Every so often someone rocks up here with the answers to all my problems, handy little suggestions to help me figure out all that vexes me, instructions on how best to get myself out of the rut I constantly claim to be in. And I absolutely hate it. No really, I can’t stand it. For someone who spends most of her time telling other people what to do, I am surprisingly impatient when the shoe’s on the other foot. I don’t like being told what to do, despite the most obvious fact that I often need as much help as I can get. But all that’s about to change. That’s right, my lovelies, I am going to listen to what you tell me from now on.
Right after I get a personality transplant.
Your inner view, to me
Is something that I, do desire
Struggling to see, a new,
Something that I, fantasize
So I’m sending…
Two weeks ago I was told to go with the flow, this after I wrote what I considered a very fluffy how to find a man piece. ‘Just let go of the fantasy and enjoy yourself,’ he said. ‘Hmmm…’ she thought, as she began to plan her list of all the things she had to do before she could ‘let go’. Yes, I wrote a list, and yes, I know I’m an idiot, but in my defence, letting go is not that easy when you’re a little OCD. I’m just saying, I had plans, elaborate plans, all laid out, for the next kendo six months. Granted, said plans were probably absolute shit, but there were plans, so there! And now I’m just expected to throw them all out? So I can enjoy myself? I don’t know about that plan, doesn’t sound very brilliant, does it?
That was my initial thinking. And then I took a break from my list writing and thought calmly about it.
For all my elaborate planning in the past, and despite the foolishness I end up getting into I can assure you there’s always a plan (usually flawed), for all my planning, I’m still sitting here pondering the mysteries of life, and love. It has finally hit me that I have tried pretty much everything, save religion, and the much vaunted ‘submission’, and standard dating operating practices like getting drunk and taking a stranger home every weekend… Apart from those, I’ve tried everything else. Okay fine, I’ve tried like two things, because I can’t really be bothered to buy a self help book and try the other 67. Point is, I’m starting to think that not trying anything may be the key to this story. Wait, don’t click off in a huff just yet, hear me out first. Think of how much easier life could be if we could just let go of our 99 hang ups and simply get on with the business of living. I’m always saying life’s too short, and then I turn around and spend half my life worrying about the things that I can’t control, like how my government chooses to spend my, sorry, their money, or how to keep my clients from making dodgy decisions like refusing to pay me, or how to keep my mother from calling me every Friday night to check if I’ve found a father to her future grandbabies in last seven days since we spoke, or how to keep from obsessing over a man I have no business obsessing over…
And thus we get to the heart of the matter…
Imagine the freedom of not having to worry about making a good impression on that date. Imagine the ease that comes from not expecting anything more than a drink and a chat. Imagine the relief that comes from knowing that the person you’re meeting isn’t analysing your every word for signs of mental instability. Well, they probably are, but because you’re just going with the flow, you won’t obsess over it too much. Are you starting to see the virtues of just letting go?
This is what I want to know. Can a woman, or man, who is obsessed about obsessing truly learn to let go? Can I leave my seemingly anal, overly analytic behind behind and just go on a date with a charming man and enjoy it for what it is, a date? How do you turn off many years of crafting elaborate rules for every possible scenario? Seriously, I have a well thought out response for almost every conceivable dating circumstance I could possibly encounter, from awkwardly placed spinach in tooth, up top, to a fly accidentally (I hope) unzipped, down below. I spend so much time planning for the worst possible outcome, forgetting to enjoy the best possible present, and all because I like to think of myself as a planner. Bloody Nkt! That’s right, I just Nkt!’d myself, because I am tired of my head constantly getting in the way of my body, so to speak. (Get your filthy little minds out of the gutter, you perverts.) Just once, I’d like to go out and have a bit of fun without worrying about what its all leading to. I’d like to enjoy the company of a man without worrying about the day after, when he realises that I am, in fact, not entirely of sound mind, and perhaps body.
You can’t disguise your emotions
You know that I see, in your eyes
You soul’s me, your soul’s somethin’ that I, feel inside…
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I want to be reckless. Far from it. I plan to take advantage of my many years of responsible behaviour in the past, and kick up my heels every once in a while. I’ve been around long enough to know not to do anything too foolish, right? Right? You had better be nodding right now… I’ve become better at separating the wheat from the chafing idiots, and I’d like to think that if I decide to meet up with a man for a drink, then said man is not a complete jackass, and, therefore, I can simply go out and enjoy a date, and be in that moment, with that person. Surely, I have come far enough at this point in my life that I can trust myself to make better decisions? No? Are you shaking your head? You are, aren’t you. Ah well, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ve just had a Silence Of The Lambs moment, picturing some bugger going all Hannibal on my liver and eating my ass… But how often does that shit really happen? Hmmm…. I digressed slightly, apologies.
I let go, and in the process I had a most excellent encounter with someone my rational brain would have convinced me not to meet, at least not before a couple more weeks of elaborate research (read extensive vetting, a.k.a. mild stalking via the internet). I didn’t stop to think, I just did it. And it was good. There may have been an unfortunate incident with my blouse sliding further down my bosom than I had intended (not quite Janet levels of exposure, but it was definitely more than I had planned on showing him before the second course). There may have been a minor foot in mouth incident, but given that I say the wrong thing all the time, it can’t have come as a surprise to the man, and that’s if he even noticed (my gravity enhanced blouse was providing more entertainment than I was, unfortunately). There may have been a slightly intimidating, and intimate, revelation from the man, but given my fondness for complicated people, that’s probably a good thing, because I like men I get to unravel slowly over time (I am nothing if not a sucker for punishment). The moral of the story? I let go, and I had fun. Who knew it could be that simple?
Hold on, be strong, for your own
Move on, before long, you’ll get home
If your feeling insecure
You can be sure
Even if it take forever and a day for me to do
I gotta send it on, to you…
The song is ‘Send It On’ by D’Angelo, he that will one day father my (now) fictional babies, even though these days he’s prone to looking a little worse for wear (his mug shots were not pretty…). Just between you and me, I’m not entirely sure what he’s on about in this song, but I like the feel of the song more than I do the lyrics, and his falsetto (is that what its called?) gets me weak in the knees every single time. Its deceptively simple, and seemingly laid back, and oh so mellow. Kind of like the mood I’m in right now…
And here you buggers thought I could never ‘go with the flow’. Don’t think I can’t see you nodding right now, disbelieving buggers the whole lot of you…