Or, “Who will look after you in your old age”.

Or, “But it’s the greatest thing a woman can do. It’s unnatural to not want kids”

Or, “But… but… WHY?”

All things that have been said to me when people learn that I don’t want children. Never have. Probably never will.

All things that are supremely offensive, not to mention hellishly patronising.

I’m a grown woman. Capable of making important decisions. Capable of reading & understanding my own body. Capable of choosing not to expel something the size of a pug (& largely resembling one in many instances) from my vagina.

I love how happy having children makes other people. It’s enormously heartwarming to see the joy that children bring to them. It’s always nothing less than lovely to see people I care about so happy.

But that’s their choice. And I respect it. It’s not one I’d make, but I respect it.

I only wish the same would be done for me.

I read this today and have decided that I will carry with me, at all times, several copies of it and a stapler. I will then proceed to staple it to the forehead of everyone that tries to either talk or guilt me into wanting children.

I don’t.

It’s hard. Really fucking hard. The intimacy that you both had, goes. The way you were both so naturally free & open with each other; not needing to make any declarations or huge displays of affection, because you could just look at each other & know it all. That goes. It goes because it’s impossible to maintain when you’re not together.

Communication becomes all about the words. The explicit, not the implicit. There are no glances, looks, breaths, sighs, mannerisms & gestures to be decoded & understood. If it’s not said, then it’s unknown. So yes, it’s hard.

But then.

Then you are together again. Albeit only briefly, but you’re together again. And that’s important. And brilliant. And glorious. And it’s also kind of hard too.

Because first comes the anticipation & the excitement. Then the nerves are added to the emotional cocktail shaker, before you’re whizzed across continents, mountain ranges & oceans, and all of a sudden you’re both there in the same room, looking at each other, not quite knowing exactly how to greet one another across the combination of the familiar and the strange that plonks itself down between you.

In films it’s all grand gestures and “sweep you up off the floor” embraces in airport arrivals halls or on the platforms of train stations. In reality it’s an odd kind of suspension between wanting to do all of those things & suddenly feeling a little shy. There’s just too much to cram into a “Hello you”.

You’re happy though. So happy to be with each other again, but still so far from the ease of just knowing, that you both used to be so naturally brilliant at. Like being on a first date with someone who knows everything about you and with whom you’ve spent months planning a first date… on Groundhog Day. Familiar yet edgy. Nervy.

It takes a day or two before you both relax & the guards begin to come down again. Because there are guards. Defences. Insecurities. But you’re both the same people that had cast those off for one another before and gradually you do it again.

It’s a bit like getting to know someone you’ve already known. Your lives have moved on & events have been & gone, adventures have been had, dramas have been endured and news of them shared with one another. But somebody pressed pause on this enormous part of your life for a while and now, together, you both have to bring it up to speed to match the rest of yourselves.

And you do. And, steadily, it gets easier as the hours & days & chats & embraces go by.

At first you’re too clingy. He’s too stand-offish. You’re insecure, a little needier than you’d like; trying to grab on to as much closeness as you think will tide you over until the next time you’re together. He’s distant, awkward, stuck behind a wall of isolation he’s built after a year of living in a foreign country. But gradually, you both mellow. You start to reset.

You might not get back to the way it all was in the time that you have together. After all you’re in somewhat of a false reality. And there’s only a finite amount of time before you’re apart again. But you back off, he warms up and together you remember why you both like the fact that there is a “together”.

He’s telling you a random story about a place you’ve never been to, with people you’ve never met (& aren’t ever likely to) and you watch the animated expressions on his face and smile as you remember how much you love the way his face lights up when he’s recounting an anecdote. You share your stories in return & watch him laugh at your latest calamity, and the two of you just kind of get to know each other again.

And there are the gestures. Like when he puts his hand behind your ear and takes up a handful of your hair while he kisses you, and the whole world melts away. Or when he holds you as tightly as he can while you both sleep. Getting as much closeness as time and jet lag will allow

And all of these things are what make it all worthwhile. The waiting, the distance, the random arguments about badly worded emails or mistimed jokes. The missing. All of it.

Yes, it can be painful & stressful & draining & all sorts of things you’d rather not test your relationship with. But it’s amazing how just a few days together reminds you why you decided to do this in the first place. Why you’ll keep doing it as long as you have to. Until he’s back where you are, or until you go to where he is.

Because even at only part-way to a reset of “us”, he’s still the first person you’d choose to share your time with. Every time. And you know that sooner or later, the portion of your time that is spent with him will be greater. And it’ll be great. And for now, knowing that is enough. For now.

I am a large breasted woman. I know this.

Sometimes I wear v-neck dresses or tops. I do this because high necked tops make me look as though my boobs grow out of my chin.

Sometimes, this means my breasts are a little more visible than they might otherwise be.

I can joke about my breasts. Because they are mine. My close friends might even be able to joke about them with me.

You, stranger, cannot. It is not OK.

It is not OK…

… to point at them and shout “Tits!”
… to pull your car up alongside me, grab your moobs, squeeze them and give me a thumbs up
… to cheer at me in celebration of my tits
… nudge your friend, then point at my tits & blatantly discuss them
… beep at me
… ask me if they are real
… tell me what you would do to them, given the chance
… ask to give them a feel
… point at them
… leer at them

It is not OK.

It is not OK to forget that they are attached to a person. A woman. A woman who is more than a pair of massive tits/breasts/norks/waps/baps/bazookas/whatever you want to call them.

Admire them, ignore them, dislike them; it’s all fine. But it is not OK for you to treat me like a piece of meat.

It is not OK.

Image via gillianberger at Flickr

In which case, yesterday was in no way wasted. A trip to the Maser exhibition kicked off the afternoon, in what can only be described as a trendy squat above an Asian market, was where it all began.

Random aside – Hipsters do love faux poverty don’t they? And, the exhibition, while great, was a total hipster magnet. I overheard two blokes talking about art, artists and those “cats” that imitate them and ride their coat tails to success. I wasn’t really listening as the combination of their corduroy jackets and moustache wax was distracting, but I heard enough to be blown away by the term “cats”. Especially when used in a non-ironic way. Another C-word sprang to my mind when I heard him, I’ll be honest.

Anyway, I went to the exhibition with a relatively new friend; we each giggled a little at the hipster dudes, bought a print & then wandered up to the nearest cafe for a catch up natter. And a plethora of belly laughs.

I’ve not laughed that hard in ages. Candid conversations laced with raucous laughter should be prescribed by GPs, so restorative they are. The people of Smithfield, and possibly a few neighbouring areas will have wondered what the hell was going on; two mad women let loose and apparently gone quite insane.

And so, we ended our guffaw-a-thon as we each had plans for the evening. Firmer friends than before the day had started, complete with a shared joke; funny to nobody but the two of us.

And oh, what a lovely afternoon. More of those please.

Even better was a post-night out Skype to The Boy, who, 7 hours ahead, was still fast asleep at 9.30am (local time) when his laptop auto answered and he sleepily asked “Why are you in my ears? I’m sleepy, and you’re in my head. What’s going on? How are you in my head?” All very reminiscent of  David After Dentist, but what I like to call, Billy After Drunk Sleep.

Needless to say, I responded romantically with “Are you sleeping with your headphones in, you knob?” and a hearty laugh, before signing off to get some shut-eye myself.

So, by E. E. Cummings’ standards, Saturday was in no way wasted. Boo ya!*

The world’s a small enough place when you’re online. Especially in Ireland, where, even offline, the normal six degrees of separation are already reduced to two. At most. And try as I might, I’m not always great at censoring myself. Actually, fuck it, most of the time I don’t even try anymore. I am who I am and people can take or leave me. As incapable of censoring myself as I may be.

Part of who I am though, is someone that doesn’t like sharing her feelings. I’ll always play them down; good or bad. It keeps people at a distance that I’m comfortable with, as I find it a little bit smothering otherwise. As well meaning as people usually are, I get really uncomfortable when people over involve themselves. Which sounds ungrateful, I know. I don’t mean it that way at all. Concern is fine, but there’s a fine line between that and suffocation.

Also, I don’t want to come across as a smug twat, banging on about how happy I am, or far worse, as someone that is looking for sympathy when I’m feeling down – I fucking hate that. Those tweets and Facebook status updates that simply invite people to ask what’s wrong; demanding attention and “comfort”. It’s simply emotional blackmail. Something I have no time for.

So, I’ve not really blogged about my last few months. People already know more than I’d like, sometimes; and it’s my own fault as I spew my every thought onto some platform somewhere. Addict that I am. But then what’s the point of having a blog? I sure as shit don’t want it to be one of those bullshit places that people use to just post links to random crap that they see and offer no real personality; I have a tumblr account for that. And frankly, I kind of need a place to work through how I’m feeling about things at the moment.

So, where am I? Well, I met a boy. He wasn’t what I was expecting and I certainly wasn’t looking for one. But I met him. And he blew everyone else out of the water. And apparently, so did I. Which is all pretty cool and very happy making. But then, after several rather fuckawesome months, he has gone to China for a year. Fucking China! For a fucking year (OK, 10 months, but still)! Which is a bit of a kick in the lady parts.

And we decided to do the long distance thing. On paper, a mental decision but it felt right. It still feels right. It is right for us. But it’s not easy. I knew it wouldn’t be.

Because there are times, like at the moment, when I’m feeling a bit under the weather, for no specific reason and all I really want is a hug. More specifically, a hug from The Boy; but unless he’s somehow developed Go-Go Gadget arms that’s not going to happen. And frankly it’d be really fucking disturbing to receive a disembodied hug from a pair of semi-robotic arms.

So, yes, I’m missing him a lot at the moment. And as much as I know he loves me, I wish he was here to tell me.

And there it is. The heartfelt post that I already hate myself for writing. For admitting that I’m not always fine & dandy. That the performing monkey doesn’t always feel like dancing. Just don’t try and hug the monkey unless she asks you too – monkeys can be vicious when their space (physical or emotional) is invaded. They do like to laugh at people falling over, though. So y’know, feel free to do shit like that.

Luke Wilson gives me a ladyrection.

That is all.

Ride

I’ll openly admit to having a total girl crush on her… and a desire to steal most of her wardrobe from Mad Men. Scha-WING!

But anyway, back to the open letter. I agree with most of it. Especially points one and two:

“We love your body. If we’re in love with you, we love your body. Your potbelly, everything. Even if you’re insecure about something, we love your body. You feel like you’re not this or that? We love your body. We embrace everything. Because it’s you.

Speaking of your body, you don’t understand the power of your own smell. Any woman who is currently with a man is with him partly because she loves the way he smells. And if we haven’t smelled you for a day or two and then we suddenly are within inches of you, we swoon. We get light-headed. It’s intoxicating. It’s heady.”

But I’m not so sure about the whole, drinking scotch and not wearing tank tops bit. As long as a boy’s not ordering an Appletini or something I’m cool with it. And I think tank tops are cute – geek chic… though I think she might mean vests, in which case, I’ll give her that one, too.

What else would I put in my open letter? Probably this…

We think you are the bees knees – if we’re with you, it’s because we think you’re hot. If we stay with you it’s because we think you’re aces. We think you’re smart, sexy, funny, all of it. Don’t question why we do… just understand that we do. And like it.

We like it when you make a tit of yourself – so you got food on your face, danced in public & people laughed, or you said something stupid and we kind of pwned you. Vulnerable is good. It makes us feel better about being vulnerable too. But don’t overdo it; vulnerable’s one thing, needy is another

If you know we’re in the bathroom NEVER speak of it. We go to the loo. If you’re in the house/flat it is almost guaranteed that it will absolutely NOT be a No.2. But whatever it is, do NOT, under any circumstances mention it. We don’t want you to think about us on the loo. We want to be sex kittens in your eyes, not mortal women. Toilets do not factor… except on some, eh, specialist websites.

Now, I can’t be arsed thinking about any more and shall open the floor to my other lady friends. Girls? Any suggestions?

In the meantime, I’m going to look at some Christina pics and imagine myself slinking around in a slinky dress with stockings etc. Purrrrrrr

]]> http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/07/05/christina-hendricks-very-sexy-and-kinda-wise/feed/ 1 http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/06/21/taking-a-moment/ http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/06/21/taking-a-moment/#comments Mon, 21 Jun 2010 12:52:22 +0000 curlydena http://curlydena.com/?p=980 Right now, I’m really happy. I am also a fuckwit.

I am a fuckwit because I get nervous about admitting that I’m happy . It’s as though, if I actually say the words aloud, it will somehow draw my happiness to the attention of some mystical being who has a really twattish grudge against me (probably because a) my hair’s way fucking cooler than theirs and b) I don’t believe in their existence) and that they will somehow reap vengeance upon me by turning things to shit.

I’m not a pessimist or anything, quite the opposite. It does, however, seem that I have an innate ability to worry. In an ideal world, this would mean that I was always annoyingly skinny. Living life on my nerves and all that jazz; but life, even when it’s brilliant, is just not that kind. Worrying makes me fatter. I don’t need to be any fatter. In fact I’m trying to get less fat, so there’s reason No.2 to stop the worrying about being happy.

Sometimes though, I give myself a swift (metaphorical) kick in the nads and tell myself to stop being such a cockweasel, and just be glad for what I’ve got. And I am. Annoyingly so, probably. I could pretend I was sorry about that, but frankly I’m too busy doing the Happy Dance to worry about people being annoyed about my big, ridiculous, smiley face.

So there you go. I’ve said it. I am happy.

(Rumours that I am currently partaking of several, farcical, surperstitious, “luck bringing” activities are totally unfounded by the way

The boy, the roof garden, the view & the moon

And oh yeah, I’m blogging again & shit.