shake any of these hopes and ambitions, despite the misery it eventually brings. It would feel failure to accept defeat. And I know I am a failure for not reaching these sparkly far fetched ideals. Somehow I believe I should be able to do anything and everything, and am distraught that I am doing nothing. Apart from staple gunning posters and the occassional “hello box office?”. Self flagellation all round.
In an attempt to better myself from this low point I purchased a book called the artists way which has persuaded me to get up half an hour earlier each morning (in itself a notable achievement) to complete tasks, which promise to detonate mental tnt to clear the artists block.
I shall update you on my sleep depriving experiment (each second counts) although seeing as I spent most of my day today pointing customers towards a table RIGHT NEXT TO ME to pick up tickets (I might have repetitive strain injury- think I can sue?), coupled with the fact that I have a bottle of wine in the fridge with my name on it, I do not hold out much hope.
On that cheery note I may stick my head in the oven- well it worked for sylvia plath….
Do you really need another pair of shoes?
29 Dec 2010 Leave a Comment
No. But I want one. Actually I want several incredibly impractical pairs at this very second, and will be violently in love with several more unnecessary soles by the end of this week.
I don’t know where the affair started. Was it when Carrie Bradshaw pressed her nose to the glass and uttered ‘Hello Lover’, or was it even when Cinderella took her first steps towards love and freedom in magical glass slippers?
I suppose that Dorothy did need the ruby slippers to finally get back to Kansas, but to get her home did they have to be deep red and sparkling? It’s unsurprising that Cinders lost one of those glass spindly heels- one wrong step and enough blood would be spilt to feed Edward Cullen’s entire family. And Carrie Bradshaw, infamous style and sex guru is the first to admit her dizzying number of manolos is down to fetishism and not a frugal lifestyle.
Shoes have never been about necessity. In ancient Greece women could own as many as twenty pairs. They wanted a pair for every possible eventuality. And now in the age of mass production, airplanes and 70% off sales isn’t it only right that the number be increasing? If they need twenty pairs for their togas surely we need twenty times twenty in the twenty first century?
The torturously painful high heel which causes many to stumble or scoff is also by no means a new invention. In the 1500’s French women (ever the epitome of all that is chic and stylish) wore extravagant shoes with heels so high they were balancing purely on their tip toes. A little later the Italian fashionistas were teetering around Venice in stilt-like creations- a precursor to our modern day platforms! Except their creations were such an artistic extreme that servants were employed to assist the Italian elite to and from their gondolas.
We did not invent impractical footwear. I blame my predecessors for my craving for heels. And I thank them for appreciating how not everything must be merely useful. Occasionally it is acceptable for things to be purely decorative. They can be gloriously sexy rather than built merely for utility. Hence the emergence of the shoe fetish and what is known as retifism. Feet are not generally thought of as the most beautiful part of the female body, but in velvet court shoes suddenly all eyes are on them- even those of the male of the species. They are, after all, the only item of clothing it can be sexy to leave on…
However I have no problem in justifying my impractical footwear extravagances to the more judgemental faces exclaiming “you spend how much?” and most recently: “You bought another pair of boots?”.
Firstly my most obvious need for expensive stilettos derives from my vertically challenged state. Being barely 5’3” I require many high heels to diminish my disadvantage in society. How else will I reach the top shelves at Sainsburys?
Expensive shoes improve my posture, make the day look brighter and make me sexier. Even in a kitten heel you don’t walk but strut. You hold your head higher. Your smile is bigger. A beauty pick me up that does not involve plastic surgery cannot be bad. After all no one was or is as sexy as the late but fabulous Marilyn Monroe, who uttered these wise words: ‘I don’t know who invented the high heel, but all men owe him a lot’.
And finally come my more practical concerns. Of course I need a pair of shoes to go with every outfit. And, of course, it is far easier to buy new pretty platforms than to get my old faithful’s re-heeled. Much more fun too! Men of course can easily make do with merely a couple of pairs at any one time, but then apparently men’s footwear generally lasts longer than ours, and in fact stays in fashion for a longer time. Therefore women need to buy more shoes each year. In America studies have shown that on average men buys two pairs a year, whilst women splurge on five. If our U.S. counterparts can defend these numbers, then why can’t we?
But why are we so decadent where our footwear is concerned? The same girl who refuses to go into dress shops unless there is a rather attractive sale sign above the door will lay down a hundred pounds easily for some simple leather boots. Women who live in practical blue jeans and smart white shirts drool over patent platforms with velvet and lace embellishments.
Perhaps it is simply that it is our shoes that carry us through our every waking minute. To understand someone you must ‘walk a mile in their shoes’. So to be in another’s shoes is to become them, to take on their identity. The shoes we choose to walk in then describe us, and language would have it that they are more intimately connected with our personalities than we had thought.
Shoes are important to the modern woman, just as they were to the French bourgeoisie. They are often decadent and OTT, but beautiful and artistic too. We don’t often need shoes, but then we don’t need diamonds- and they are a girl’s best friend. I don’t need. I want. And I am not alone. I asked my friends if I am a footwear fanatic, and they smiled and responded:
‘Well if the shoe fits, wear it’.
Reading Rage
18 Jul 2010 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Arts, Books, Film, Harry Potter, Opinion, Twilight
Now most people agree that art is subjective. What appeals to one does not appeal to another. Yet somehow I end up feeling that I should definitely not like what I like.
For instance I love the Twilight books , and I am not a teenage love sick girl. I am in fact a twenty three year old married (young) woman with a degree in the arts. Yet when I admit this (yes it feels like a confession) I feel scorn. No I am not pelted with olives and thrown out of buildings, but I can see I have lowered in the listeners estimations. They then say ‘Oh I can’t bear the Twilight films’, and follow the exclamation with a damning comment about the screenplay/casting/direction, as if that should settle the matter.
For some reason people will judge a book they have not read by the film they have been forced to see. Other examples of this misjudgment include Harry Potter, and my favourite book; The Time Traveller’s Wife. Now I have also admitted to liking the Harry Potter and Twilight films. I enjoy them for recreating the atmosphere I so wished to delve into when I first turned the pages of my beloved books. But people who have NOT read these books have no right to judge ME for enjoying them, as my enjoyment stems first from the original literature, rather than from the film as a thing in and of itself.
As most book lovers know films versions are often disappointing. Anyone who has read The Time Traveller’s wife and then seen Rachel McAdams hideously miscast as Clare feels this pain acutely. What was a beautiful, original and haunting novel with a believable depiction of love and a terrifyingly tragic portrait of grief is turned into a shadow of its former glory. A long lost sister of the Notebook, rather than the one of a kind tome that flew out of bookshops as if bewitched.
Yet from now on when I declare it as my all time favourite work of fiction, the response will most likely be ‘Wasn’t that a Rom-Com with Eric Bana? Yes I saw that, It was AWFUL’
I will not be responsible for my actions thereafter.
Bad Day Drug
12 Jul 2010 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Coffee
Bad days are expensive. One by one things that seemed pretty-ok- not-perfect-but-stable-enough topple over leaving you attempting not to bawl your eyes out over their remains. And so we shell out money to fix these problems or to compensate for the loss we have suffered.
And so Starbucks is getting all of my money.
Before you judge me think about this; when I am at work and want to cry or scream and hit things (all three are bad ideas unless perhaps you are an actor and then it is called creative expression)I buy coffee instead, and look quite sophisticated and professional despite my trauma. A grande white chocolate mocha is much more socially acceptable than the tantrums I wish to throw, and the panda eyes my histrionics would produce. Plus whilst (yes I admit it) overpriced, my take away coffee is significantly cheaper than therapy.
And yes smartie-pants therapy SHOULD be free on the NHS but have you tried getting it lately? Unless you’ve started stabbing yourself with your letter opener and other various sharp pieces of stationary in public you are unlikely to be handed your free salvation without a marathon of hoop jumping. And the final jump would probably have to be off a tall building as a cry for help before they hand you over to the complimentary NHS PHD.
This is obviously why there are so many successful coffee houses all over the country.
They shouldn’t hide the service they are doing to society. I feel they should proudly wave their humanitarian flag reading ‘We look after your mental health, so your doctor doesn’t have to!’.
Quite a selling point.
So until my days start to cheer up I will donate my money to overpriced addictive substances. Though I think I’ll make a t shirt reading ‘Starbucks saved my life’. It might get me a free Caramel Latte.
The Mummy Gene
30 Mar 2010 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Children, Opinion, Woman
Most little girls grow up playing ‘mummies and daddies’ in the playground, dragging a baby doll wherever then may go, and believing that a prerequisite of happily ever after is lots of mini you and mes in a country house. So I guess it’s no surprise that straight after people find out I’m engaged, right after the required “but …how OLD are you?” question (yes I am getting married at 22, no I am not an idiot) comes the cheeky grinned remark about my procreation plans. “won’t be long now” they say. “So you’ll be starting a family pretty soon then?” they ponder aloud. And then I give them the answer that women are never supposed to utter:
I don’t want to have Children.
They step away, eyes wide and gasp “But why not?!” as if all women MUST want this wonderous gift.
And yet not all of us do.
Now I don’t claim to know my opinions will be the same in ten years time- who knows maybe my biological clock will finally jumpstart. But I do believe it is unlikely that I will ever want children, and this makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Women who do not want children are not the norm. They are called selfish for not providing grandkids, cousins and playmates. They ‘WILL CHANGE THEIR MINDS’ crow the grandmothers of the tribe.
But they might not. And why? Well I can only give you my reasons. I take parenthood very seriously (as I know do many women) and I only feel I could have a baby if I was completely prepared to put my needs, wants, cares second to theirs. For all my money, time and compassion to be primarily directed at the mini human I had created. And I don’t believe I could. Is that selfish of me? Perhaps. Wouldn’t it be more selfish though to give birth to a baby you were not ready to properly mother?
Mothers are all supposed to love their children no matter what. Even if they become school bullies. Or teenage junkies. Even if they are abusive and violent a mother’s heart must keep giving. And once again I find I am missing the mum gene. I don’t even find babies lovable when they are crying, let alone turning into juvenile delinquents. I was in a local coffee shop as I finished my iced latte one started bawling while its mother was queuing for her vente double shot skim latte whatnot. Another customer oohed and ahhed. I internally congratulated myself for finishing in time to leave.
I don’t hate children. I promise. The NSPCC ads make me cry. I have had my five year old sister in fits of giggles (mind you that doesn’t take much). I love children. I’m pro-choice but also fine with IVF and adoption. If people aren’t ready to be mums the children will suffer. Likewise women who crave motherhood/ children who crave parents will suffer if that need isn’t met. So you see I’m not a monster despite my unnatural feelings. I love children. I just love giving them back more.
What’s in a name?
07 Feb 2010 1 Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Feminism, Marriage, Names, Wedding
I am a feminist, and I am not ashamed.
But I would like to point out that this doesn’t mean I burn my bras, hate men and have yet to be acquainted with a lady-shave.
You see there is a middle ground between 1950s housewives whose greatest pleasure is cooking for their man (or sole reason for being as they call him) and the hairy anti feminine brigade.
I like dressing up in all my finery, but I don’t like that women are still paid less than men. I appreciate it when a door is held open for me, but then I also hold the door open for others, regardless of gender.
And yet despite being a decidedly modern feminist who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go get it etc etc, I have come across a contemporary female quandary which I cannot seem to navigate- at least, not comfortably. I’ll paint you a picture and see if you are any the wiser.
You walk down the aisle, whether in virginal white or not, to the man who will hopefully both love AND respect you for the rest of your life, and proclaim your vows in front of the people that matter.
And then you take his name….or do you?
Some girls don’t even consider an alternative ready to become Mrs whatsit as soon as they enter the world. For others the very idea of changing your name for a man brings them out in hives. The rest of us wade through the connotations and deep and hidden meanings, investigating a marital compromise before the ‘I do’. For instance creating a double barrelled name out of your surnames, or even creating a brand new surname combining both of yours.
The reason for this creativity?
• Do I lose a bit of myself by taking his name? Am I taking losing his identity
• Does this make me his
• Am I joining his family and leaving mine?
• Will I be the same person?
When I mentioned this to my fiancé his face scrunched up like he was trying to understand some of Einstein’s most complicated theories. Turns out he thinks of it as his name not his parents name, so I can keep my family (go figure!). And I’m pretty sure if I had any special attachment to my name he would be all for me keeping my name. And surely if he wasn’t the kind of guy who was ok with it, I would be marrying him would I?
Could it be that we contemporary feminists should just do what makes us happy and screw the worrying?
Hmmmm. This deserves more thought.
The Single Syndrome
06 Jan 2010 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Love, Opinion, Relationships, Single
In this post Bridget Jones generation of women we are all too aware of the plight of the singleton, and the disdain for the ‘smug marrieds’. However in supporting a woman’s rights to be single and proud, are we demonising those who have been more lucky in love? Are we forgetting that there may be problems within the human condition that a boyfriend cannot fix?
As a woman in my twenties I have many single friends and am more than willing to listen to them condemning the male sex over cocktails and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. They can declare their lives hopeless despite their professional successes because whatshisname hasn’t called and I will pick up the pieces with a smile and remind them how fantastic they truly are. But when I moan about family problems, my fluctuating weight and my unemployed status my worries tend to be met with ‘but at least you have a boyfriend’.
Now I do count myself lucky, don’t get me wrong, to have someone to go home to who laughs lovingly at my psychotic behaviour and hands me a cup of tea. And I love my friends, and can’t for the life of me understand why the Brad Pitt lookalikes out there haven’t swept them of their feet. But maybe, just maybe, we are pinning all our hopes and dreams on Mr Right when we should be pinning them on ourselves.
However wonderful my boyfriend is he cannot prevent my mother from having a mid life crisis. He can’t take away my mood swings and he certainly can’t magic away the credit crunch so that I can finally get a job now that I’ve graduated. He isn’t the destination but a companion on the journey. Perhaps it is easier than travelling alone, but the journey is just as long and nail biting, trust me.
Just as not all singletons are sad, not all marrieds are smug. After all, a man may be the icing on the cake, but who can live off frosting?
Shhh
06 Jan 2010 Leave a Comment
I have a confession- I would really like to be a writer. Of course I would also like to look like Natalie Portman and win the lottery. Some wishes are only passing thoughts. I get that. But a least if I write a blog I can pretend to be a ‘writer’, post the articles I write for imaginary publications, and pretend to be Miss Portman’s twin. Here goes…
