A brief-yet-witty dollop of self-pity for the third week in
Advent. It’s like the kind of spot I used to get as a teenager: It’s there all
the time, but one morning you wake up and it’s filled with yuck and bright
green, for no discernible reason. The only way to stop it throbbing is by
squeeeeeeezing it until its contents are splatted all over the bathroom. It
hurts and it’s sore for a bit afterwards (and you really need to get some
Windolene on that mirror) but it eases and heals and goes back to just being
there. Well here I am, metaphorical tissue wrapped around my index fingers, hot
flannel at the ready, prepared to press and purge…
I was walking back from <an as-yet-unrevealed thing that
I do most Sunday mornings> (hmmm, is that a clue?). It’s a crisp Winter’s
day, clear and fresh but not icy. There were blackbirds, sounding their territorial
claims to each other in sweet melody. I noticed the reflection of the sky on
the numerous puddles along the way, and droplets of water hanging from bare
branches.
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| Ice, ice. Baby. |
There’s even some Forsythia blossom peeping prematurely out of my
neighbours’ bush. (Titter ye not madam etc.) I should be happy and smiling,
full of the joys of exercise and the season. So why was I crying?
Picture an old-fashioned balance, of the sort that
represents Librans. On the one side is “Loneliness”. Countering that is “Keeping
Busy Doing Stuff”. If that first side gets too full, I pile more into the
second to make sure it’s always outweighing. I think I must have overloaded it,
because suddenly everything’s fallen out and Loneliness dominates.
I’m not talking lonely as in “without company”. I cunningly
surround myself with people as much as possible these days. Anybody will do,
even you. (You’re welcome.) This
however is the sort of solitude that it’s harder to relieve. I usually keep it
all boxed up so I don’t feel it. I must have dropped my guard for a second, and
the bastard’s popped the lid and is jumping up and down on my brain until I can
catch it and bury it deep again. I am yearning for company of the non-platonic
sort. To be touched with affection. To be kissed. Goodness me, I miss kissing!
Holding hands. Looking into the eyes of someone I have feelings for, to find
him looking back at me with the same passion and fondness. To love and be loved.
Just to be clear, I don’t mean… you know… *cough*… rumpy pumpy. If that was the problem,
I’m sure it could be easily fixed with a weekend visit to a pub or club. I
flatter myself, but not that much really as some chaps will take any old tat
offered, just because it’s offered! There would probably be a lot of regrets
involved too, almost as many as the amount of alcohol units I would need to
consume to convince me that I could pull it off. (Seriously, no tittering. It
was obvious what I meant.) Ahhh, I’ve never been one for that malarkey. I need
to like and know a bloke pretty darn well before I let things get that far. I
think that makes this even more difficult.
I don’t get much physical contact these days, as well you
know. Platonic hugs are lovely, don’t get me wrong, though they too are thin on
the ground. It’s a shame, as they help one’s bod release oxytocin – a hormone
related to being in love. The problem here is me - I know that I generally want
to cling hold of the recipient, which then makes me want to cry my heart out,
so rather than causing fear or embarrassment in people I know well enough to
embrace, I end up pushing them away before anything has a chance to be released.
Sometimes I exercise total avoidance, which goes against the very fibre of my
being.
In terms of finding a more permanent hormone producer, it’s
a conflict. I am still trying to be happier in my single state… but if I met
him, I might reconsider! What I mean is, I’m not actively looking. (It’ll be a sequin-free episode of Strictly
before I go near a dating website again, I can tell you.) With the exception of
a couple of chaps, I don’t think I have ever met anybody that would make me
happy as much as I might make them happy, and I don’t know why that is. It’s
not anyone’s fault. I can see that I’m a bit whingy today, and I won’t get
started on how attractive I don’t feel; I know I’m hard work. Yet despite all
that, I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of more than my fair share
of interest. It’s a shame it’s never from anyone interesting. And don’t say “Oh Lizzie, you’re too picky.” I hate that. For
heaven’s sake, should I just go off with the next chap that touches me
inappropriately or makes pervy suggestions?? (Yes, it happens…) I choose food
very carefully and my relationship with that lasts mere minutes. I’d invest
slightly more time and concern into choosing a potential life sharer. Tch.
Why now? Well it’s this fudge-sucking time of year, isn’t
it? As I’m shoved through each Christmas I get less and less enthusiastic. Last
year I went down the cynical route, trying to make as much money as possible
selling my wares. This year I care even less than that. No decorations, no
cards. Few, if any gifts. I’m not being (any more) Grinchy (than usual) - peace
on earth is the least minty of humbugs, and should be exercised all year round. (This is meat for
another day’s sandwich. I’m not getting onto my high one-horse-open-sleigh
now.) The point is that there’s something about the dark nights and days that
really makes you want to snuggle up to someone beautiful and enjoy the time
with them. All the stupid slushy films on TV and adverts showing couples and
families force me do something that I avoid – they make me think about what I haven’t got instead of what I have. That’s
not good for anyone. Even if you don’t watch the TV, it’s bloody everywhere.
Lights, kids, commercialism, fake snow, more kids, trees, tinsel, cosiness, more
excited kids, Santa, plans for Xmas day, FB statuses about decorations/wrapping/parties/more
ridiculously excited kids. ARGH! I hate feeling like this. I don’t want it. With every waft of the season comes a fresh reminder:
no-one loves you Lizzie. Pass the Quality Street.
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| To Grinch or not to Grinch? |
Don’t mind me. I’ve just caught a bit of loneliness today,
that’s all. I don’t know why I want to publicise this. All it does is pee you
off, or make you feel sorry for me, and I don’t want that either. Worse – it could
convince (the thousands of) potential suitors out there that I’m a nutjob! (I
am of course a nutjob, but I don’t want them
to know that. Don’t tell them, will you? Shhhhhh.)
If you do one thing after reading this, it’s to go to that
person who lights up your soul and share some cuddles and kisses with them, you
lucky things, and feel gratitude in your heart. I shall be fine. This too will
pass, it always does. I need to keep concentrating on all that Other Stuff. Keep
moving, keep getting out, keep going. Throw myself whole-heartedly into
everything, showing my love in different ways and sharing it with the world. If
I do, I can saturate my brain with so many happy chemicals that it won’t notice
the aching void and can go back to ignoring it. All will be as it should be
once more. Silent night, hole-y night.
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| NOT A NUTJOB |
You’d
better not cry, you’d better not pout: Lizzie-drawers is coming to town! Load
up your sacks and prepare your chimney. No-one can fill a stocking like me,
baby! * Sigh* With
lines like that, is it any wonder that Lizzie is single? You won’t need to open
the next gift-wrapped entry to find out…
