Find My Love - Part Two

As promised, here’s the next instalment of what – SPOILER ALERT – is not going very well at all. You may recall that I’ve placed my face above the parapet and into the firing line of internet dating once more. Having signed up and parted with hard-earned hard cash, it was time to look at some of the other victims…

The way it works is this: They offer up “matches” for your perusal, and they’re quite generous about it. The pairings are based on the responses given to the questionnaire, in categories like “Altruism”, “Exclusivity”, “Relationship Values” etc. There are fifteen groups, and how compatible you are for each is given as a percentage. Thus, you could look at the results and say “Well, we’ve got 95% agreeableness congruity, but only 81% extraversion…” and know that that means… er…

Anyway, they show you the ones with high percentages, on the premise that you will be more suited to each other. You can refine the matching process by tweaking more relevant factors. For example, I took any smokers out of the mix, once I’d cottoned on to the fact that this could be done. That’s one of the simpler criteria that would define a potential partner for me. After that, it gets a bit trickier. (For more on that, keep reading) My first batch of matches, selected by the Algorithms of Lurve using the above, were waiting. My romantic heart whispered: “Let’s get down to it – one of these could be one of The Ones!”

One of them could indeed be. Gulp.

Looking around the sides of the rose-tinted specs showed me fifteen or so photos of middle-aged men in various poses, that they had decided would bring in the laydees. Instantly I felt like a voyeur, and not in a good way. The photos made me sad. Here are men with hope in their eyes, looking for love. Life has led them to this point, as it has led me. I’m sad yet hopeful too, so I know how they might be feeling. I know that all the things I have to offer could lift many of their spirits, but not necessarily mine. NO! I must not do anything out of pity. I sifted through their profiles and felt much, much worse about the whole thing. I had a little paddy and a big cry. Why have I done this? WHY??

Then a sensible voice overruled the wailing infant: You’ve got three months. You don’t have to contact anyone, nor reply. If any dates arise from this, you can look upon them as practice, research, experience. Something to blog about. The same way you look at everything else.

Time passed ... 

It snowed. A LOT. 

I worked hard.

Bought a sofa from the Lions for £20, delivery included. Was smug. 

Went to an awards ceremony. Lost the award, but won a lot more. 

Some days, it was windy. 

Easter happened. Bernard was thrilled.  

... and time passed.

As it’s been nearly two months since I opened this particular worm container, I have learnt a few things about the sort of annelids that might get me dangling from their hooks. Things that are going to make it very difficult for me to ever find one to wriggle along with. I have decided to be fair. A single photograph might speak a thousand words, but they might all be incorrect: I need to read the accompanying profile before I draw my conclusions. Of course, I will encounter some things within said profiles that are going to get my finger hovering over the “NEXT” button. Enough of them will make me press it and move on. I see them as “STRIKES”, like in baseball, though it doesn’t always take three to make me take off.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Strikes…

Not into Music: It’s important to me to have something to share with a partner, and this is my thing. My dream relationship is someone to jam with, especially accompanying me singing. So, if I am searching for people in the same way I’d search for a fridge-freezer, I’d can choose the one with the most ideal characteristics for my needs.

Drinking/socialising: I couldn’t share this. Yes, I like to be around folk, but I’d rather be doing something at the same time. To have a purpose for being together that wasn’t just chatting. See me at a party. I’ll be the one offering to help serve, or tidy up, or provide entertainment. If anyone manages to pin me down for a chat, I’ll usually squirm out of it as soon as I can do it politely! Things are different when one remains sober.

Money: Not necessarily the fact that you’re rich, but that you think my knowing about it will make me get in touch. So you retired at thirty did you? Well you can enjoy that while I get on with my puzzle compiling/baking etc.

Travel: I’d love to travel more. I don’t because I’m broke, alone and nervous. Sure, maybe you could help me out here, and it would indeed be a wonderful thing to do together. It’s not a priority though, and my lack of cash in particular means I can’t make a good travel buddy.

Kids: A tough one. We all know my thoughts about being a mum. The list of reasons why I’m not one is into the 40s, as am I, and topped off with “I’d make a terrible mother.” Mind you, it could be negotiable - “I have kids” on a profile could mean that they’re grown-up. Where I call STRIKE is when they are shoved into the profile under every possible category. Passionate about? My kids. Thankful for? My kids. Spend your leisure time? With my kids. Some of them even infiltrate the photos, which does seem a bit of a safety breach. I’m glad that there are such devoted fathers in the world, but I know I can’t share that with them. Funnily enough, the number and gender of said offspring does make a difference. I’m less “STRIKE”y with sons, and the fewer the better, and I can’t explain why.

Sport: If you are a sporty chap, brilliant. You might be fit and healthy, and, depending on the sport, have a good sense of teamwork. Some sports appeal more than others e.g. cricket, golf. I could participate! I would certainly be happy to spectate. But there are different levels of sportiness, that go from the “plays it every day” to the “will watch anything that’s on Sky Sports”, and not all those levels are attractive.

I appear to be struggling to articulate here. I will watch rugby if it’s on and the person I’m with (and cares about) wants to watch it. I might have to be doing something else at the same time though. Ditto cricket. Football, less so. I used to, but over the years I have come to resent professional footballers and the multiples of nurses’ wages they are awarded to play increasingly disappointing and dull games. And motorsports? My mate’s husband was obsessed by F1. I can still hear the racket. I never understood how she put up with it. They’re divorced now, so maybe she didn’t.

Oh, and if you’re a gym bunny – forget it. Muscles turn me off more than money.

Gaming: The only thing worse than watching sport on a screen is gormlessly gawping at one for hours on end with a headset on, clutching whatever passes for a joystick these days.

One photo/Short profile: C’mon chaps, at least give me something to work with! Make me believe you’re serious.

Bad spelling/grammar/punctuation: Word’s cant express how much it pain’s me to see apostrophe’s being misused. Or when their not aware there getting they’re “theres” mixed up. Or if u type in txt spk. Or Put Capitals Where They Don’t Belong. or leave them out when they do.

*swallows little bit of sick*

Snobby? Moi? I prefer “discerning”. If this restricts my choices further, then so be it. I’ll take the hit.

Height: Tall, broad-shouldered girl with body issues; small, bony men make me feel like Shrek yada yada. I might have mentioned this one a bit before…

I could of course instruct the site to only show me the 6’3”, childless etc candidates, but I understand that it’s not as simple as that. Just because someone is a dad that likes football doesn’t instantly rule them out. Nobody is 100% compatible and actually, it’s good to have some different hobbies in order to spend time apart. That’s why short profiles are so annoying. I want to see the reasons why, not the reasons why not! Anything that pings my dinghy would be the opposite of a STRIKE. In this case, a “TWANG”. Guitar string? Pant elastic?? Make of that what you will.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Twangs…

Well Educated: University, you say? Oxford, you say? TWANG.

Funny: Got me to lol at something you’ve written? Unexpected humour? TWANG

Good Looking: Aw come on, I’m only human! TWANG

Over 6ft tall: Goes without saying (again). TWANG

Well-written profile: TWANG

Plays a musical instrument/sings: TER-BLOODY-WANG!

Oh, that’s it. Top six then.

But wait! One of the reasons why this entry has been turtle-heading its way to the internet is that the above lists scream SHALLOW, and that is a hideously unattractive trait, which I didn’t think I had… until I read what I wrote. I worry that it is forced out of one by this whole process. You’re choosing suitable candidates for a partner as you would pick out anything else from the internet. I know what I like on paper, but – as we all know, to our chagrin - that doesn’t always bear resemblance to the delivered product. I would probably not select my friends as my friends from their lives condensed into written profiles, and yet in reality I couldn’t live without them. Therefore, I’m glad we met in reality! It’s such a shame I don’t seem to meet chaps in the same way and have to resort to this.

Of course, this is just my side of the bed. I’m aware that I’m being judged just as I am judging, and that not everyone will be going beyond the profile picture. A few have, and a few of them have even got in touch. A very, very few. I’m wondering if one reason for this tumbleweed-strewn inbox might be that I am too easy to stalk online. Google “Lizzie, singer, Dursley” – all details on my eHarmony page – you get the vid of me singing at the xmas lights, and my surname. (Don’t bother joining the five people who have watched this video - it’s not me at my best!) What also come up are links to my Just Lizzie FB page which is fine… but again, there’s my last name plastered everywhere and with links to my main page, from where I link this blog. Hence a die-hard pursuer would have access to this bilge, and thus the growing suspicion that, if he dared to get in touch, he’d end up being publicly humiliated on these very pages. If you’re one of those guys, you’d be reading these words right now, so here’s a message just for you. If you’re not one of those guys, you can read it anyway:

Dear Internet Stalker,

Hi! If you’ve found this, you must be doing a sterling job with your stalking – well done you!

Please rest assured that I am not in the business of publicly humiliating ANYONE (other than myself, on occasions). I rarely mention names on this blog, or on my FB page, and would only write about you if you did something really mean to me that I could look back at later and laugh about, to stop me crying.

So, thank you so much for your continued interest. Don’t be afraid to send me a wonderful message now and make my day.

Ever grateful for your slightly creepy devotion,

Lizzie

x

On the subject of no takers, I read an article. This one, in fact:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/f0227cb3-c772-446c-a8dc-bfeb75a2ccd0

It states that the less you say, the more dates you get. It’s about Tinder (over my cold, lifeless corpse…) but I expect it’s the same all around the internet dating community, which might explain some of the pathetically short profiles I’ve been frustrated by. It might also explain my lack of contacts – I’m way too interesting! I don’t leave anything to mystique or elusion. But it’s ME. It’s pure me, splattered all over the page like a badly-timed chunder. I can’t be doing with salting the mine or arranging the cheese in a particular way to trap more mice. (No euphemism here!) Does this show that I’m actually not that desperate or is it yet another reflection of how unlikely I think it is that I, Lizzie, shall ever find a mate?

For who, in their right mind, could possibly want me? This thick-limbed flabby-thighed perimenopausal mess of hair and anxiety; this miniature-breasted (more about that soon…) saggy and baggy ageing teenager with a head-splitting laugh and a penchant for talking about herself 85% of the time? If hope didn’t burn eternally in my soul, I’d say forget it sister. The only chap you’ll have a meaningful relationship with is Ben and his pal Jerry. At least there'll be plenty of spooning.

Beshrew me, the lady’s in poor fooling today. Better a witty fool than a foolish wit! By my troth, I do believe I have been learning lines for Twelfth Night (CTK Hall, Thornbury, 6th – 9th June, http://octopus-thornbury.co.uk/ for more info) Read on, Macduff, and see if the next entry brings a Troilus to this Cressida, gawd bless thee. 

Find My Love - Part One

Well hello to you and Happy Spring! Having shaken the snow from our boots and the ice from our eyebrows, isn’t it wonderful to see the daffs trumpeting up through the ground to announce the season? What a relief! The winter has been long and cold and lonely, little darlin’. The play wot I wrote launched me into it and was a resounding success: heaps of fun and camaraderie, nominated for an award and – even better – raising £1,500 for a local charity, which is more than they receive in donations a year, apparently. The lead-up to Christmas was accompanying carols and bell ringing, making it very busy for this atheist. After my eighth ringing session in a row, I returned to my bed on Christmas Day and barely left it until NYE, thanks to a bout of what had to be influenza, despite the jab that I’d made a point of getting. A point... jab... hehehe. Sigh.  

January and February were filled with Dick.

Ah, that joke never gets boring! Between my last entry and this one, I successfully auditioned for the part of Dick Whittington. Auditions, rehearsals, photocalls, publicity, dress rehearsals and performances. The last stick of scenery left the theatre barely three weeks ago. It was a lot of fun and hard work, and allowed the darkest days of the year to pass me by with minimum fuss. 

Dick and Pussy

Dick and Seamen

Excited Dick

Dick slap. (That's enough Dick jokes now - Ed)

The problem was that it had to end. The usual after-show blues were lessened, probably due to relief that I didn’t have to go out and be around people. This escalated to an extreme of “I'm not going to go out, nor be around people," I wanted nobody to see me either. I spent about a week in hiding. Not just in my house, but in my bed too. Under the duvet, where no-one can hurt me. Soft around my face; electric blanket warming my limbs. As much internet as I could eat. Peaceful, quiet… jeez, I might as well be dead because that’s not living. It didn’t stop me though. 

I was finally coaxed into an evening of sociability with my pals, offering me dinner in a pub before I went on to a play reading/audition. At least that had been the plan, but chocolate torte and a pub quiz sounded more enticing than decoding Shakespeare, so I gave in. What I couldn’t understand was that, despite sitting with the two people I love most in the world, eating my favourite food, and doing one of my favourite activities, I still had to fight off the panic passing over me in waves. I rode it out, being fully aware of its existence: knowing that it was irrational and that it would disappear soon, yet this only takes the edge off what is a disturbing sensation. To describe it to someone with their panic virginity intact is hard. It’s wanting desperately to run away, but not being able to move. Sometimes it feels as if my arms are glued to my sides or being held there by an invisible force. Make a fist and place it mid-nipple on your chest. That’s where I feel things the most. Stress is a dull ache there; affection, a warm glow. I often press my own fist deep into that spot to numb anything unwelcome. Panic radiates from there and gets into my head, in the same way an egg beater on high speed would. Understand now? Me neither. 

And yet, I got through to the end of the evening and I was proud. We didn’t win the quiz by a long, ignorant chalk, but we didn’t come last either. I promised I would go to the second play reading on Wednesday, and knew I'd be doing it with my head held higher than it had been for days. I might even venture out of the house voluntarily! Of course, this was when reality got its massive kneecap out and used it to plough a furrow right through my delicate bits:

As we were preparing to leave, one of us noticed repeated missed calls from their daughter; one of us checked their phone and emails to investigate; three of us learned some awful news about a mutual friend and sat back down in shock. It seemed that lovely Martin, who has managed many a stage on which we’d been performing, had passed away. 

How could this be? I’d only seen him last week as we piled bits of set into the scenery store together. When (at over twenty years his junior), I was more poorly and knackered than he was! But it was true. Quickly, suddenly, overnight, five days after I’d given him a big kiss and hug goodbye, that was filled with emotion and gratitude for his hard work and friendship throughout the show. I’d actually bade him farewell. How often does that happen? It wasn’t enough to stem tears that had snuck past the Sertraline guards and were now escaping down my face. This was real sadness, not this pretend stuff that I battle daily. 

We cried together as the pub closed around us. Then we shuffled back to their house, arms-in-arms, and cried some more, between reminiscences of a friendly, delightful man whom it had been a pleasure to know. My gratitude for his acquaintance was matched by the gratitude that I’d been in company when I’d found out, and that the love I have for those companions is mutual. It was in the early hours of Monday morning that I walked back to my car, past the theatre that I’d rarely ever been to without Martin also being there. Everything was darker, colder and emptier, just like the world seemed now I knew that this lovely soul was no longer in it. R.I.P Martin. 

Something like this reminds us that life really is short. It could have inspired me to Get On With It. Instead, I went the other way and returned to my hiding-place. Maybe it was a testament to how much Martin had got under my skin? I managed to honour my promise to go to the play reading somewhat reluctantly but determinedly. (Yes, you can do both, but it makes your head throb.) Then, as we all know, a freakishly unseasonable storm saw the country buried in snow, and me buried under the eiderdown once more, with the heating on full blast and a really good excuse this time. Luckily for us all, snow thaws, antidepressants numb, and time heals more every day. 

Now before you go blubbing into your Bluetooth device, what I really wanted to share with you was something a little lighter. You see, during the pantomime I was surrounded by people but most importantly, male people. Ones who like me enough to give me hugs whenever I demanded them. Which was often, as I needed to replenish my dwindling stocks. (Not a euphemism.) It felt so good! Going cold turkey as soon as the show ended did not. One of the single chaps had displayed somewhat more than just platonic interest, and it made things stir that I thought might never stir again. The problem is that, while he’s delicious and fanciable, I’m old enough to be his mother and find it hard to forget that when spending time with him. This didn’t stop me from contacting him and trying to arrange a date. The sucking void left by Dick needed to be filled. (Seriously, NOT A EUPHEMISM!) I think we might both have realised how odd it would have been as our messages petered out. Maybe a lucky escape, but I was still craving companionship. It’s been seven months since my last bit of “romance”. I just wasn’t meeting the right candidates. 

So, all of this made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should wade through the murky waters of online dating again. Nearly three years has passed since the misery of the last time. This tougher, stronger, different person that I am now could have a different approach to it. Instead of trying to sell myself on paper with flowery words, I could be more concise: 

Wanted: Man. Single. Tall. Kind. Musician. GSOH. 

For a tall, kind, musical, amusing girl, who you really need to meet to appreciate. I sing, act, bake, write and compile puzzles for varying amounts of money, sometimes none at all. I don’t enjoy wine, but I do enjoy laughing. I’m slim with curves and long, red hair. I don’t photograph well. I have neither kids nor ex-husbands. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups, so let’s not waste each other’s time, but if you’re serious, take me for a walk in the countryside and we’ll talk.

That’s more abrupt than concise and smacks of experiences that I have no intention of repeating. The whole process hoovered up many precious hours before – one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back. If I did it – if – I’d have to let the chaps find me, rather than searching through them. I’d have to select a site carefully. I’d need to be choosing from blokes who had heard of apostrophes and who knew how to use them. Plenty of Fish, Match and Guardian Soulmates had all produced swathes of the wrong sorts of guys, for reasons punctuational and political. As I wondered if there was anywhere else to look, curiosity and loneliness took me by the hands and led me to the eHarmony home page. And before you could say “if”, I was setting up an account. 

Ah, the tedious, time-sucking, self-focusing setting up of an account. So many questions to answer, all about me. I was not my favourite person at that moment – I rarely am – so it was with half a heart that I wrote about my passions, and hastily illustrated my spare time activities. Then the dreaded wall of adjectives from which one must choose. It was supposed to be how my best friends would describe me, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. I picked CREATIVE without missing a beat. I expect people can see that. To this I added AFFECTIONATE, ARTICULATE and FUNNY. I nearly put KIND instead of ARTICULATE, but I was trying to paint a bigger picture. (CREATIVE, see?) I don’t suppose many suitors will read that part anyway. 

I thought I was nearly done, but oh no: enter the legendary eHarmony Personality Questionnaire, that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a daytime TV phone-in quiz. Its point is to get to the bottom of your character by asking question after dull question, some of which were hard to answer quickly. Yet I did, making me worry if I’d done myself justice. (Lighten up, Lizzie! It’s not like this is legally binding.) They all had seven blobs, on a scale of “Not at all, no way, never and I’d shun anyone who did,” to “Oh yes, baby, that is totally my bag,” passing through “….meh”. A blob was highlighted for each response. It’s cleverly constructed, weaving similar queries around others to produce a precise precis. Kind of: “Do things make you angry?” Then later: “Are you sure things make you angry?” Then later still: “Are you really sure things make you angry?” By which time, your answer may have mutated from its original form. Of course, Little Miss Conflict here may have confused it e.g. denying I was a leader but highly agreeing that I would take charge of a situation etc. I got quite impatient with it in the end. After all, I wasn’t really signing up to this was I? I just wanted to see if there was a point to it. Where were the men? Show me the men! Then let me decide. 

I sped up a notch, grabbing any old photo for my profile, and finding my unsmiling headshot from Dick. 

Dick head.

Actually, I was smiling, but it’s one of my “someone’s pointing a camera at me for an official picture” grimaces, where I press my lips together and don’t look very happy. I look a lot better under a daft faces or exaggerated grin, which is why I end up with so many pictures like this: 

So it’s true - I really am not photogenic. I’m not sure that the above will haul in the marriage proposals, though they’re a much more accurate representation of me. This isn’t going to go well, is it? 

Still jumping through eHarmony’s hoops, like a fat doggy being coaxed on by the promise of a juicy sausage or two, I listed “health, friends and music” as three things I’m thankful for. Just three. No room for a roof over my head; food to eat; being able to see and hear, and walk and talk, and laugh and sing. Obviously, I’m most grateful for surviving cancer, but I’m feel like I bang on about it too much. While it wasn’t a walk in the park, it was a doddle compared to what some of my friends are going through even as I type. It almost seemed like a doddle compared to this process. I hated every minute of the set-up. Yet again trying to define myself through a series of inane questions. Trying to list things I like in fewer than one hundred characters. Trying to nail film, book, music preferences down to just two or three genres, so I can be matched. It’s much more complex than that. I’m much more complex. Just try asking me for “job title” and see where you get. 

I gave up on not asking for help when I got to “What’s the first thing that people notice about you,” and posted the question on Facebook as a free-for-all. Words can’t express my distaste for doing this. I wasn’t in the mood for a compliment-fishing trip, yet I came away with a netful which made my eyes and my conscience prickle. The kinder the words, the more I felt I had unlocked new levels of scumbag. My confidence took a nosedive – what the hell was I doing? Trying to sell myself to strangers the same way I’d sell other used goods. It’s not the way I want it to go. Can’t I just meet someone naturally?? It turns out that I really can’t, and especially not if I never leave the house.

I pulled myself together and pressed the enter key. I’d got through the arduous ordeal with only minimal depletion of my chocolate stock. (It’s a vast stock.) An email pinged into my inbox, welcoming me to the website and introducing me to my first few matches. My reward for all the agony. At last! Show me the… blurry man-shaped blobs with first names? 

Yeah, single bitch. You see nothing until you slap down the spondoolicks. 

Now was the time to commit. To swallow it down or spit it out. Did I really want to do this? Was I ready to remount the crazy rollercoaster of emotions that is internet dating for a near-middle-aged woman? If only I knew what I wanted! I don’t even want breakfast. But I’m hungry and cold. So I do want it… don’t I? 

Oh Paypal, you make snap decisions so much snappier. A couple of clicks, a remembered password, and there I was - £39 the poorer and still bewildered as to why I’d done it. If you don’t step out of your comfort zone occasionally, it never gets any bigger. That must be what I’m doing. It’s like courgettes. Since I was a kid, I’ve hated them. Yet over the years, I’ve tried them from time to time, just to be sure that I still hate them. It turns out that now I’m rather fond of them. So much so that I’ve purchased and prepared them for myself. Tastes change. Zones expand. Pictures un-blur and become single men with faces, looking for partners. Nervously, I clicked onto the first one...

Was he a courgette, or a big fat marrow? Will Lizzie be zu-keen-i on him or does she squash the whole thing? Prepare yourselves for the second helping. It's already simmering.

Lonely This Christmas

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. 

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.

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.  

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…

The Show Must Go On

I have a million-and-one other things to be doing, yet I awoke this morning with blog bubbling inside me, waiting to be released. (Coincidentally, it's a year to the day since I posted my first entry on here, so happy blogbirthday Lizzie Rebooted!) Much of interest is going on in the Life of Lizzie that I'd love to scribble about. Unfortunately, it's not going to be simple. I'm up against the challenge of reporting incidents without naming, upsetting nor misrepresenting the people involved. Not only that, but I must consider my feelings: do I really want everyone in the world to have access to my head? Surely some things should remain private? Yet, as always, the urge to share burns within me like untreated cystitis. Crack open the cranberry juice, and let's see how I do:

Firstly, here's a dating update:

Men who've viewed my profile: 73 89

Men whose profiles I've viewed: 79 94

I like: 16 16

Like me: 12 14

Mutual likes: 1 2

Messages I've sent to chaps that I haven't had a reply from: Still 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: Still 3

Ongoing GS messaging threads: 0 1

Dates: 1 3

Yes, I went on a date with a different chap, and he's turned out to be very sweet and a good guy, and we've been on a second date, and we're messaging a little, and... and...  I'm not going to go into any more detail! He's a smasher - I wouldn't want to pull a Lizzie and ruin things with a mouth-based foot incident. Maybe it's more fun for you when it does all go horribly wrong. Sorry to disappoint.

First-date-with-my-second-date nerves

NB The website isn't necessarily for romance. You get to say what you are looking for under the "relationship sought" bracket. These are the options:

* A fling

* Just friends

* Let's see what happens

* Long-term relationship

* Marriage

* Short-term relaionship

Some people tick 'em all. As I haven't a clue what I'm looking for (which is becoming more evident as the weeks pass) I've only selected "Let's see what happens". I think that's the most natural way out of this forced procedure.

I've been a bit too busy to surf Soulmates anyway, what with a flare of activity from the musical theatre direction. The two-day concert that I was in last week proved an effective absorber of time. Costumes were sewn; words were repeated til they sunk in; grooves were worn in the floorboards practising routines - all of which meant extra horizontal moments to gather enough energy to do it all again. It was the usual conflicting mix of heaven and hell.

I sew all my own sequins, you know. (To other people's gowns!) 

Heaven: Working as a team is the best feeling ever. I consider the group members as extended family, and all pulling together is a sensation like no other. The greatest moments are when we share laughter. Like in the second dress rehearsal, when our director informed us that during our silent tribute to the men and women who lost their lives in World War 2, the glitter ball for the next section began to descend slowly from the ceiling, in full visibility of the audience. Being one of forty-odd (or forty odd) folk guffawing away at the incongruous image for a full minute - well, it was divine.  

Hell: Ah, you really have to psyche yourself up to be on stage. It occurred to me that this would be the first ever show that I had done with this group that my ex ("X") was not involved in. Not only that, but it was to be his debut in the audience of one of my musical performances. (He's usually behind me, thrashing away at a keyboard and wondering where the flip I've got to in the music...) So the pressure was on for the Saturday night, when I knew he'd be watching. (Actually he was there the previous night, but that doesn't count as I hadn't known until after the performance.)

My first solo song was "When You're Good To Mama" - A feisty number, that I'd completely misread as being sexy when auditioning. This led to the director requesting me to "be more butch" about it. 

More butch, bitch!

In the dressing room, I made the change to the second of six ballgowns. (Yes, six. I didn't have much to do in the concert, but I was going to do it in style!) I puffed myself up with attitude; the song before mine began and I lobbed my false eyelashes at the unsuspecting make-up lady, who applied them with jaw-dropping efficiency. I strode off into the wings. I was ready. Bring it on.

The ACTUAL moment before... if only I had a photo-jumping time machine! 

Of course that is the point where it dawned on me that I hadn't connected my radio mic to the receiver pack. Oh, I'd put both of them on in my rigorous and swift preparation. But I'd neglected to attach them, thus rendering them useless. The cable from the headset was swinging loose between my increasingly trembly thighs. WAH! With Cell Block Tango in its dying moments, who could help? The only person in the wings with me was the stage manager. Imagine his surprise as I charged over to him, whipping up my skirt and bending over, and urging him to "Plug it in! Quick!" To strains of "He had it coming... he had it coming..." the poor chap fumbled about with my pants (where I tuck the pouch for extra safety, actually) and finally gave up, declaring "You'll have to ask one of the chorus to do it."

There was no chorus. What there was, was silence. The applause had died, the stage was braced for my entrance. I was going to have to go on and perform this powerful, low-pitched song unamplified. X would not be blown away by my musical prowess and magnetic stage presence, but instead was party to a rotten shouty version of said song, accompanied by moves that were more frantic than fierce as I tried to hover near the stage mics while retaining the drama. Only when I got to the second part did I realise that I could have grabbed the hand mic that we were using and waved it at the guy in the sound box, who would have adjusted accordingly. But it was too late. Dammit.

Flat like abandoned ginger beer. Dammit indeed. 

I returned to the dressing room more deflated than a sci-fi fan's inflatable female companion. What a screw-up! The applause following the song had been polite, but unrewarding - a comment on my ability. I sank into a chair and felt the pain of failure. However, we all know that the Show Must Go On, and go on it did. I rallied enough to partake of the remains of the first half, and sort myself out in the interval for Act Two. This began with a WW2 segment, and air raid sound effects to which we all had to react. In the darkness, ducking and wincing as the bombs hit, I acted my fishnets off. In mock fear, I closed my eyes tightly... and only one of them opened again. The glue holding my left eyelash on had got under my eye and stuck both halves of it together. It was impossible not to laugh! With my back to the audience I stage-whispered my predicament to the row behind me, who also dissolved into giggles which increased along with my panic as I tried to release everything while staying in character. The lights would be on in a sec and I'd have one heavily-lashed eye sealed shut throughout the most sombre part of the show. As missiles flew overhead, I had rendered several members of the cast (along with myself) useless. One even put her arm around me (also in character), asking "Are you all right, love?" while shaking with mirth. It was the funniest air raid ever. Luckily I managed to disconnect it in time, and all was well.

Then to my second solo - a chance to redeem myself after the first pitiful attempt. I had only one song to change into my dress for this, and one song after to change out of it. Dress on, hair ready, I grabbed the long gloves that I needed to wear and headed for the wings. Of course they were in the same state that they had been left in after the previous night's speedy transformation. Have you ever tried to put a pair of inside-out long gloves on quickly in the dark while listening as the previous number gets closer and closer to its close? It's not like rubber gloves, that you simply blow into to pop back into shape... oh no. It's like "Oh my god I've got two fingers in one finger hole and two finger holes merged together and three fingers in the thumb hole I'll have to go on looking like some sort of American fairground freak which will totally ruin the nuance of the song and I'll have blown it again oh my god oh my god that's applause... I'm on!!"

The phantom arse-grabber of Old Thornbury strikes again...

 Amazingly, I untangled myself just as I stepped onto the stage, and executed "Fever" with a calm sensuality that I was most certainly not feeling! Cue a rapturous response and my spirit soaring off the same distance as it had plummeted an hour earlier. Heaven and hell in equal measures.       

Before the above palaver, I was aware of how comfortable I am on the stage. During the opening numbers I wasn't nervous. It was totally natural to me to be in front of a sea of faces, making like I was in an old-fashioned nightclub, thrilled to see the Grisettes highly kicking their dainty heels (they were the Spice Girls of their day, don't you know?) then joining in with the rousing chorus. I do love it.

Of course the divine/devilsome analogy creeps out to the offstage drama that is being part of a theatre group. We are all performers, and so do things with a lot of spirit and feeling. Two days ago we held our AGM. I've been on the last two committees, gently nudged into the position of Vice Chair last year as no-one else stood. In fact, it was quite a poorly-attended meeting. Not so this year...

A quick note about committee work: While it's time-consuming, not only with duties to do, but worrying about duties to do, it is most rewarding because you are giving something back. I am always proud to be part of the body of folk running the group, even though it can be a thankless activity. And that's at best! At worst, you put yourself in for quite a bashing email-wise when anyone in the group is disgruntled, which can be often. One can't please everyone every time. It's funny how people rarely get in touch when they're happy with something you've done, eh? I know how much this can mean, so I try to give positive feedback to people, no matter how small. If you're reading this, why not give it a try? Pay it forward - compliment a colleague or pal on something that you genuinely think they've done well. (NB No lies! You must feel it, or it doesn't count.) Do it now! You'll make their day.

Now then, back to Wednesday night: The outgoing Chair has had a rough year, and as VC it has been my duty to cover his absence. I was aware that he might not make the meeting due to a family situation. By 6.30pm I imagined that all was well as he'd not been in touch. Just check your email Lizzie, to make absolutely sure... Fifteen minutes later I was hurtling toward the hall in my car, gulping the air nervously and quaffing Rescue Remedy by the bucketload. My third ever AGM; my second on the committee; my first on the executive committee; and my public chairing debut.

I would have been so much calmer if I'd thought it through, but I honestly hadn't expected to have to do this. For example, I would have made sure that someone who arrived as early as I did had the key to the hall! This would have meant no milling about outside, getting more and more worried as the mill-ees increased and the minutes until we started didn't. I would also have had a printed copy of the constitution on the table in front of me, to be absolutely sure of procedure, and not have had to keep consulting my fellow members in front of my other fellow members. 

I decided to proceed as naturally as I could, while keeping things relevant and concise. Nobody enjoys a meeting! Especially when there is Rambling On. I read the outgoing Chair's report and got into the swing of my duties. I was feeling quite competent and comfortable. Until we got to item six on the agenda: Election of officers and members of the Executive Committee.

I make no mention of the underlying politics or internal issues that the group may or may not have. This is about my experience and what turned out to be the most humiliatingly painful ten minutes of my young life so far. My year as VC had done something to me that I had not been expecting - it showed me that actually I, Lizziechops, da Chops da Liz, was capable of chairing a committee, all grown-up and efficient-like. Not only capable, but that I actually enjoyed it. And no, it had absolutely nothing to do with power! That doesn't bob my barge. No, what I liked was looking at a situation from all angles, weighing it up, and making decisions based on what was fair and good for as many members of the group as possible. As such, I decided to put my head above the parapet and stand as Chair. Why not? I've served two years; I'm outgoing VC; the Chair is stepping down. It's a no-brainer, this. Of course, it didn't occur to me that anyone can stand for Chair, as long as they are a member. Well dur! And someone - let's call them "D" - did.

It was between D and me. Quick discussion decided us on a secret vote. Voting forms (and NOT scraps of hastily-torn A4. Uh uh. Nope.) were handed out, collected back, and counted. Too late I remembered what inevitably happens to me when I do parapet-protruding - my bonce gets shot clean off my shoulders. As the "returning officer" returned, I knew he was about to tell me that it wasn't my day.

Everything went slow for a second. My dream of Chairing the group so dear to my heart was dashed. Ah, but not to worry. The vote for Vice Chair is next. I have another chance!

*sigh*

To save time, re-read the last two paragraphs, because history repeated itself almost as soon as it had happened. The only differences were the one other candidate ("H" this time), and the fact that I already knew what the outcome was going to be as I feebly scrawled my own name on my voting slip, with as much futility as a squirrel attempts to cross the M5 on a Friday night. I shrink from competition of any kind. I'm not a popular girl, probably as I'm surly/gloomy/strict/antisocial in varying amounts. If I had thought harder, I could have saved everyone a second vote and all that paper! 

This time I mouthed H's name to the returning officer, and he could only nod apologetically. I smiled resignedly. Of course. And so my humiliation was complete.

The people sitting in front of me had rejected me in favour of someone else - twice! (It's still rejection, no matter what the reasons are.) I knew it. They knew it. And now we were going to have to look each other in the eye in the face of my double defeat and continue with the meeting, as the new committee only come into force at the end of it. Other officers were voted in, and final body of group reps chosen. My name was on this list. I had thought that I would still want to be part of the committee whatever the outcome. However now things had changed. To see that the group had no faith in me, nor valued what I had to offer made me wonder if I'd just be wasting my time. The only reason I might have stayed would be for some sort of continuity, but - as a member pointed out - why was that important? Why indeed. Their words had the same effect as a kick up the butt to an indecisive platform diver.

"I withdraw my nomination," I said as I plummeted, hitting the water with a belly flop. I was no longer on the committee.

And yet there was still the rest of the agenda, and I was the one that had to get us through it, including reading another report from the absent Chair (also Publicity rep). All eyes were on me. I had nowhere to hide. Miraculously, I willed the tears back into their ducts, and, as my lobsterly skin returned to its usual shade, I pulled off one of the greatest acting jobs of my life. Great in terms of size and effort. By the time we got to the end - and we did get to the end - I was drained. I had enough left to smile at the friends who offered me sympathy on my way to my car, and keep smiling until I was safely out of eyeshot.

Bracc offers his sympathy, though it's hard to bear.

Having relived that minuscule episode for this blog, I find myself wiping away tears. It was deeply unpleasant. However I have learned a lot in the last twelve months, and I've been using all that, and all that I gather about me, to get me through. Yes, there has been blubbing. There has also been quite a bit of chocolate (anyone notice shares in Nestle going up?) When I got back to my home that night, I didn't know what to do with myself. I was still in a state of shock and... well, it's similar to grief I suppose. There are five stages of that, and I must have gone through four of them simultaneously with everyone watching! I went to bed but sleep wasn't going to happen. Instead, I used the "Letting Go" meditation (hello Jason) and imagined the whole evening being washed away as I stood under that waterfall. I did feel peaceful afterwards. The tablets in my system are doing magical things too. I'm also focusing on the good stuff - Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive, like we told everyone to do in our concert (just after the war!) I am no longer a committee member: I have more time to work; a chunk of worry and responsibility disappears; I'll have one extra free night per month. What's more, there is a lot to be said for dignity. I think I have managed to hold on to mine this time, for once! Above everything, the support from my friends is immense. A select few, but I'm so touched by their words and actions.

I'm facing quite a peaceful weekend. In the sense that it'll be mostly work as the Food Fair is in eight days' time and I'd really like to make the most of it being Father's Day the day after. It's also auditions for the next show on that day, but I don't know. I think I've had enough rejection for one year. Maybe I should pour my energy into some different vessels? This is not giving up - The show always goes on. It just might be time to change the stage.

Will fathers' fare get flogged at the food fair? Will Lizzie audition for Calam or will it be "anything I can do, you can do better"? Will that poor stage manager ever have enough therapy to get over the pants episode? Brace your eyeballs for more blog, coming to a screen near you this summer...