I love music. I love dancing. I love to sing.
I am no Adele, but I can hold a note, in so far as I haven’t yet caused the OH to deliberately smash the car into a wall whilst driving to escape my singing along to Spotify.
I went to a secondary school that prided itself on its choir and musicality. I remember sitting through musicianship class completely bewildered, as my fellow students seemed to just naturally grasp the difference between a crochet and a quaver and effortlessly read sheet music. I never learned to play any instrument, not counting the obligatory “The Gypsy Rover” on the tin whistle that all Irish primary school children were forced to learn.
To this day I would love to play guitar but my lack of musical confidence inhibits me. I don’t think I have the ‘ear’ for it. How would I know if I am in tune or not? My brother in law tried to teach me a basic chord on his acoustic but my tiny hands couldn’t span the neck. Maybe I need a child size one?
My other dream is to get proper singing lessons, learn how to control my breath and all that jazz. I actually contacted an instructor who told me her timetable was full. A silly part of me felt rejected, as if she could somehow sense I would be a hopeless student and I never followed up on it.
So, my singing stays in the kitchen, (sorry neighbours!), car, (sorry OH!), and shower, which provides marvelous acoustics!
Don’t expect to see me headlining at Wembly any day soon.
I am, and have always been, that girl with the messy hair. I can spend time, money and effort perfecting my hair and still look as if I had just been dragged through a bush backwards. I see other women who look stylish, put together, groomed and grown up and then there’s me… the awkward tomboy, scruffy little sister with the smudged mascara and flyaway hair.
It is one reason I dress as I do, mainly in jeans, tee-shirts and converse sneakers. If I try to dress like a grown-ass woman I feel and look ridiculous, like a little girl trying on her mom’s clothes and heels. I am naturally clumsy. I can fall over my own foot, walk into walls and trip on my own shadow, so walking in heels would fall under the pedestrian equivalent of drunk driving. I would be a danger to myself and others.
If I am teaching something I can have endless patience. I enjoy the challenge of finding ways to make a subject make sense to a person. I love helping someone get to that place where the idea clicks. That is fun in my opinion.
But if it comes to waiting for a person to arrive or a thing or start, I am the worst! I value punctuality and consider it rude to be late or to faff about wasting time when you have somewhere to be. The OH is very guilty of this. We agree to leave the house, I put on my shoes and coat and stand by the door while he, taking his sweet time, mooches around finding his wallet, keys etc, then announces he needs to fix his hair and disappears upstairs, leaving me ready to go at the door. Usually, a good 10 minutes will pass before we actually leave the house. I never learn. I always get ready and wait. It is an endless, hopeless cycle.
(He insists it is never 10 minutes. He says 30 seconds. A bit like cock size in reverse right?)
Weirdly, I can wait in line, even if someone cuts in front of me, with perfect Zenlike calm…
When it comes to standing up for other people I will do so with ferocious passion. When it comes to standing up for me… I crawl away like a timid mouse, terrified of causing a scene or creating a confrontation.
I am not sure where this comes from. Maybe it is a reflection of my sense of self worth, maybe I don’t feel I am worth standing up for. I tend to say nothing, to put up with being put down.
It is not good, I know this. I know I should defend myself as much as I would a friend or loved one. This is something I will continue to work on.
A good sleeper
I have never been a good sleeper. My sister can fall asleep any time, anywhere and I envy her.
I am Princess and the Pea level fussy… I require total darkness, total silence, the ‘just right’ temperature, blah blah blah. I have an incredibly expensive, NASA style mattress which I adore; it is like lying on a bed of clouds. I only use high thread count Egyptian cotton bedding. I have blackout blinds and ear plugs, (a futile attempt to drown out his snoring). I have tried different bedtimes, hot milk, relaxation exercises, herbal remedies.
Sleep evades me. Sleep is my enemy. The bags under my eyes have bags. I have resigned myself to a life of sleepless nights, curled on the sofa under a blanket, watching strange nighttime TV. Such is life…
I would love to be a… wait… exactly who the fuck am I trying to kid here?
I popped out of my mother with a shimmy and winked at the OBGYN.
I flirt with my own reflection.
I flirt with men, women, babies, dogs… I am powerless to resist the urge to flirt.
It’s fun. It makes everyone feel good.
Hey, how you doin??????
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