Exits like a lamb

Written by Birds Eye View
Tuesday, 02 March 2010
There's an old weather lore attached to March that goes something like this: ‘March comes in like a lion, but exits like a lamb.’ When I came across this little snippet, I thought that the same phrase could be applied to most of the men that had the misfortune of getting involved with me over the years. I'm not sure what it is that I actually did, but whatever it was, I can honestly say that the confident stags that came through my front door with a semi-erection on that first date were nothing like the hunched specimens who exited it at the end of every relationship. With the benefit of hindsight, I realise that, at times, I was to relationships what Count Dracula was to jugular veins. I sucked the life out of the poor sods, in more ways than one. I'll add here and now that a lot of the time, it wasn't what I did, it was what I didn't do. And there it is, plain and simple; the admission of omission. It seems a lot of marriages and relationships are hitting the skids these days at an alarming rate, and at the centre of most downhill slides into divorce or separation is 'the other'. To quote the late Princess Di: "There were three of us in that marriage." Thankfully, not every home has a Camilla, but today, most at least have a computer and a TV. Spend too much time with either, rather than your loved one, and you'll end up convincing yourself that you're living the wrong sort of life. You could be so much more. I'm so glad I was born in the late sixties, because my generation grew up being inquisitive and easily inspired by the changes and advancements in our world, yet without the early neurosis of too much status envy. How things have changed. Today everyone is an impatient WANNABE and age or talent is seemingly irrelevant. You might be five years old and have a face like a pug dog, but you could be the next Cheryl Cole. Can't sing and can't dance? Is your hymen intact and can you play chopsticks on a Grand Piano and fart the National Anthem at the same time? Great! You'll be dueting with Michael Buble in three months time. With one press of that interactive 'red button' you could go from your Argos armchair to Hello magazine...but please, finish your kebab and chips first. Our hair, make-up and wardrobe department will work overtime and deal with that chilli moustache and flatulent belly-tray later. Yeah, I know, I'm whiplashing the obvious targets, but I'm so, SO bored of having my reading and viewing life invaded by talentless twats aiming for their fifteen minutes of fame. On top of that, there's the inane details of so called 'celebrities' and their financial and extra-marital affairs, their weight issues and fitness DVDs, their Tandoori tans and titivating text messages. So what if Lilly Allen has orange peel thighs and wants to lose weight, again? I actually quite like her pseudo-rebellious veneer and her yoofish song lyrics - but I don't give a shit about her yo-yoing poundage. It pales into insignificance when I'm staring at the handsome and healthy face of a young, fit soldier, with two young kids, who's lost a lot of weight after a roadside bomb in Afghanistan has blown both his legs and an arm off. But do you know something? What annoys me most is not so much our obsession with celebrity, but the fact that so many people use these 'characters' as a benchmark by which to measure their own lives’ contentment and happiness. It used to be the bloke up the road in the mock Tudor house with the conservatory, the Jag, and a villa in Spain who filled envy air time. It seems nowadays that every Joe in the street uses Google, Yahoo, Twitter and/or Facebook to promote, compare, or contrast their relationships with everyone from their partners to their bosses and their pets. And if you can't face reality, get an Avatar and create a Second Life. Oh come on...escapism is great, but it's so short-lived. You'll still smell, have blackheads and a muffin top the following morning. And maybe that's why; because you spend more time online than you do showering and flab crunching. But I'm not knocking the web's resources, because I've tracked down obscure books, learnt how to iron creases in my husband's trousers, plaster a wall, and uncovered the endless cleaning talents of white vinegar, but you can take it too far. The moment you begin to undermine your own life by putting more energy into the comings and goings of others, you are in serious danger of placing a wishbone where your backbone should be, and it'll only lead to disappointment, because your backbone is the one thing that will get you what you want and take you where you want to go. On a positive note, one man's junk is another man's treasure, so I'm relieved to say that most of my ex's have been happily re-homed, are now fully house-trained, can live with cats and children and are flourishing with their new owners. Some have been re-homed several times but are showing signs of finally finding their 'forever' home. One has gone feral, but early indicators point to the fact that upon capture, he will be castrated to keep him from straying again. How do I know all this? Oh come on, I've been nosing around on Facebook when I should've been shaving my legs, squeezing my spots and servicing my husband, of course. Well, I never said I was perfect, did I? Just opinionated. x