Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Off...

Ahhh Friday night's optimism becomes Sunday afternoon's comfort eating. No, Monday afternoon's. (Frickin' Bank Holidays!) At least I have a rehearsal this evening to break the silent solitude.

So how are you doing then? Good? Good.

*awkward cough*

Oh OK, OK... I give in. I suppose you are wondering how The Date went? If the title of this entry didn't already answer your question, you'd better read this: 

I was really excited, knowing I was going to spend a bit of time with someone single and straight, who I already knew I liked enough to meet, and vice versa. All I did on Saturday morning was get up and begin to get ready. The deliciousness of the weather prompted me to walk into town (the long way). This also meant no fancy clothing concoctions, as it's not pleasant trudging several km in heels. I went for my wafty walking uniform - long dress, crochet bingo wing-hider, sensible-but-pretty sandals. Hair in a bunch, touch of eyeliner, nothing more - part of Being Myself. 

Nervous pre-date Lizzie

Feeling the warmth of Spring on my legs and the fresh, invigorating air, I was almost annoyed that I had couldn't spend more time wallowing in it. I was accompanied by an earful of gig music, in preparation for the evening, but that wasn't helping me to stay calm. So I bunged on some Debussy and chilled out to the strains of Clair de Lune, somewhat incongruous in the sunshiney morning with sheep shouting at each other in the background.

I felt great as I neared the town - confident, attractive, optimistic - but was hanging off my wristwatch: Ten minutes, five minutes, no minutes... no agreed text that he'd arrived. Was I going to be stood up? Maybe the traffic was hideous - bank holiday Saturday on the M5 is no picnic. (OK, it is a picnic - inside your car, as you slither forwards at 5mph wondering why you bothered to leave the house.) Suddenly, a message pinged onto my phone. He was parked and mobile. We met under the... the... what is that thing in the centre? Is it the town hall? Under that. I bounded towards him (thank you Liszt for the mood music) and the date began.

He was lovely and tall, and not bad-looking. In fact, I had a little belly flip of excitement. But I of all people know that that doesn't account for much, it's just a first impression. He was a decade older than me, but carrying it off beautifully - you'd never have guessed his age from his face. I could see it later though, in the way he behaved. His first comment was that I looked summery. I laughed and replied:

"Mffle wrgs rgrgrghh ngghhhh" in an intelligent way. So much I could have said here that would have been erudite or girly, and that was all I managed! Calling upon my vows of honesty to furnish me with words I said:

"I'm sorry, but I'm incredibly nervous!"

"Well I'm incredibly hungry," was his response.

I think that sums it up really.

Imagine an old-fashioned balance, like the Libra scales. One dish is YES and one is NO. Now imagine that everything that happens is a weight going into either dish, until the balance is tipped one way or another. That's the way it goes when you meet someone. You start out with neutral feelings. As you get to know them, the weights pile up. If you are lucky, they mostly land in the YES dish, leading to a point where you realise that you like this person, and they will probably be part of your life for a bit longer. The opposite may also occur. Sometimes the weights will stack up very quickly. If that happens on the positive side, you're looking at serious chemistry! Also, some of the weights are heavier than others. For example, when he said he had children and that they lived with him most of the time... CLUNK into the NO side. But when he made a joke about something-or-other (which I can't remember at all now, so it wasn't that significant), TING into YES. I don't have time to nip onto PagePlus and do a graphic! I'm sure you've got the analogy.

His NO side filled up steadily throughout:

* "I love Formula One"

* Driving a really new, white Audi A3...

*... incredibly slowly around country lanes

* Every time he mentioned a recording artist that I had never heard of

* The "music" we listened to in his car

* Saying "Oh yes, tweet tweet" when I commented on how beautiful the birdsong was

* Telling me story after dull story, which did have points and were sometimes interesting, but were a long time coming

* Asking little to nothing about me, then making me feel like he wasn't listening when I was telling him.

* Talking politics.

* Playing a game called Ingress, which involves creating portals with your phone, only you actually go to places to do this. The upshot of which is that you arrive in an area of stunning beauty (such as Uley, to where we drove for a drink,) then spend all your time with your face in the screen instead of looking at, oo I don't know, ANYTHING ELSE. (Actually, I found the concept of the game intriguing, but I didn't see the connotations immediately.)

Oh man, it isn't fair of me to pick on him. He did manage to get some content in his YES dish. He was attractive. His height was really appealing. (Though any git can be tall, I suppose.) The funniest bit was where I bet him 10p he would get baked bean juice from his brekky onto his impossibly white trousers (White trousers???  NO). We put our coins on the table, and I lost hideously. He claimed his prize and high-fived his victory. It was all daft and it made me laugh. Sadly those moments were few and further between as time passed.

Don't forget that his own scale would have been doing the same. I imagine I lost lots of marks for being myself, which is fine because - as I am going to bang on repeatedly until I get it - what is the point in pretending? I found myself talking a lot about the way I looked. I've only noticed this on reviewing the date. God, I don't think I'm really that self-absorbed, am I? (She asks, while writing a blog all about herself...) But I do have a lot of hang-ups, many related to the physical. Living alone kind of magnifies this.

All this aside, I thought he liked me. He stuck around for ages, and said goodbye warmly, almost affectionately. I went off to my gig feeling positive and a bit crazy. I didn't care that I had crowbarred myself into ridiculously tight plastic trousers, or that there were fewer than ten people forming our audience, including the bar staff. We gave ourselves to the Forces of Rock!

The Forces of Rock got me into those trousers. Them, and a shoe horn. 

(https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wango-Jango/655145284619335 - to see vids from the night)

I tried to message him a bit during the evening, but his replies weren't forthcoming. I did receive a couple, with a tone flatter than my un-brassiered chest. The next day I still felt possibility, but with no further responses, I imagined he did not. In the end, I made my mind up to ask a direct question. Rip the Elastoplast of truth right off the hairy armpit of doubt in one go. Give me that sting now! Let me know either way, I said. Don't leave a girl dangling, I said.

He didn't. The word "Sorry!" and the phrase "Yesterday was under lovely," (though that could have been a typo, but I can't think of what he meant to put,) plus some other brief but firm statements sorted it out. I said "Not to worry, good luck with it all, bye!" and then came gravity's rush, and the cold linoleum of rejection hit my cheek with its oh-too-familiar "thwack".

How conflicting is that? No chemistry; little in common - obviously nothing was going to come from this. And yet all I can do is question what I did wrong? Was it the way I looked that put him off? Was it worrying about the way I looked that put him off?? (That's a big fat yes. I may have wobbliferous thighs, but I'm not stupid...) I think I was surprised that he'd picked up on the finer points, having appeared to barely notice me the whole time. (That's another NO clunk right there - emotionally a closed book.) I'm a bit cross with me for being upset. Rejection always hurts, I suppose. There is also pain from having been given a glimpse of the way things could be. A distant memory of what it is like to be loved resurfaced, and I experienced this huge sense of relief. The knowledge that someone wants you, and is counting the minutes until they can touch your face again... but that you feel the same way about them. Oh, it doesn't come along very often. Not for me. If you are one of the lucky ones who has that, revel in it! Don't let it fade. We are a long time dead

But look - it's saved me the worry of working out how to reject him while also considering his feelings. It's given me fuel for writing, and I'm not bothered about how frank I can be. I don't have to listen to F1 cars going NYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW in the background while I put his white trousers in the wash and call the kids down to their dinner! Most importantly, it's given me the chance to understand more clearly what it is I actually want: about who I am, and the sort of person who is going to improve my life by being in it.

For example, I know now that I need romance. I need a chap who finds me gorgeous, and tells me so; who wants to look at me and finds pleasure in giving me pleasure. Which would be exactly the way I would feel about him. I knew my date owned a cat, so (following the recommendations of my sisters' mog Jaffa) I purchased some nibbles for said pet, as an ice-breaker. Not flowers, not chocolates, but duck-flavoured Dreamies. Yet when I presented them to him, he was more startled than grateful. My YES dish on his scale didn't even wobble. What a waste of good Dreamies. Jaffa, forgive me!

My guy would have to notice his surroundings too. Yesterday was a cracker - the best, beautifullest, brightest day of the year so far. Sunshine, bluebells, such birdsong!! How could anyone be ignorant of that? Yet we walked from the pub to Uley churchyard, not to actually look at Uley churchyard, but so he gather a point or two on his computer game! Then we left. We drove around the splendid English countryside, putting on its best display, and he was babbling about faith school funding with weird prog rock blaring from his car speakers, drowning out everything except, sadly, his voice.

I love music, but making it more than watching it. If I hear something I like, I can't help but sing it. I SING. My bloke is going to need to be able to sing along somehow, not necessarily in a literal sense. Musical theatre groups are what I do. I perform on stages, in pubs, on street corners. (Not that sort of performance. Tch.) Whoever I'm with has GOT to be OK with that, and even more - they've got to want to be part of it in some way. Watching, or helping, or (be still my beating, hopeful heart) performing too. Be someone who gets up and does things.

I learned, through our "conversation", that I am not materialistic in the slightest, but I'm aware that I need to be working harder to earn more money so I can live. I am creative, immensely so. My house IS scattered with boxes and piles and drawersful of Things To Make Other Things With (that I won't necessarily use, but will enjoy the possibilities that they possess). I am the sort of girl who enjoys browsing recycle stores and charity shops. This is me and I am proud of that.

Argh it's no good, I can't concentrate on working today. I can't concentrate on anything. I feel that my pride has been burned by all this, and my heart is heavy. I have had a quick look on the GS website, mainly to change my profile slightly and add a new picture from the gig. The site tells you who viewed you, and this information appears chronologically. So if someone looks at you again, their picture comes to the fore. I noticed that my weekend date's pic was first in the row, meaning that he'd viewed my profile again, which did surprise me. I imagined it was to make absolutely sure he was done with it. Now, if you see someone on the site whom you like, you click a "like" button, similar to Facebook. That's how we first noticed each other - a mutual clicking. However, just as on FB, you can "unlike" somebody. I noticed the number of Chaps Who Like Me had gone down, so I had a look, and yes - he no longer likes me. I returned the favour, blocking him and hiding him, and deleting his number from my phone. I'm trying to forget the whole sad thing. While at the same time, climbing straight back onto the horse that threw me.

I can see this being a long and painful journey.

Dating website stats so far:

Men who've viewed my profile: 73

Men whose profiles I've viewed: 79

I like: 16

Like me: 12

Mutual likes: 1 (was 2 - see above) Neither me nor this other guy have contacted each other yet. I was leaving it to him, as I made the first move the last time. 

Messages I've sent to chaps that I haven't had a reply from: 8

Messages chaps have sent to me that I haven't replied to 'cos the bloke in question isn't really what I am looking for: 3

Chaps who liked me that I have blocked because they are clearly unsuitable, barely being able to speak English and living in different continents: 2

Chaps who have viewed my profile after seeing that I have viewed theirs, or "liked" them, who have subsequently not got in touch in any way: Lost count

Ongoing messaging threads: 0 (was 1, but we know what happened there...)

Dates: 1

Am I being too picky? Should I be pickier?

I've only been registered since 14th May, and signed up a week before that, so I suppose it's early days. On the site, one sees the pictures first, along with a user name and an age. So maybe my picture is not reeling 'em in! Once you click on a pic, you then get to read the profile and look at other pictures. You've seen my images (in Meet Me On the Corner). Here are the words that go with them:  

Well hello to you!  That IS a nice outfit you’re wearing.

It's a bit creased, mind. You could have ironed…

er, no… no, it’s all right. Please don’t get up. I'll squint.

I’m just a girl, looking for a bloke: Someone who likes things I like and values things I value; Someone who approaches life from the same angle as me; Someone to learn from, who would also enjoy being taught; Someone tall, who would be great company and fun to be with; Someone to love, and to be loved by.

As you can tell, I am not very demanding.

I also do sarcasm, but only in the previous sentence.

You need more?

Well, I'm incredibly open and honest.

I'm always ready with a merry quip or a comforting word to suit the occasion (and several that don't - e.g. the now legendary Flat Pack Coffin remark of 2003...)

I'm also a little miffed that it's come to this - selling myself to strange men on the internet using only pictures and words. However, needs must as the devil expectorates in your physiognomy.

So, if you’re looking for a puzzle-compiling, gig-playing, biscuit-baking, larynx-twanging, show-directing, Facebook-using, chocolate-munching, MS Excel-excelling, stage-performing, outdoor-walking, quiz-setting, meditation-learning, harmony-singing, straight-talking, guitar-strumming, charity shop-browsing, yoga-partaking, kitchen-pottering, Grade 8 recorder tooter with a biochemistry degree, who enjoys Red Dwarf, League of Gentlemen, Dickens, Pratchett, Viz and Die Hard; a punctuation fan, whose ambition is to have Alexander Armstrong congratulate her on a Pointless answer; a pantomime-writing music lover, and future Nobel Literature Prize winner* with an eclectic iPod selection, a head full of ideas and a big heart – then I’m your girl!

And if you managed to get to this point of my profile and I still haven't scared you, message me and I'll try a bit harder...

*No responsibility can be taken for me not making the shortlist. Or not having a book published. Or not actually writing one.

They are very similar to the ones used on Match.com. Maybe they aren't suitable for GS? If you know me, you'll be more informed as to whether they paint a good picture of who I am. I think they do, and therefore my concern is that I am scaring men away, as I have done for a lot of my life. I have to be true to myself as a date would find out soon enough if I wasn't. Being true to myself in spite of this.  

Also, here is what I am looking for, updated with what I learned recently:

Height is always good (I'm 5' 9" without shoes on...) Hair is nice, but not a deal-breaker. Both would be mere icing on a kind, caring cake, with whom I would have more chemistry than Mendeleev's dreams. 

Music rules my life - I play, I sing, I perform; I help others to play, sing and perform too; I listen, I learn, I sing some more. I am highly self-aware. I notice my surroundings and adore the countryside. Breathing in fresh air, hearing birdsong, absorbing beauty and spontaneous days. Conversations involving two-way speaking and listening. Old-fashioned romance lights me up inside - giving and receiving in as equal amounts as possible. I love to laugh and I don't take life too seriously.

These things are so important to me, to have someone to share them with would be more than I could wish for.

Reading my fellow Soulmates' profiles sometimes makes me cry. I feel as sorry for them as I do for myself. I hope I can see a happy side to this again soon.

To summarise, it's not quite Square One that I am back to. Square One Point One, perhaps. I am prepared for a lot more of this shit, and thanks to #01, I am much more aware of what to expect from this dating lark. Though I'm subdued now, I know that that feeling of crazy empowerment is within me all the time, ready to be unleashed, and that keeps my flame of hope flickering away, as always.

Will there be enough chocolate in the fridge to get Lizzie through to Tuesday morning? Have there been any bites on the Soulmate hook since this post was written? Has Lizzie nailed the alto part to New York, New York, or will it be tuneless note-stabbing in the back row again? Has anyone seen the flying f*** that nobody gave? Sigh. Happy Bank Holiday folks  

Meet Me On the Corner

I've got a date.

He seems nice, and from his one profile picture, he looks OK. But you can't really tell from a picture what someone is going to be like, can you? 

My profile pic. Can you tell who she is yet?

You can't even tell what they really look like! I know some delicious-looking folk who just don't take a good photo. Likewise, I know how many pics I have to take, from all different angles (usually me looking up to the camera) before I get one that I'm happy with, though it often doesn't bear much resemblance to me. Everyone comments "Wow, what a lovely picture" and I think "Hehe, little do you know..."  

Little do you know.

One reason why I decided to sign up was because I am fed up with not meeting anyone new. I also miss going out and doing stuff with a special someone. Y'know - let's get a coffee, let's go for a walk, let's see a film. So when he suggested we meet up, I said yes right away. We've only exchanged a couple of messages, and they've not been that wordy. (Actually, mine were more on the long-winded side. I know you'll find that hard to believe.) I also think that I'm better in person than on paper. Anyone who has met me knows that I like to smile and laugh, and make daft jokes. These things come across less well in the written word.  (NB I like to smile and laugh. I don't always get the opportunity. I'm trying very hard not to descend into miserable old bag-ness, though it seems easier some days.)

Such a miserable old bag...

So we are going to meet on Saturday morning. Somewhere local to me, which is a relief, as I'll feel safe. I have to reassure myself a lot these days that I am safe and OK and that no-one is going to hurt me. I'm not talking about physical pain - it's more of a comfort thing, to calm the panic and tension I often feel. I know it's odd meeting in the am, but I have the gig in the evening, and I would like to rest up beforehand. There's no "I'll-be-under-the-clock-wearing-a-red-carnation" here. It's all "I'll text you when I've arrived". Plus I'll probably recognise him from his pic. Technology leaches a bit of the romance out of things.

I am, of course, terrified. For so many reasons. In fact, I am blinded with an adrenalin headache, that started yesterday when the event was confirmed, and is now into to its twenty-fifth hour. The only time my jaw has unlocked is when I'm pouring chocolate into it. My whole bod is more wound up than Zebedee after a month of abstinence.

Firstly, what if I hate him? When I announced the date on FB, I had a flood of supportive comments. Plus one about a rhino, but never mind. Several friends remarked that I'd know within minutes of meeting if I like him. I imagine the same would go for the opposite emotion. My fear is that I'll think he's rotten, but won't want to hurt his feelings by clearing off directly, and therefore I'll be stuck with him. I know that even if my initial reaction involves holding back a mouthful of sick, I would still give him a chance, in case I am wrong. I can always walk away. I don't ever have to see him again. It's just tough disappointing someone. I'm never comfortable with that.

Then the antithesis, which is worse as I'd have no control over this: What if I think he's the bee's knees, but he thinks I'm the mule's stools? My self-esteem will probably be assuming this every second I'm with him, and I'll have to keep reminding myself that he wouldn't be there if he didn't want to be. Also, that this is just a meeting. Two people, having a drink and talking. It is NOT a binding legal contract to spend the rest of our lives together. 

We're meeting in public, in daylight and I shall NOT be inviting him back to mine, nor giving him my address. That's a bit of fear that I can deal with, for now.

Ah, this whole internet dating thing has left me feeling fragile. It seems so forced; artificial, even. I've returned to a shrinking, forlorn being, hugging myself and having the occasional blub. The necessity for this whole thing - the process, the pantomime - it makes my heart sore.

Reading the profiles on the website, I'm often struck with a feeling of inferiority. I'm never going to be good enough for these chaps. This is Guardian Soulmates - recommended to me by several folk, which is why I signed up. Of course I should have considered the fact that a lot of its users are Guardian readers! Dur. I am not. I don't read broadsheets. Or even newspapers. (BBC News Website, in case you were wondering how I know what's going on.) So there are many highbrow blokes on there. I've already encountered a film director, travel writer, actor - even a double Emmy Award winner! It's not just jobs, it's attitudes too. I know I have to ignore the profiles declaiming celeb culture and soap operas (not that I'm into either, I just work with them...) and find the ones that match me. It's hard not to feel belittled. Match.com was similar, but from the opposite end. Most messages I received were littered with bad spelling, text abbreviations and - gasp - misplaced apostrophes. To me, that's just as big a turn-off as halitosis! So from being a big(ger) fish in the Match pond, I move to being a relative tiddler in the ocean of Guardian, and quite frankly I'm floundering.

Is this my sole-mate?

I am frightened of all these scary new blokes and longing for the comfort of already knowing someone and not having to go through all the tedious introductory blah-blah. While I do have those moments of soul-sucking loneliness, I also have times where I'm almost relieved not to have anyone else to worry about. I sit at my laptop, binge-watching Frasier, my glass of water at my side (not wine), having just toasted a few marshmallows over the gas cooker for pudding. Who would put up with such quirks? In past relationships, I've suppressed them, worried that I'd scare my partner off if I revealed the real me. I don't think that's healthy. Somewhere I must summon up the gall to be myself and back that up.

I have an increasing desire to change my appearance in some way - like I don't wish to look like me any more. Is this what they call a mid-life crisis? The few grey hairs poking out and taunting me are just asking to be dealt with. I have even been seriously considering a tattoo - just a small one - to remind me to live. I feel I'm dowdy, mumsy (without actually being a mother) and bland. I want to exude colour and fun, not look like a sixth-form prefect from 1952. I'm pretty sure this is all in my mind, though my sagging skin and bagging chops don't help. 

Make-up-free me

Incidentally, the pics in this blog entry are some of the ones that go with my profile. It's not a sudden attack of narcissism! We're instructed to use a variety of recent pics that build an idea of what we like and what we are like. Full-length ones are recommended. You'll have seen most of them before. I don't seem to have many up-to-date ones. This one's the oldest, from Jan 2014:

I enjoy a good strum. (Not a euphemism.)

I know I need to be patient. I remind myself that this time three years ago, I was half way through a twenty-four week period of chemo hell. That's where I learned patience. I bucked against it every day, every painful fatigue-fuelled hour. It got more and more difficult as the sessions went on, like climbing an increasing incline. However I got to the top in the end. I'm forever being told "when you stop looking, that's when you'll find someone." As a single person, I don't think you really ever stop looking. I had made a conscious decision to do that, but it didn't work, hence all this palaver.

Full-length and floaty

I am also scared of making a bad decision. When vulnerability comes a-knocking, reason escapes out of the bathroom window, thus leading to some questionable life choices. And yet I'm going on this date. I think I've only ever been on one date before. It was in my teaching days, and it was dull. I was relieved to escape the guy, who looked like Penfold.

Crumbs, Chief! She's watching Frasier again.

I knew he looked like Penfold beforehand, but I still agreed to go out with him, giving him the benefit of my mounting doubts. The animated Penfold was quite cute and cuddly, if a bit wet; the date Penfold was so much less. The only underwear he managed to divest me of was my socks, via the boredom method. I allowed a polite amount of time before I "simply had to get back to do some marking." That was my one and only foray into the dating world.

Yes, this is how I treat blokes who lie about their height

Saturday's chap doesn't resemble a cartoon character. He's tall (so he says) and intelligent, and I am going to meet him with my baggy chops held high, being the very essence of myself, as that is all I am.

Will it be love at first sight, or Gaviscon all round? Will he turn up, see me and run? What the hell am I going to wear? BROAD daylight - what was I thinking? All the answers and more to be unleashed on your eyeballs very soon...

Let Me Entertain You

Not written for months because... well I don't know. I haven't been bothered to do a lot of things, (even though I've had a to-do list longer than my monkey arms) maybe that is why. Since February, I have had the pantomime, then 'flu, food fair and... what? What happened to me? Direction disappeared, energy waned. It all went - to borrow a much-overused interjection - meh.

Pied Piper Panto...

... Food Fair frolics.

I have really enjoyed watching Spring happen - daffodils and snowdrops unfolding; then all manner of blossom; lambs, so helpless and sproingy; bluebells, and the explosion of greenery that's currently evident everywhere. It's delicious!

Forsythia. Nice to see you, to see you..

The deliciousness of Spring

So why can't seem to summon up as much enthusiasm as I used to for walking? If there is a reason not to - it's too windy; I'm already cold; I need to work; too many people about; there's a bone in my leg, etc it's very easy to accept it. Today it has been gorgeous outside, if a little chilly, and I could probably have been tempted were it not for raging pain of the one-week-every-three variety. (That is more of a valid reason, I suppose.) Instead I perch delicately on my Seat of Death as Saturday afternoon turns to evening, which for me means more loneliness and waiting around to eat or sleep.

Yes, dammit, I find comfort from both. I fight an hourly battle against food. Chocolate feels so ridiculously good. I eat some after every meal now, as well as in between. It's a habit that I've let myself get into, which I'd really like to break. The sugar doesn't make me feel well, never mind guilt that follows. I find it hard to believe that I used to be so disciplined I once lost over six stone sticking to Slimming World, the shreds of which are still evident in my current eating plan. My meals themselves are pretty healthy, and I would be doing fantastically, if they weren't all supplemented by Mr Cadbury.

Sleep is also blissful, though my dreams are intense, and usually filled with anxious situations. I often find myself shouting, screaming at members of my family, panicking that I have left the comfort of my home for the chaos of where I grew up. I've even started having the old "teaching a class of unruly kids" classic again. ("Sit down. SIT down. SIT DOWN. SHUT UUUP! SHUT UUUUP!! SHUT UUUUUUUUUPPP!!!) It's based on the reality of my teaching days all those years ago, though I managed to train myself to walk away as soon as I realised it was a dream. Interestingly, the last time I had it, I announced to the class that I didn't have to put up with this, and was about to move on to some alternative dreamscape, when one pupil said:

"What's the matter? Is Miss giving up? Chicken."

I wouldn't normally react to that sort of challenge, certainly not in real life, but on this occasion, even though I knew I was in my imagination, I couldn't leave the room. Me? Give up? Nahhhh.

Punctuating the yelling and anger are gems of dreams that boil down to someone loving me. The comfort from those is nothing that any Lindt product could ever match. The person in question is usually a stranger, or an actor I've stared at all gooey-eyed through many episodes of the same show. They are often tall, good-looking, and they smile ever so much, because I make them smile.

They tell me that they want to be with me and I can't believe it - that someone so gorgeous would desire a scrag-end like me. Yet they do, they are smitten, and I go from incredulity to exultation as I bathe in their affection. There's no naughtiness, by the way! Just love. I'm always sorry to wake up and let reality touch me with its bony fingers. So sleep -  good.

But of course this is not the way I want to live my life! I mean, that's the life of a woman forty years my senior, surely? I'll have plenty of time for that later. What of those vows I made at the top of the year? As we're hurtling toward the halfway point of 2015, allow me to review in reverse order:

5) Keep smiling. I'm doing my best. (Said through gritted teeth.) It's been ten months since the first lot of sertraline, and about three since the dose was doubled (at my request.) Sometimes it works so well, I laugh at random things and can't stop grinning. Lately, it hasn't been doing that, and I'm wondering if I'm building up a tolerance to it. I always thought medication was the reason for my previous ballooning, so I am reluctant to change. Therefore, I am doing as much as the condition allows me to do to fight it.

I keep hearing that mindfulness is a good way to combat depression. It's certainly something my counsellor has been nudging me towards. She recommended a book - Mind Calm by Sandy Newbigging. (Crazy name, annoyingly sane guy...) I bought it. It sits by my bed, bookmark wedged into the place where I last dropped off in its pages. Yes, I am reading it. Slowly, but surely. Between its poorly-written self-congratulatory paragraphs, there are nuggets of sense, but they are so few and far between, I am losing interest. I've never been one for non-fiction, and self-help leaves me cold. However, in the spirit of trying to heal myself, I'm giving it a whirl. It's exactly what you'd expect, with the irritating feature that he hasn't actually told me how I'm to achieve this "peace in mind" stuff yet, and I'm nearly a third of the way through. JUST TELL ME ALREADY!  

Linked with this is meditation, which I stink at. Imagine an out-of-control carousel, whirling around and around, not stopping. That's my mind. It doesn't slow easily; New thoughts ping off it like toddlers who weren't holding on properly. With mindfulness, you are focusing on one thing, which should centre you and bring you peace. The problem is, I can't get the carousel to stall enough to take on board this concept! I downloaded several guided meditations from YouTube to get me started. I like the ones that tell me exactly what to think of, though I'm still struggling with that. Take this one:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SuH5LlrAm8

It's my favourite so far, where a friendly chap called Jason takes my imaginary self up some imaginary stairs into an imaginary library. I sit down here, opening a book that leads me... no, no spoilers! I'll leave you curious enough to have a listen yourself.

At the beginning, he urges me to picture a wall or flat surface in the room I am in and "...watch as a door materialises slowly, as if emerging from a heavy fog..."

My internal monologue goes thus:

"A door, OK a door. Where shall I put it?  Quick now, he's moving on. Well the left side's no good, it's all window. And the other side, that's all wardrobe. So it has to be the foot of the bed... Hmmm not much room. I'd never get it open! Hurry UP Lizzie, he's got to the chair. Maybe it opens inwards. But how does it fit in the wall in the first place? There's the empty telly bracket, and the radiator... Maybe it's a very tiny door, like in Alice in Wonderland. I'll have to crouch! Oo, Peter Crouch. He's married to Abbey Clancy. I'll use them in my next [celeb] Magazine crossword... Oh blimey, I should have sent that off yesterday... and the [soap magazine] one. Darn..." by which time Jason has bounded up the stairs and into serenity, while I am left trying to squeeze through a gap in the radiator while fending off a tall footballer, his Scouse WAG, several unmet deadlines, and an angry mob of customers.

*sigh*

Of course, it's like anything else in life - you have to practise to become expert. I can hear you wondering what the point is. I mean, it sounds like a load of festering badger bollocks doesn't it? If I am honest, even I have to suppress a snort of disdain on occasions. However, I have noticed a lot of it makes sense, and it has helped to get me through times where my head is going the same way as a Mars Attacks alien listening to Slim Whitman. So practise I will continue to do. 

4) Look After Myself. Parent Lizzie is often about these days. Sometimes to guide Child Lizzie in the right direction; most of the time to stand back in despair, sucking her teeth and sighing. She is unimpressed at the lack of discipline regarding arse-moving and chocolate-woofing. (And getting work done. And all the free stuff that people keep asking me to do, that I keep saying "yes" to, then wondering why I did.) She bites her lip when I go to bed with my laptop playing YouTube in my face, instead of a book. She clenches her fist when I ignore my morning alarms and roll out of bed to float through the day until I can return to it. She's the one screaming "come ON!!!" at me, when I see the sunshine and decide I would rather stay indoors.

So no, I'm not sure I'm giving number four everything I've got, though number five might dispute that.

3) Love. A tricky one. I'm certainly trying to dish it out, whenever I get the opportunities. Sometimes when I am with pals, my heart brims over with joy and I have to tell them how I feel. I know that this is the real me, because I've done it many times pre-tablets. In terms of chaps... sigh. Actually, I would like to take this opportunity to ask that all married/attached men STOP TEXTING vulnerable, single, lonely women in provocative ways. Yes, yes, your wife doesn't understand you, you live practically separate lives, haven't shared intimacy in months blah-di-bloody-blah. Stop it NOW. Apart from being totally unfair to me, and to your missuses, it's painting a rather shabby picture of how I'm expecting my future hubby/partner to behave. And if you are reading this, and you think you're the only one I'm referring to, you are not. Not by a long, dismal chalk...

This sort of behaviour has definitely contributed to the increase of my medication. The only blokes that are showing an interest in me are already the subject of long-term interest themselves. While I need some of what that they can offer, what is the point? It can't lead to anything other than tears and pain. I know this. Why don't they? I sit alone blubbing while they spend the evening in company; I go to bed clutching my teddy bear while they snuggle up to someone who loves them... yet they still have the nerve to play with my feelings? ENOUGH. Enough with the self pity. Time for action. Dating website sourced, sampled and signed up to. Lizzie is single and ready to mingle!

Well, not quite ready exactly, but certainly ready to throw her hat into the ring and see who fancies trying it for size. Not a lot, it would seem...

OK, I've only been enrolled a week, but already I've encountered similar to my last foray into this online lark. In fact, the same as I've encountered all my life: The chaps I like don't like me. I tried to be proactive, so I picked out a few matches and bravely messaged them. As with last time, no replies. Furthermore, the site tells you who looked at your profile. They all did. Virtual it may be, but it is exactly the same as standing alone at the Sixth Form Disco when the slow stuff comes on, catching the eye of every boy looking for a dance partner, only to have them walk right past you. (Some of them even used to sneer... man, I thought I was over that.) Of course then I looked at the chaps who messaged me. My boat was not even slightly raised by any of them. But they liked me - maybe I am not looking at them hard enough? I should reply because they got in touch, even though I don't remotely fancy any of them, right? This leads to settling for what is there, which is again my life's story, and has led me to my single status. I don't think I want to do that again.

Scrag End...

...or Rock Goddess?

It is a treacherous journey. Different to face-to-face dating, which I have never really done. I'm choosing a potential life mate the same way that I choose which yogurts I would like in my weekly shop - from a list of criteria. For example, I am not religious. While I embrace the fact that others are, and that each to their own, if I knew the choices of a person before I met them, I would probably avoid those who gave themselves the opposite label to me. So I'm ruling out what might otherwise be a great match. Or not, as that's quite an important thing for a couple to agree on. Smoking is a better example. A lifelong non-smoker, vehemently against the habit, couldn't have been happier when they introduced the ban (though it means wading through a cloud of faggy air to walk IN to anywhere nowadays...) - could I be happy with a smoker? Am I unnecessarily eliminating chaps who puff away, and thus rejecting potential chemistry? Anyone under six feet tall is getting the chop too. I'm never going to find anyone, am I? Probably less likely if they've found this blog. But screw it! To misquote, the Bible, Gloria Gaynor and Popeye all at once - I am what I am.

2) Music. Now we come to the cream: Much progress is being made, and it's having a ripple effect.

Firstly, I have joined a rock/pop band. Two extremely talented guitarists found me on JoinMyBand.com, prised me out of the house to go for an audition (I very nearly didn't) and suddenly I've opened up a door in my life I never knew existed. (In your FACE, Jason...) So once a week, I'm driving up the M5 and unleashing my inner Rock Goddess to whoever cares to listen, and bloody hell - I love it. The kind words have been tumbling in and I'm using them to build me a little podium of confidence which I'm standing on, wiggling my hips and belting out Steppenwolf in an unrestrained manner. Born To Be Wild? Could be...

(Wanna see the hips in action, along with the rest of the band? Next gig: Saturday May 23rd, 9pm at The Shutters Inn, Gotherington, Cheltenham. GL52 9EZ)

Nervous Lizzie before the audition. Born To Be Mild.

I've also hooked up with another couple of guitarists - just as talented, but more unplugged. They are refreshingly local, and we are working on things that are completely different to all the other stuff I'm doing. They're even encouraging me to whip my recorders out and don't wince too much when I hit the high notes on my descant. Again, I'm surprising me with the sounds that I can produce, and the things I have learned over the years that I never realised I knew. It's wonderful. My podium gets slightly stronger.

But I'm having to hang about for a bit for gigs, and I need money. So why wait? Why not go it alone as well? I have all the equipment, the music, the talent (apparently, though I wouldn't listen to me...) and the... the... I don't know what. (Je ne sais quoi?)

It's one of those things that I've been meaning to do for some time now, and joins the list of I Will Get Round To It One Day. Having dragged myself out for a walk on Thursday, I passed one of the many hostelries that dot my route, one that always advertises live music. An invisible force made me turn about, and before I knew it I was standing at the bar, proclaiming my services to a bemused barmaid. It was strange. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had time to consider them, and they were all good. Exactly what I wanted to say. The bummer was she wasn't in charge, and the lady who was didn't want to come out to chat. I was told to leave my number, yet also drop her a message on FB. I left, slightly deflated, but still a bit gobsmacked at my actions. It's amazing what a bit of confidence can do.

I sent the message, but not before I spent a good morning creating myself a Facebook page to publicise Just Lizzie, the singer. You can see it here:

https://www.facebook.com/justlizziesinger

...and if you are a Facebook user, please "like" it, as it will help me to get seen. 

As for the landlady, she has yet to respond. But I also made a list of other potential locations, and there are many. When my ovaries have stopped wrestling, I shall visit in person, with business cards and smile, maybe even my guitar (free samples), and a total pretence that I enjoy selling myself to strangers. Hell, if I was good at that, I'd be pursuing a much more lucrative career. Cough. Which leads me neatly on to:

1) Work Hard. Let's face it, I'm broke. Not quite stony, but the tarmac is certainly wearing thin. It's not like I'm not doing stuff, o-ho no. I just don't seem to be getting paid for much of it. It's either voluntary things (see #3, Love, Dishing Out Of) or it's loss-leaders that are building the foundations for payment. If I don't pull my finger out to seek the spondoolicks, I'll soon find myself booted out of my rented home and onto said tarmac quicker than you can say "credit check".

In an further effort to boost professional confidence, I enrolled on a short piping skills course, led by the mother of an ex-pupil. My last encounter with the lady was fifteen-ish years ago, standing in the playground just before Christmas, while she had a (quite justified) go at me for something I'd done regarding her daughter. It was one of many incidents that had contributed to my eventual resignation from the profession. Though more than a decade had passed, I was nervous. Would she remember me? Yup. Not only that, but she remembered exactly what she'd been yelling about! The best thing was that we both thought it was hysterical. I love that something so traumatic can become a source of amusement so much later on. I'm halfway through the classes, and they are a hoot! My fellow pupils are entertaining and I'm learning loads. Not just about icing, but about business. About having the brass neck to charge what I need to charge for jobs, and not to care if I lose the job as a result.  

A brush with embroidery, on a biscuit

There you have it. Fighting, struggling, battling all the time. Getting closer to giving up, but focusing more on the fact that I'm also getting closer to achieving something. And surprising myself all the time - as with this blog entry, which I have squeezed out in three hours, without knowing I was going to.

If you've sat through all that, your arse will be as numb as mine is now. Why not lever yourself up and head to the kitchen for ginger bear, Ibuprofen, M&Ms, and an early night? That's what I'm going to do. Rock and ROLL. 

Will the feeling ever return to Lizzie's buttocks? Will Lizzie ever stop inappropriately mentioning body parts? Will anyone hire Just Lizzie for a gig? Is Lizzie ever going to get around to organising the fortieth birthday party she so desperately wants? Find out in next week/month/year's exciting installment...