Where do I begin?.... How about the truth? Ladies we lie, lie, lie and then lie again to cover up the lies. And what makes it worse is that we’re lying to the very people we should be shouting the truth to; ourselves and our loved ones.
For years I have watched blissfully content couples parading about the place as though they were the embodiment of purity. I, the manifestation of singledom, watched in awe awaiting the day this loving harmony were lavished upon me by my doting man. HAHAHAHAHA the day has arrived and by God, harmony is hard frikkin work! My youthful radiant spot free skin is increasingly looking strained and haggard and in constant need of Clearasil (a product designed for anxious spotty teenagers, not grown ass women in their 30s) and my once black locks, have more than a handful of startling silver strands taking root. Bliss, ha, that’s a thing of romanticised idealism.
THIS IS MY TRUTH:
Pretty much a month into our relationship the topic of us living together was broached and has since been a regular feature in our conversation. The irony is it comes from him! I tell you metrosexual men come in all shapes and sizes and mine happens to be a hot 38 year old Turkish man desperate to be married. The dude won’t ease up. He already has his slippers and robe firmly planted in my house, now he wants to move the rest of his gear and be done. When did the world turn on its head? When did men seek to drive the pace of a relationship hurtling towards marriage? You don’t see this in any rom coms featuring Sandra Bullock. Blame 1990s r ‘n’ b for my disobedience. Its reared a whole generation of women, myself included, who want to ‘creep’ around, saying ‘no, no, no’ to traditional relationships, and when the men start crying and bithcin, we do like Monica and say ‘Don’t take it personal (Just one of dem days)’.
My bed is my sanctuary. Disgusting as it may be, it is where I spend most of my home time. Eating, drinking, watching movies, surfing the web, painstakingly assessing my life, doing my pointless stomach exercises - with the aid of the springs for elevation, reading & writing have all been known to occur from the solace of my bed. I also love my sleep. I cringe at those annoyingly spritely people who jump out of bed after a mere five hours sleep ready to take on the day. I set my alarm a minimum of 30 minutes before I need to wake and following a staggering 10 hours of sleep, I sluggishly hit snooze until the incessant shrill of a squawking clock drives me to despair.
Then along came my man to turn my perfect regime on its head….. Why is snuggle time essential I ask? Could it at least be limited to 15mins before we go to our respective homes? What is that hideous word?.. Argh yes, spooning, there needs to be a time cap on that. I’m slowly succumbing to having someone breathing rather loudly, with the occasional grunt within ear shot as I attempt to sleep, but the invasive, passive aggressive smothering that comes from incessant hugging is beyond the pale of dignity. We now negotiate cuddle time, before flinging myself to my end of the bed, unintelligibly trying to refrain him from crossing the imaginary line so I can maximise leg room, for as good a night of sleep as is possible under the circumstance.
Where do I start? Life has become a constant and painstaking compromise. Things I didn’t know were possible to negotiate are being debated over text, BBM, Whatsapp, email and then in person. In 2013 there are simply too many ways to say the same thing!
- My man is foreign. His English isn’t the best, despite having lived here for 10 years. Can you believe I have to craftily convince him that taking English lessons is his idea? To say outright that he needs to do it or we’re through would be emasculating, so my compromise is to allow him to believe it was his wonderful idea!
- Splitting the bills. Thank God for women’s lib. It means I can look forward to a spreadsheet at the end of the month with all our outgoings highlighted in yellow and the amount I owe in a bold unsightly red.
- We share a car which I use in the week for work, so come the weekend, just to spite me for driving it to work all week, he’ll drive everywhere, all the time, depriving me of it for practical things like the supermarket shop or running errands. But as long as he gets to cruise around town, burning up his gas, in his car, that’s all that matters.
- Every morning as he rushes to work, in my OCD clean home, he has the audacity to dash his pyjamas on to any surface it lands – yet of an evening as though by magic he goes in search, knowing it to be neatly folded in the bedside drawer. I underestimate myself, I need to add magician to my CV. Next time my trick will be burning every item of his clothing and providing the ash in an urn.
The weight gain
By God I can eat. It takes more will than most can imagine to control myself. ‘Obesity is just another cupcake away’ has become my mantra. Now this poses a problem when your man is a feather weight, yet eats like the end of Tesco is nigh. He works late so tends to eat his evening meal about 10pm. I like to eat by 6pm, however I seem physically incapable of watching him eat alone, so I now eat dinner twice a day. In just five months, my cheeks are reaching the point of explosion. I can no longer puff out my cheeks, as they are filled to capacity with cake. The once romantic gesture of tea and cake together in bed has worn thin. I hasten to add that this little ritual is following a meal, with some popcorn or crisps to dust it off, before he embarks on a cake or two with me. And for every calorie I consume my butt reaps the consequence. He meekly says he doesn’t mind what I look like and that he prefers a ‘curvaceous woman’. With every contrite line about embracing my fatness I become more determined to fight. I worked too damn hard to throw it all away. Embrace the mantra… ‘Obesity is just another cupcake away’. Turn and run!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The weird shopping habit
I don’t recall much from our first encounter other than a natural comfort and warmth that he emulated, which made our exchange as though it had happened a million times before AND his well put togetherness was noticeable. I mean everything from the shoes to the jeans, the clean hands and jacket were on point. Now I realise that his style may be effortless, but the upkeep takes work.
When a man spends longer in Zara looking at blazers, jeans and t-shirts than you do, he starts to lose his sex appeal. I want you to look good, without knowing how much time is invested to achieve the look. Shopping trips are now been banned. If he wants to spend all day sauntering around the shops, trying on four pairs of almost identical jeans, he does so alone.
The inconvenient social life
Clubbing?? Pray tell, I can hardly recall this strange ritual of my youth. It is now an occasion so rarely entertained, it requires booking months in advance, calls to baby sitters, scaling my wardrobe only to find all my clothes are more appropriate for church than ‘da club’, culminating in an embarrassing phone call to my younger sister, bashfully asking her where on earth to go out and requesting to borrow a dress. The last time I was a regular raver, grime, was called garage!
Now my man on the other hand, has no such qualms, why? because despite the fundamental changes in my life, his has remained relatively unchanged. He works hard during the week, plays football with his buddies on Sunday, raves on Friday and/or Saturday nights and effectively leads a single man’s life, with the perks of a wife and family at home. I think this makes me the chump!
|Calamity Jane and her Mr|
Cut to idyllic couple walking hand in hand starring contently into each other’s eyes, Maria Carey’s classic ‘Dreamlover’ playing spontaneously in the background as the pair meander through lush parkland with the sun blazing down upon their finely sculpted lipo-sucked bodies, blissfully intoxicated by one another’s love……………..
Just remember when they get home and she’s in a headscarf and tracksuit bottoms, angry that he hasn’t picked up his pants and socks and he’s watching football for the fourth hour straight, eating cereal from a fish bowl, that this is love as I know it – no bulshit!