the one with the rant

Last week was my work's Christmas party and as usual I was pressed into service as our unofficial photographer.  I put the photos on my department's shared drive but my friend Goth Girl asked me to post a couple of photos of her onto her FB page so that her friend overseas could see.  Goth Girl has disabled her "Wall" so I had to post the photos onto my own page and tag Goth Girl - which of course meant that my friends could see the photos too.  One of them also had me in it and it gave rise to a few comments (thank you, Rach!).  It also prompted another "friend" to send me a private message, congratulating me on still looking so young for my age, and expressing her admiration of my "expensive" dress and shoes and my opportunity to drink vodka martinis in the middle of the week.  She ended her message with "I guess that you can do that when you are single and don't have to get kids up in the morning, eh?! Lol! :-)"

I know that message came from her being stressed and perhaps yes, a little envious that I was drinking martinis in a little black dress (incidentally $22 from F0rever 21 in Atlanta) and satin sling-backs with diamante clasps (admittedly not $22) on a Wednesday night.  However, I am suddenly in no mood to forgive this, or even give her any leeway.  She knew I lost Starchild and Tilly, although she didn't know about the IVF and subsequent loss of the Little Stars.  She knew how much I wanted children and she knew how my life almost crumbled into dust after A left.

I know how lucky I am; I don't get paid a whole lot (I work for the NHS after all), but I do okay.  I can keep a roof over my head, pay my bills, go on holiday, buy a new pair of slightly expensive boots every winter because I want them even if I don't need them, and dammit I can afford vodka martinis in a central London bar.  I can also stay out until 2am and not have to account to anyone and I can spend the weekends in bed with a book and my cat if I want to. Sometimes there's nothing in the flat to eat except a tub of ice cream and a jar of olives, and I have glass ornaments which won't get broken on my Christmas tree.

But the little red and white backpacks stuffed with toys under my tree are for my niece and nephews.  The glass ornaments are four glass hearts, one for each of my children. And there is no-one to phone and tell not to worry that I will be home at 2am.

My life doesn't suck, in fact I'm pretty happy right now. Nonetheless, as Ms Bradshaw once said "It's really hard to walk in a single woman's shoes.  That's why you sometimes need really special shoes"

Bob

I couldn't think what to call this post, so I resorted to what I've been calling anything I can't remember the name of / for since the 80s after seeing this episode of "Black@dder":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLTR8qYWJbQ

Anyway, it's not only handy as a post title but also as a pseudonym for someone who is going to feature in the post itself.

So, I met "Bob" about eight years ago when he was a junior academic working with one of my bosses.  We were thrown together for a small project and got to know each other a little over the weeks when we had to stay late or go in early so that we could meet a deadline.  He is a year or so older than I am, and at that time had been married for about two years to a fellow academic. After the project was done, he went back to his academic institution in the north of England and a year after that, he got a grant to set up a research study in Africa. We kept in sporadic touch via email, mainly for work purposes, and we'd always go out for a drink and a gossip when he came to London to keep my boss up-to-date on the African study.  Around the time that A and I split up, Bob and his wife seperated, his research study came to an end and he temporarily went back to his old post in the north of England.  Six months ago I heard through the grapevine (doctors are terrible gossips) that Bob's divorce was final and that he'd got another grant to replicate his study in another African country starting next year.

Which brings us to a month ago.  A few days after I wrote this post, Bob came to London for a meeting and a bunch of us went out for a drink afterwards.  Those with partners and children to go home to sloped off early on and Bob and I went for dinner in Soho, which was followed by more drinks, the sudden realisation that Bob's train had left without him (how cliched was that?) just five minutes before we realised the time and me offering him my spare room.  By the time we'd lurched up to my flat, though, the thought of making up the spare bed was too daunting so we both fell into mine and were out like lights instantly and chastely.

The following morning was not so chaste.

Afterwards we talked about it, decided that it was just what we both needed to salve wounds and boost shattered self-esteem following our respective relationship breakdowns.  We realised that neither one of us were ready for a relationship, even though we are fond of each other, and anyway Bob is going back overseas after Christmas.  We also decided not to tell anyone about what happened (this was my request to which Bob readily agreed because as I've already said - doctors are terrible gossips, and ours is a very small community... BFG and Rach, you are the only people IRL who will ever know!) We kept in slightly less sporadic email contact and then Bob came back down to London the weekend before I went to America.  Definitely not chaste this time either :-)

And this time we are sticking with the "one-time, no sorry, two-time only" thing.  Neither one of us wants to be a long-distance booty call during Bob's remaining weeks in England, and while we are fond of each other and clearly find each other attractive, we both know that there's nothing long-term between us.

So those are the facts, now for the feelings.  I feel great! Before A left in April 2011, we hadn't had sex since January 2010 because this was the (ironic when you think about even a little bit) equation in A's head: sex+Illanare=dead babies. Someone saying that sex with you is synonymous with heartbreak is quite shattering to the soul.  Infertility and loss had already made me think destructive things about my body, the fertility treatments and subsequent comfort eating had piled on the pounds, A's rejection compounded all the feelings I had of not being a real woman, much less a desirable one. Bob made me feel pretty, and desirable.  Womanly, in fact.  Bob said that I made him feel attractive, wanted and powerful, which was so lovely to hear.

I really and truly aten't ded!

age gap

Yesterday afternoon we held our session and gave our lectures and, after the conference closed for the day, my group decided to blow off some steam by going out for dinner. Do you know what makes someone in her mid-40s feel her age when going out with a group of 30-somethings?

It wasn't the decision to go on after dinner to a bar for dancing (I was in complete agreement).

It wasn't that I was the only woman not wearing skinny jeans and a sparkly top (my LBD is suitable for any venue).

It wasn't that I was the only one with a bag, and had to put the other women's purses and lip-gloss in it (I always carry a camera so I always have a bag).

It wasn't that I was the only one to have enough cash for the cab-ride back to the hotel at 3am (that just makes good sense).

It wasn't the young-feller-me-lads swarming round the other women like bees round a honeypot (I got hit on twice myself).

It was the music.  I had already danced to 99% of the tracks which were played during their first lifetimes - as a teenager back in the 80s, while most of the group I was with were still in their nappies...

carbon off-set

I am going to have to make a sizeable contribution to a carbon off-set charity this year, as I once again boarded a plane and took off into the London sky.  This time, I have landed here, home of the Braves:

trick or treat

Tonight, in a fancy restaurant deep in the heart of London's Soho, my friends and I saw something that shocked us. Four young children, the oldest not more than eight or nine, came in trick-or-treating. They were on their own and it was obvious that there wasn't an adult outside waiting for them. The staff were in a dilemma, clearly they didn't want to send the kids back out onto the street but they also couldn't have them trick-or-treating the customers. In the end someone whom we presumed was the manager took the kids to the back and I guess she must have tried to find out how to contact the parents. My friends and I left pretty soon afterwards so I don't know what happened in the end.
I honestly do try not to judge others, but I couldn't help it this evening. Why would you think that it was a good or safe idea to let a kid do that?
Even now I still can't stop myself from thinking that sometimes the wrong people get to be parents.

un-captcha'd

Finally remembered to take captcha off my blog - thank you for the prompt, Tireegal!

I aten't ded

Last week I briefly met a man at a work thing.  It was just a quick "hello, nice meeting you", hand-shake and move on type of thing and I am never likely to meet him again.  In fact, I can't be sure I remember his name correctly as I met a lot of people at this event, in a short space of time.  I just mention it because for the first time since A left, I looked at someone and thought "gosh" and felt a teeny, tiny flutter of interest.

It's nice to know that I'm still alive under the layers of hurt, confusion, fat and unflattering clothing I've been covered with for the last 18 months.