On Realising I’m A Bitch

The Mothership

I’ve always imagined I was the kindest person in the history of time. It has broken my figurative heart (and hurt my literal feelings) every time I’ve been casually labelled a ‘bitch’ by someone, in passing. As if it were nothing but a mere assessment of a character trait—and a terribly natural one at that.  But…I couldn’t possibly be! I’m delightful!

 I have a colleague who, very proudly, declares that she once took a quiz to find out what ‘kind of bitch’ she was. Her results said she was an Alpha Bitch, and she professed it with great fervour and satisfaction, wearing it like a badge of society’s vote of confidence. I couldn’t understand. Was being a bitch currently in style?

I’ve often been told that I must cultivate some degree of ruthlessness to succeed in this ‘cut-throat world we live in’. I’ve watched pop cultural favourites in horror where XYZ steps all over her sick grandmother to cut a business deal and/or trades his girlfriend in as a sexual favour because it means owning a hotel (Okay, perhaps this is all mostly from Gossip Girl, but I’m sure there are other, higher-brow examples out there that don’t quite come to mind as easily.)

The idea of this seems galling. It leads me back to that big, looming question that has spurned ever so many indecipherable philosophy doctrines and bad, loosely psychotherapy-premised shows—‘But what is the meaning of life?’ For me, I suppose when I shy away from unleashing the full can of worms that’d be the answer to that question, the sentiment would veer off a touch from Sartre’s ‘Hell is Other People’ and arrive at ‘Life is Other People’.

It seems simplistic, perhaps, but apt. I can’t think of a single thing about my life that cannot be measured in people.

·      The friends I have, and the company and support they provide on a monthly/weekly/daily-nightly basis.

·      The people I work with, the ability to make it through the day seamlessly and without debacle, to prove my worth as a working individual AND as a human being.

·      My family, and constantly exhibiting the fact that I love them, so they are secure in the knowledge that their daughter loves them/cares about them.

·      My boyfriend, and taking decisions every day to be a different ratio of bad girlfriend/ good girlfriend (aka myself/ attractive version of myself).

·      The miscellaneous, but important, cast and crew of my life (The cleaning lady at the gym, the old classmate I run into every time I drink at Summerhouse, the landlord) whose opinions possibly matter most because they see me from a bird’s eye-view.

I digress, but there is a modicum of method to my madness. This off-track diatribe about people being the essence of existence ties in with my theory. If people are the very core of the apple that is life, then how is being a bitch a marketable quality? It seems odd to revel in this label (something not exclusive to M’Colleague here), to treat it like it is a saleable characteristic that will ‘take us far’ in life. Take us far I’m sure it shall, but it seems a touch hollow to be a widely-feared CEO at a soul-guzzling mega-corp and not have anyone that’ll grab a drink with you on Fridays.

But this realisation, I’m afraid, is not the centrifugal force that drives this verbal onslaught. The sad realisation is that despite my accidentally-Buddhist world-view, coupled with my inherent knowledge that I am the golden-est of all hearts that ever has beat, is the fact that I am, in reality, a bitch.

I never saw it creep up on me. I went about innocently, doing my thing, assuming that since I know what a soft and gentle spirit resided in my otherwise unprepossessing frame, people would automatically know it as well. Never could I have fathomed there was truth to the statement ‘Oh, you’re such a bitch’ uttered off-handedly by a friend or compatriot. ’They’re mistaken,’ I would tell myself, claiming plausible deniability because, heck, I saw no signs of it.

Until, one day, I heard myself saying the words “well, what can you really expect of her. She can’t even spell ‘brooch’”. It hit me like a tonne of bricks in action replay—what a goddamn bitchy thing to say! It then came to me in a discomforting cascade of flashbacks—I had always said things as such and their cousins. Whether it was ripping people apart for their inadmissible grammar, or their obsession with a shallow little somethin’-somethin’ like shoes (see? There I go again), I’d always had a standard I’d expected people to meet. I just hadn’t realised quite how I was treating the people that fell short of this self-erected yardstick.

Yes, I always smile at doormen and yes, I always get up for older people on the bus—but is that enough? Have I been so caught up believing I was nice that I’d forgotten to be? I can’t help but wonder if I’d gotten it so wrong that my real self and ideal self were that far off that I wasn’t at all in touch with who I had become over time.

And if this were true, if I had been an undercover bitch for ages now, was it even possible to revert to my former state of niceness? Was there a cure for the deep-rooted snark that had infested my sterling soul? Could I successsfully shake the nasty, or…

…or should I just be taking the ‘What Kind Of Bitch Are You?’ quiz, grabbing a label and owning it?

#Hatergram

While I was pumping iron at the gym this morning (not really, I was on the treadmill, but ‘I was running on a hamster-wheel this morning’ doesn’t quite denote swag as much), a friend who's planning to go to Europe for a shoot next month, mentioned stumbling upon a woman (online, in the name of research) she knew who’d been there recently.

Hoping to find sweeping landcapes turned into cutesy Polaroid-style photographs with captions like ‘Majestic Gstaad’ and ‘Breathtaking Berlin’, she found only pictures of said globe-trotter pouting amidst various locations. While the clear labelling was indeed, handy (Me in Prague! #duckface. Me in Barcelona! #duckface) the futility of the exercise soon dawned on my friend, who realised that, to this woman, the big sell of every gorgeous European hotspot was that her pout had now been Instagrammed there.

I couldn’t help but wonder how deeply social media has affected our life goals (another friend of mine would have been likely to interject at this juncture and say #lifegoals—case in point). This woman had just traversed the borders into what was once, deliciously foreign land (and is now simply status quo for anyone whose been anywhere), and through all her experiences in Europe, hadn’t been able to spare a photograph for the place itself.

Going back to the old-school era (in my mind, tucked fondly into a happy crevice) when we took our little Nikons to Adlabs after our limited reel of 36 snaps was full up, and waited days while spools of negative turned into the contents of albums titled ‘Goa Holiday’ and ‘Nani’s Visit 1997’—I remember how, even then, when we lost a couple of soldiers to over-exposure, or having left the shutter down, we’d still have two or three pictures entirely sans people,…just to capture the space in which all those memories took place.

Having that space arrested as a whole, on it’s own piece of glossy photo-paper meant that we could insert all the memories we hadn’t finalised on film, instead of filling the frame with one specific smile, or one specific awkward group hug.

Now, however, the capacity of the average iPhone or Android phone or whatever your techno-poison of choice, is unlimited. Fill it brimful with unending bathroom selfies, and dump onto desktop when the phone sends it’s disciplinary ‘memory-full’ warning. Using a camera is a photographer’s game—whip one out in a crowded bar full of lycra-and-laced up ladies, and those click-ready smiles turned to confused ‘excuse-MEH?’ faces.

But even then, in daily flurries of picture-taking, no one really stops to photograph a space. Not on their travels, not on their everyday tos-and-fros from office-to-filler-time-entertainment to-home. People can only claim a space if they push themselves into the frame, and it’s not worth claiming if it can’t be advertised.

Enter Instagram.

I’ve already garnered a plethora of hatred for my refusal to partake of this over-indulgent fad. ‘Why aren’t you on Insta?!’ many whinge, encouraging me to join it by telling they will be able to tag me in drunken photos of myself that illustrate particularly how unattractive I am, and how incapable my face is of a proper smile (if you’re thinking of Chandler from F.R.I.E.N.D.S. that would be accurate, yes). I realise that in this day-and-age (forgive me for that awful phrase. It’s been used more times than that F.R.I.E.N.D.S reference, I know) not being on Instagram is a veritable sin. It makes me stuck in the past, detestable especially being a weed of the current crop (basically, 25 years old).

But my issue with this desultory portal is really quite simple—it takes away from experience. It changes every event, gathering, coffee break, drunken night, moribund weekend of viral fever, and 3 a.m. work session into a ‘photographable moment’. One might argue, ‘So what? It’s nice to remember the little things!’ However, I have had conversations with friends where pieces of a night together have dropped away from memory, or little experiences have been missed because they were too busy taking red-lipstick selfies with the bartender. Between the incessant phone-flashes and the inebriation of too many gin-and-tonics, they barely remember being there.

But hey, there’s a picture that proves it on Instagram.

I come across as full of loathing, too irate to move forward with the times. I’m not, not really. I’d be a hypocrite if I was, because I, too, have taken selfies with some bartenders in my time (okay, regular photographs. I can’t be sold on the selfie thing still). But this obsession to show the world you’re having a good time often precedes actually having a good time. Flipping through my best friend’s Insta account, I found happy pictures of her on nights where I know she’d been crying her face off not 20 minutes before that picture was taken. The façade of a good time supercedes everything—‘If it’s not on Insta, it doesn’t count,’ says a popular meme.

I suppose that must mean I don’t count. Oh well. I’ll just have to work with anecdotes about a girl’s night in instead, and hope that people don’t ask for documentation to prove the 12 stages of relaxation I went through that evening.

On The Frivolity Of Hashtags

I must admit, I use them ironically. I use them with such intense and mounting frequency on a Monday-to-Saturday basis that I wonder at what point my already onion-skin flimsy ‘irony’ defense will stop pulling through for me.

But, somewhere in the middle of the myriad flashing newscreens with #KashmirFloods or #NepalQuake flying about, I realised how the constant appearance of this tiny little ‘formerly known as the number sign’ sign was degrading the very crisis it so wished to draw attention to. In order to create a cult of social uprising, it had summed up the sudden upheaval of thousands of playgrounds, living rooms, bus stops and kids eating their lunches in a succinct little hashtag meant to garner heaps and heaps of…well, something.

People are banding together righteously with sanitizer-pure intentions, raising their fingers both in blame (Indian media, Nepali government, basically anyone since we can’t quite be yelling at tectonic plates in all our sanity) and in Tweets of allegiance—to help, to fix, to restore normalcy…

While Tweeters and Facebookers galore chirrup away with their #HashtagsOfHope, the sufferers continue to suffer, submerged in waist-deep water, or scrambling for any semblance of a meal because the umpteen donations of 200,000 kgs of rice and dal have been stuck at customs for an eternity. I reach a point of detachment when words begin to sprinkle across my feed in a shade I have dubbed ‘Facebook-Blue’ with spirited words of optimism that ring well-meaning, but too hollow not to take lightly.

Sometime, the ludicrousness of the whole situation strikes me when, in cases like the media filming the farmer’s suicide that happened last month, I see a post that says. “Media is sick. Can’t believe they would do this. All my support to the farmer’s family. Justice will prevail #Hanginthere.”

Normally, my personal prejudice always adds extra IQ points to anyone that chooses to speak sans text-lingo on social media, but in this case I’ll have to whittle it down to a deduction regardless. On a sick, detached level, the irony amuses me, but for the most part, this post depresses me deeply.

This hashtag fixation bothers me on the double when it’s used in times of crises, but it’s as irksome on the day-to-day as well. People are never deterred from the delicious prospect of throwing a hashtag out into the universe—anything from a personal injury to a breakfast item is subject to the hashtaggian tyranny of (as one hilarious Channel V venture dubbed us) the ‘Yo’ generation.

I yearn for the point in time where the contruction of a sentence was possible without this desire to pander to your own ego by padding it with likes. When you could say ‘It’s been a great day at the beach!” without it essentially becoming “#sun #sand #beachlove #bestholidayever #can’teverydaybelikethis #palmtree #newbikini #beachbodyready #lovinmylife”.

Perhaps my collective of friends is right. Perhaps I am an old soul, best left to stew in outrage at those ‘darned kids with smartphones and Twittery jibber jabber’, but I’d rather be outdated with a clunky Nokia and no Instagram account (gasp! Sputter! OMG!) than a 40-something who looks back at her 24-year old self and wonders what on earth she was thinking when she hashtagged the bejeezy out of every natural calamity and/or piece of office stationary.  I’d prefer to have #NoRegrets.

The Byomkesh Villainy

 For shame, for shame. I have been so involved in learning my magazine’s website, battling my inner techno-phobe demon, that my blog has gone to dust. It wasn’t much to start with, yes, but the USP was some fair regularity of irreverent poppycock (that noone read) which help me keep some mild-salsa-sauce sense of self. I haven’t had that sense of self in over two weeks (but I have been spamming the magazine website—as per my appraisal meeting requirements—with numerous articles in my best writing-rendition of my excited-radio-voice). Today, I put finger to cursor with the pretext of elaborating on a film that got my juices flowing two Wednesday nights ago  (which should’ve actually been penned down market-fresh that very Thursday morning), but that I can’t shake for the following reasons

1)   For how I LOVE Dibakar Banerjee, that man is obviously dripping gold from his ex-ad-exec brain and I am standing there lapping it up like middle-class housewife with a barren jewellery box.

2)   This antagonist. I can hand it to you in writing (hardy har) that he will stay with you.

3)   The soundtrack. That I DID manage to prattle on about on said website, guising my vested interest under the one tag I need to write anything on the webzine; “It’s trending!”

4)   Yes, it’s Guy Ritchie Holmes-ian. No, it’s not some outright copy. Yes, fine, the credits are an outright copy. No, I don’t give a shit.

5)   Did anyone even KNOW Sushant Singh Rajput before this? Clearly, I have veiled myself in ignorance due to my irrevocable pledge of devotion to His Hairiness (Sir Arjun Kapoor) (and also, yes, Hello inner Delhi Garl)

But no, I do not wish for my blow-by-blow dissection of Detective Byomkesh Bakshy to occur in this bullet-point format. I am an ardent admirer of the long, rambling, run-on style and so to it I will adhere. And I will begin and end with The Villain.

Perhaps this is a good moment to pay homage to Cinema Sins and slap on the disclaimer: Spoiler Alert! (Duh)

The Villain, is someone who is played by a man that has sprung out of obscurity in a manner quite in keeping with the stylistic preferences of the Anurag Kashyap-Dibakar Banerjee cult of directors that are more inclined to pull random, fantastic actors out of oblivion and shock us with how phenomenal they can be (well, unlike the forthcoming Bombay Velvet, which ladles popular actors Ranbir Kapoor and Anushka Sharma into our laps instead of the breed of actors we’re used to from him; read, Satyadeep Menon and Radhika Apte)

So, out of nowhere comes one Neeraj Kabi, the man who begins as a homely  caretaker, and grows into the kind of menacing druglord-gangster that’ll leave you with chills and queasy uncertainty. I loved him—the wild glint of his glasses, the mad, too-long, overbearing laughter that kept the audience in suspense for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, the unfettered unpredictability in his every movement—is he overcome with love? Homicidal? Who can tell!

I think it says enough for the careful crafting of his character—and I mean tailor-made sinister—that I plan to slice through all the uniqueness of this film right down to the bone that is Dr. Anukul Guha.

I will not talk about the cinematography (which seems to have taken a leaf out of The Dewarists in some of its close-ups—a technique that worked so much better here than it did there; though, really, this might just be bias because this one didn’t have Monica Dogra swanning around screen, driving me batty). I will no make no mention of the stunning Divya Menon as Satyawati, who brought back that earthen, raw sexuality that Lakshmi Menon used to be famous for—except swathed in basic cottons to downplay it just the right amount—for she must, of course, fit the bill of the Byomkesh’s wife-to-be). I will not talk (again) about the phenomenal soundtrack, about which those who know me know I’ve written about on my magazines portal (a small win, for me, with hopefully more to come).

No, I shan’t wax eloquent over the myriad elements that make this film a classic winner ala Dibakar Banerjee (yes, evidently I’m a fan). I want only to talk about him. I mean, look at this man.

Dr, Anukul Guha—Caretaker by day, a cup of pure evil by night

 He is such a packet of comfortable-Uncle chips—in Bengali flavour. Replete with the fibre-spilling, old shawl and little-moon glasses, you are led in the way of true detective-mystery to believe he is the mastermind right from the start, only for the film to lurch you into realising that there’s a bigger game in play that he could not possibly be a part of.  And then BOOM! What an idiot you were! It is the self-same khadi-puppet/freedom-fighting power-ranger that you had written off as too obvious!

And then, you find out why. It isn’t actually the why that gives you the chills about Anukul Guha. Or the details of how he pulled it off. It isn’t that he’s the least suspicious-looking drug overlord you’d come across and how his demon schemes are going to fuck the country over twentyfold more than you thought.

It’s that mad gleam in his eye.

The actor has caught onto something, a kind of crazy that can’t be bottled; and he’s spit it out onto the canvas of film so subtly, you can’t quite tell it’s happening. You just know that this man bothers you profoundly. You can’t bear to hear him laugh that taunting, resounding laugh any longer and yet your fearsome it’ll stop—because, god knows what will follow. You can’t handle him being on screen, because he is so cold and insane that he could do anything at all…including nothing, which will leave you just as dissatisfied. You know when he’s gone, order will be restored, and yet you love that uneasy chaos.

If you haven’t seen the film, I’m sorry for giving it away, but my description will hamper nothing in terms of your intake of this character. He cannot be sketched, only observed quietly, and fearfully, and you will hope so desperately that he dies and yet a lingering flicker of ‘but, also not’ will feed off the schaddenfreude coursing through your veins.

In the simplest of terms, and in the kind of brief story-summaries we send to our bosses:

Watch this film first and most for Dr. Anukul Guha.

Take Me To Church—A Breakdown

First off, if this video hasn’t swept YOUR screen yet, here’s a little preparatory homework.

Now that everyone reading this has watched the video (you’re welcome!) you can deduce for yourself whether it went viably viral; or in the same, undeserved manner as the ‘I Can Has Cheezburger?’ Lolcatz nuisance. My stance, however, is as solid as The Hulk’s gargantuan, green chest: I. Love. is. The song and the video. Independently and together.

And the song shook me especially when someone offhandedly compared me to the man’s lover in the song. It was a compliment I did not want—nor felt I warranted. The idea of being worshipped is almost narcotic in its intoxication… but the thought of having someone at your service is equally frightening. The lyrics, every time they’re sung at me, remind me of this essential dilemma often comes to the fore—power, and how quickly it turns to this liquid evil. Something I want on multiple levels, and yet do not wish to bear the brunt of.

(Still From The Video)

I went for this play in January called Venus In Furs, an interesting Matryoshka doll-esque concept. In this play-within-a-play setting, we saw the two leads, and the characters playing them, shifting the dominant-submissive sexual dynamic between them. I truly believed that I’d love that degree of power over someone—to have them kiss my shoes, run to me as I summoned them. But I also came to the swift and sharp realisation that I wouldn’t have the heart to put someone through that. That maybe I’m too weak for power that potent.

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life

(Still From The Video)

I remember, once, watching Polanski’s Bitter Moon, a movie that (in order not to spoil it for everyone that may hopefully watch it) exhibiting in the most sensual, fluid form the deepest levels of cruelty between two people in love. The idea that love and torture were a packaged deal was something I had presumed from all the tragedy forced down my throughout via literature and the cinematic arts. But to see it inflicted so intentionally, so callously was something I wasn’t getting. If this was love, on any level, with any explanation, the world was deeper and darker than I wished to comprehend.

Opening up that thought-wound is bittersweet, one that incites both a grateful and hateful part of me every time I listen to Take Me To Church. It bothers me profoundly, but I love it.

The video is equally stirring in an altogether different fashion. It’s the most heartrending commentary on homophobia, blending seamlessly with—and detaches repeatedly from— the audio stimulus in a perfect harmony that drives home the point it’s making. 

The line She tells me "Worship in the bedroom"/The only heaven I'll be sent to/ Is when I'm alone with you syncs perfectly with the two boys kissing, cut quickly by the angry mob descending on one of the boys’ houses. The video ‘shows instead of telling,’ a trick every writer aims to learn to better their craft.

(Still From The Video)

 One of the most crushing moments is when we see the boy’s face, contorted with anguish, in the mini-screen of a handicam. The fact that someone is filming this shows just how deep the rot goes. It no longer becomes a righteous quest to ‘correct evil’—The vindicativeness tears through the seams of the (already flimsy) defence of ‘God’s Will,’ and the hypocrisy floods in.

I am well aware of how the video has resonated with everyone that may have been through/ known someone who’s been through this struggle with society. I can only hope it resonates with people that have never been brave enough to imagine it.

Cinema At the Gym-Ina! (So It Can Vaguely Rhyme)

#Funtimes #Khet #Mom # Bros4Lyf

 Still: Karan Arjun (1995)

In an attempt at being a more fulfilled human being, I have bought into the most popular stock option available to ‘young women my age’—going to the gym. This new found gym-rat avatar bodes well for me—it gives me an excuse as to why I’m tired and sleepy at 11:00 p.m. (there is no actual reason for this. Sometimes I am tired after having slept a full nine hours post doing nothing), and it’s my one reasonable claim to actually ‘taking care’ of my body—lathered by vats of cream-based desserts and unapologetically fattening meats.

So I am swathed daily in a sea of my own sweat and a thick coat of feel-good pheromones that are washed away by a hot shower as I emerge my shiniest, happiest self and begin the workday. I am inordinately proud of this un-extraordinary achievement, mostly because I am forced to battle the same terribly boring stimuli on deadbeat-repeat. These consist of

1)   A playlist that’s been looped so often it would make scratchy vinyl sounds if it were the old days.

2)   A TV with no sound that plays a Hindi news channel that unwaveringly reminds me of my lengthy stint as a schoolgirl, struggling to read words like Pratirodh and Paraadheen.

3)   Countless Health-In-Your-Face posters of unnaturally hot women like Nargis Fakhri and Lisa Haydon (who ought to be banned in general for the infinite damage she’s done to the female psyche simply by existing) on the cover of Healthy! Healthy! Healthy! Magazines with tips for a ‘Bang-able Bod’ or how to go from ‘Fat To Flat in 15 Minutes’ or whatever.

At some point that Zor-Laga-Ke Do-It-Do-It vibe started to get to me, and my inner couch potato sought counsel with my new work-out wizard self. We came to an understanding—I stay on the cross-trainer, but try to get them to change the channel from goddamn Hindi News/Sports.

And so, I used all 200 grams of charm I possess and got them to switch over to…’well anything else, really’, were my exact words. They informed me that, regardless, the soundtrack of Death By Trance needed to continue, attaching the phrase ‘gym policy’ and a fairly polite shrug of the shoulders. Ergo, I had to find something with subtitles, so I could read the TV (working out both brain and brawn, eh? Plenty smart.)

Alas, the one English language channel they possessed (AXN) had no signal. In a mild effort to help, they flipped it to Zee Cinema (my ‘I’m Truly Doing Nothing With My Life’ channel), which was playing Karan Arjun, a film whose original reel should’ve been lost at the godforsaken Mela instead of it’s duo-Khan leads.

As it happens, watching some Bolly Masala on volume zero is more educational than you’d imagine. I managed to watch a whole 45 minutes of this muted melodrama without being distracted by the dearth of sound. Turns out, watching this film without the chaos of sound effects and dialogue let me focus on about a million other aspects of the film that would never otherwise have come to the fore.

Like, how much villainous men need to move their heads in order in emphasize their points. Or how their echoing laughter while they mess around with an aging Rakhi conveys how truly evil they are, because, you know, Laughter + Someone’s Else’s Tears + Old Person Angle = Full-Time Bastard.

I loved how dream sequences had a healthy mix of Shah Rukh tossing and turning, his lower jaw glazed with sweat, on his charpai interspersed with NFAI archived footage of what looked like Jalianwala Bagh (but I’m guessing was the Kumbh Ka Mela judging by a stray Ferris wheel I saw in one half-shot). The footage, treated with the gloomiest black and white and stilted screen movement, was reminiscent of the Civil War documentaries Discovery used to make way back when (and could easily be mistaken for it without the dramatic soundtrack).

All You're Going To Do Is Talk? Excellent! Still: Before Sunset (2004)

So, to keep from making this a film studies dissection of various frames, I’ll stick to the basic fact I took away from this experience—we care too much about what’s going to happen. It breaks my heart when somebody says “I don’t care if it’s well written—as long it’s got a good plot”. Because, my god, I’m so far gone the opposite, I’m no longer relatable. I’ll watch the swill of the plot world—just because it’s written brilliantly. I don’t care if a movie doesn’t leave a room—in case you’re wondering, yes, I loved the Before Sunrise/Sunset/Midnight films—so long as the conversation is amazing. I don’t mind if a character doesn’t grow, doesn’t learn… just that he wastes away beautifully.

And I realised, with film, you’d think the dialogue was the way it was written. But really, it seems only the vehicle to carry forward a melodious cacophony of sounds, visuals, expressions, body-movements... The dialogue has us so hooked on what’s next we forget to focus on what’s right now. And watching Karan Arjun on mute amidst the perspiring walls of the office gym taught me what six months of a film class could not.

If it helps, Anuradha ma’am, if you’re out there. I finally think that Cinema as a Language makes sense—and isn’t eye-rollingly pretentious.

…Well, maybe the pretentious part is still true.

The Singles Club

 Also known as The Illusion of the Duo-Toned Lawn (and Why the Grass is Always Greener)

Sadly, this blog has come to a point where I can’t shy away from exploring the most-flipped-to section of my magazine—relationships. Today, I have no 101 tips to Blow (his mind), nor 80 positions That’ll Kill Your Back (But Will Keep Your Passion Alive). No, I have nothing useful—I have but myriad ramblings, packaged pretty in large words (and some small, but super-intelligent words like frisson) for some kind soul’s reading pleasure (or to be a page to skim while a YouTube video buffers). I have nothing to give except shady vibes and scrambled thoughts, attempting to sort through the age-old myth—that a relationship is the ultimate goal of a love life.

This might seem a natural assumption—do we not all want our cartoon cat to snuggle with, marathon hilarious sitcoms with, crunch on chips and popcorn with? Yes, our ideal is the man/woman who will not scamper off in frighten at our bleached faces or hole-in-the-bottom boxers, and will love us through every coughing fit, crusty nose and bout of emotional hara-kiri. We figure, we find ‘em, and we can officially start getting fat and letting our moustaches grow. 

It’s easy to coast toward this goal, to believe that this quintessential paragon of relationship joy will swoop in announced, and that it will be a happy change because, heck! What is the life we’ve worked for thus far but a way to pass time till perfection takes over. 

No, this is not a discourse on the aftermath of finding that relationship. I will not tut-tut about disillusionment, about the lovable little oddities turning irksome, of the sheen of passion fading to unveil time-worn machinery that can’t function without a hint of a scraping noise. This little rant is less poignant, far less relatable and far more self-indulgent.

It’s essentially just Single Girl Nostalgia.

A quick word in my own, pre-emptive defence—I wouldn’t trade my happy relationship for the world. I love it. I love fall asleep to the rhythm of someone’s breath, coming home to have someone wrap me up in their arms, subjecting someone to my Suits reruns. I love every part of it. If my boyfriend is reading this, I love you. 

And NOW that I’ve stuck that blinking disclaimer at the top, I’d like to say that being single is terribly underrated. It’s got this Cathy comic bad reputation of high candy intake and sorrow and drunken sex and it’s so unfair because it’s much more than that. The wide-held belief is that people that yearn for singlehood are people that are unhappy in their relationships; but my theory is somewhat atypical.

Ah, To Be Young and Trashy Again. (Circa 2014)

It’s sort of like choosing an ice-cream flavour. You try a bunch before you settle with one (unlike back in the day, where taster spoons for a few sneak-peak molecules weren’t handed out willy-nilly) and no matter how good that Peanut Butter Brinkle is, you miss that you’re not having chocolate. You don’t exactly want to switch your scoop in, but still, you can’t help but miss it.

 Sadly, singlehood/relationships don’t have a double-decker option (a sexual double-decker…not as appealing somehow).

I miss the boredom of coming home with nothing to do. I miss that sting of desperate hope that an attractive man might catch my layered eyes (new phraseology for glasses).  I miss going out with girlfriends and going home together, falling into one of our beds together instead of our own beds, without each other. I miss cooking for one, unashamed that my dinner will be bourbon biscuits and cheese. I miss having someone pop round in the a.m. and decide they want to use my bathroom, have a drink and leave. I miss being able to change my mind and head out after just stepping foot in the house, just because I’m not yet done with the gorgeous weather. 

I miss that. But not as much as I’d miss my cartoon cat.