An insight into the workings of my mind. You have been warned ;-)
Here you will find my musings on various matters. From the profound to the ridiculous: seemingly disparate elements yet often found to be two sides of the same coin.
Given my, frankly appalling ability to play the so called dating game, I'm never sure how much or how little to communicate with potential daters. If I'm not particularly interested in the person, I'll naturally gravitate towards limited communication before confirming their suspicions but if I'm interested, I'm up in faces like an annoying moth.
However I'm aware that other women, who I suppose can be deemed competition, are playing the game. They are skilled in the ways of hard to get. Activate Carrie Bradshaw mode (note, phone thought it fitting to suggest Carrie Bradshaw yeti because obviously that's a thing): Does my lack of hard-to-get, give my ‘competition’ the upper hand? Could it be that despite myriad loveliness, the hard-to-getters are always more likely to commence a relationship than I am?
A little background: Before aging, parenthood and prior to the e-romance revolution - dating was easy. I would meet someone, then swiftly decide if dating would proceed. Job done. Oh it's light years from this now. It's like paddling through shite without guarantee of the grail at the end of the struggle.
Plus there are further barriers which did not apply in my youth. I previously based my choice of partner on the following: is he hot. Over time my impression of hot changed from: he looks like he could front a boy band to he looks like could front a rock band. These days my list of attractiveness criteria is roughly comparable with War and Peace. I have become difficult to please in dating.
Given the barriers I've created for myself, perhaps I should start playing the game. Perhaps delayed gratification is absolutely necessary because the rules clearly state that every man desires a challenge. I detest the idea of a woman as a reward. It feels like the epitome of objectification. I am more than happy to signal my interest by dropping my symbolic hankey but I do not want to be metaphorically jousted for. Appreciate me for who I am, not for what I represent to you (as I believe Alanis Morisette once sang).
Yet whichever way one looks at it, women no longer have their pick of men. It seems like there are masses of single women and very few, relationship ready, single men. So I suppose I shall have to commence a game changer. For the first time ever, I'm going to have to play hard to get. Tips and techniques gratefully received.
Oh flipping yikes!
The RGF xx March edit: still no game plan, happy to keep it that way.
My creative spark seems to have taken early retirement. Or perhaps it's on sabbatical. Not so long ago, I felt truly inspired. From around Julyish, both pain and elation, created through love, were the committed companions of creativity. I did not find either to be the greater inspiration. Thus, I believe we can say, that love and all its’ accessories invokes wordy innovation.
When one stops being in love, so ends the poetry. As it was the intensity and loss of romantic love that made my words dance.
All I feel now are memories. At these, I smile. They are tiny ripples on the sands of romance. Gone, yet not forgotten. In part, I thank the man who gave them to me. Although it was my responses to him that I'm most grateful for. I was ready for love. He, on the other hand, was not. That mattered for a while. Then it stopped being important. In short, I'm rather pleased that I operate without filter. When love lands in my heart, I'm not trying to side step it. I simply go with the flow. Here's to unfiltered. Here's to love. And here's to words.
I'm a vast array of ‘too’. On the face of it, the previous sentence doesn't make a lot of sense. Fear not, if you were feeling concerned for my sloppy use of language. In a few sentences time, you'll know exactly what I mean.
I have been described as ‘intense’. Indeed, I've been described as too intense. I deem this compliment, though I doubt it has always been meant as one. There are times when intense is inappropriate. Where ‘intense’, is going to detract from the joy of life, rather than add to it. For example, imagine you're writing an in-depth report and some fool chooses that moment to embark upon an intense debate. In other words, when ‘intense’ is combined with poor timing, it's too much. I'm fairly good at being considerate so I'm unlikely to offer my intensity at the wrong moment. This leads me to another 'too’.
I'm also too nice, which I take to mean - I'm not an arsehole. So kudos to everyone that has ever called me too nice, as if it's a bad thing. If you think about it, too nice is what we should all aspire to be. Whereas one should probably avoid being an arsehole. Now obviously, if you combine intense with twattish behaviour, this creates a terrible combination. If one encounters arseyness, you'd certainly hope for it to be fairly wishy-washy rather than the bang-in-your-face variety. Fortunately, I'm both nice and intense so I naturally avoid such dire combinations. Go me!
There are probably other examples of 'too’, when thinking about my personality but I'll end with too sensitive. I've long been called sensitive. This is the extremely emosh brand of sensitive, rather than the punch someone in the face for breathing sort. Obviously, I'm far too nice for random face punching, as has previously been identified. Even the slightest element of emotional content can generate tears. Im not crying for me. It's not suppressed anger or frustration, it's compassion in watery form. This is because I care about people. I want the world to smile, which seems like a pretty sound thing to hope for. Empathy can't ever be a bad thing.
So thank you in advance to all who deem me too sensitive, too intense and too nice. This simply means I'm interesting, kind and flipping ace at empathy.