Relationships - Stepping off the edge.

Relationships

There are many twists and turns in a relationship. Often, the corridors leading to different doors are not the wide straight aisles like a grocery stores’, they’re not smooth like marble tiled floors of luxurious hotels, they’re not lined with trees that provide shade from the elements and add aesthetic value.

Instead they are steep paths descending from the highest waterfall, nearly vertical, descendible on faith and wit, the paths narrow and widen with so much frequency those who travel them cannot for one second take anything for granted. Some bridges that connect two areas of relationships are rickety and have to be crossed by looking straight ahead, forget the maelstrom below.

And then there are the doors; the hidden destinations, places to rest briefly when one finishes an ascent up a steep slope of broken trust, when the door provides respite from the constant need to prove your affection and one is merely receiving it. There are doors that hide the tastelessness of fear wrought by an impending end of a chapter, when you both do not know if a door leading on will open; whether or not you will have a chance to leave this terrible room with its suffocating fears and many unknowns. When you find the door it opens up to a room of pillows, a room of abounding love when you both feel insulated from the hurts of the world. When everything is light and pillow fights are like puffs of clouds gently caressing you as you both laugh. In this room you are rewarded for walking with faith through the rickety bridge, for taking that leap of faith, for ignoring the maelstrom.

But eventually, this room of pillows is delivers its ultimate deceit, while it kept the hurt from the outside, it forgot to protect you from each other. A forgotten clothes pin, found in the lining of the cushion snakes out to jab one of you in the eye. You don’t want to believe it, but your better half is suddenly your bad cop.

Blinded, you fumble through the room of pillows, your blood flowering in pretty patternes on the whites of the clouds and claw along the wall, in search of a door leading on. You are praying this door will lead to another rickety bridge, you hope over that bridge there is another room of pillows. But often, as you step out the door, your eyes unseeing and the pin still in your eye, you know there is no bridge.

You’ve stepped over the edge.

What you find as you hit the bottom is your choice.

Is it a rock?

Or is it a cushion?

Relationships, how they begin and how they end is often the same. And when you stepped over the first edge, you fell on a cushion, and began your walk through the rickety bridges and the steep paths. You walked with determination because you knew someone was with you, ready to give you a leg up. When you walk out the edge this time, will you be able to face the walk, even if it to have a relationship with yourself?

Patchwork

 The name Patchwork came to me while I was shelling peas for a Jamie Oliver recipe. If you have shelled peas you will know that it is task that allows for much wondering of the mind. So my mind touched upon Patchwork. Immediately after Patchwork came “quilt” in my mind. Of course, patchwork quilts, nothing so extraordinary about the word association.

But for me the significance of cognitive word association was a sign that I was ready to live again. For two years I had hidden from everyone. I literally saw only ONE person from my previous life and after a lunch in which she intimated that my not drinking was boring, I steered clear of meeting up with her as well.

I chatted to people online and updated mostly my Facebook status just to keep myself in touch with a world I no longer belonged to. Some might say this is a trifle hyperbole but those were my feelings and I welcome few judgments on them.

For nearly a year my mind had been a mess. It seemed that I couldn’t marshal my mind to focus on anything beyond my misery. I hid it well, I guess the one thing I was more intent upon than wallowing in my own misery was making sure nobody knew. The mask of my super-efficient, strong and “OUT THERE” self would remain intact.

Last year, as I shelled the peas I realized that the previous year of my life had been like a badly frayed quilt. There were holes that needed darning and there were whole pieces missing, which needed replacing. I started Patchwork as a way to work towards my new chapter in life. I have written for others, but I have never finished my own book and this blog is my journey towards something.

For the first time I’m not afraid to admit “I don’t know” and I am perfectly content to be left alone to figure it out. When I began to actively participate in life again I knew I could not expect many of those I had left behind to understand or even accept that I am simply no longer that same person they knew.

I was fragile, sad, uncertain, hopeful, scared, vulnerable, softer, and loving, mostly, I was no longer available. I wasn’t available to help, to listen, to talk to, and to cry with. I had retreated into myself and only two people were allowed behind my NO ENTRY line. Those people have struggled with me in the past two years and they have triumphed over my loss of faith in love, friendship and bonds that defy many human tests.

In the time I have stopped being angry and confused I have been writing this blog and for the first time I am writing just for me. And because I am writing just for myself I think this is one of the most honest places you will find me. Where I shed my Drama Queen persona and just open up in varying forms; sometimes it will make sense and other times it won’t. And I am just fine with that.

When you read, and when you take the time to comment, you’re giving me a piece of cloth for my quilt. I feel it in my hands and gently place it on a hole. While I sew, each stitch is a balm and for that I am grateful.

Xox

B 

The perils of post-marital dating

I wonder if that is the correct expression. I don’t necessarily mean post-divorce because that is another story altogether. But let’s say you’re no longer hurting over your divorce and are now just dating as you were a before marriage.

Except now you wear supporting underwear, your facial cosmetics alone cost about the same as half your mortgage, you know that a three-month intimacy rule will probably ensure you never get any till you die and you have children; grown children who have opinions about your love life.

This scary list alone is likely to be enough to put off many men. But once in a blue moon, you meet that brave one who is willing to give you a chance. He’s probably divorced too or married. He’s either looking for action or a cheap affair. (Okay I won’t be cynical.) Either way; you’ll be riding that “Smug in a Relationship” 30/40-Something wave, keen to make sure there are no stuff ups.

But then you do stuff up. You’re suddenly as clueless as you were about 20 years ago only now with twice the same conviction you had then that you know what you’re doing. You flutter around lighting candles for romantic dinners and buying Victoria’s Secret underwear and trying to look sexy while you grimace your way through aphrodisiac oysters. You are fervently hoping your carefully selected outfit will lead to wanton sex while afraid a moment to get rid the girdle will not present itself.

All this is fine of course; every woman is likely to make these bumbling mistakes in an effort to please her source of sex and eventually, the man she loves. She completely forgets that when he first met her it more likely that she was coquettishly twirling an oversized snifter or laughingly blowing smoke rings at a laid back party among friends than it is that she was wearing an immaculate apron, nails perfectly done while a having prepared a 5-course dinner. You push for mini-breaks, subject him to unsolicited tie color advice and are overly keen to meet his parents, children etc, want to show him off. STOP!

The poor man, startled after a few weeks of dating, is the unwilling spectator in the unraveling of a banging-bodied (owed to girdle and the half-hearted 3-day-a-week gym visits) seductress who caught his eye a few weeks ago. He is now dating a caricature of Martha Stewart and a Karma Sutra enthusiast rolled into an ageing relationship klutz. He knows the signs, he’s seen them before, you’re getting ready to show him WHAT A WONDERFUL wife you’d be. Petrified, he bolts.

And in an age-old dance you move in a trance-like state buying chocolate, ice cream and booze while you watch Sad TV, wondering where you went wrong! Unlike your 20Something self you don’t have the illusion of a Mr Right to comfort you, after all, you’ve met him and he turned out to be Mr. I Will Make You Rue the Day You Married Me. Defeated you watch your Brazilian wax fill out, pack away the new Victoria’s Secret and mumble something about “Didn’t work out” when your teenager asks what happened to your latest grab at not dying alone.

A week later you’re dusting off your girdle and meeting your equally sad friends for another bash at the dating game, gamely vowing to “not die alone and be found three weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian” by one of your children who have been too busy enjoying the respite from your daily 20-minute phone calls to check on you.

Happy Birthday My Darling Daughter

My darling daughter,

Named by your grandmother, your mouth a replica of mine, puckered prettily moments after your birth in a peaceful pout you still have when you sleep. Your ears mirror my own, as different as one person’s ears can be, tiny against your big head, and if you’re as unlucky, not very good of hearing. Your eyes are big, hazel enquiring orbs that never miss a tiny detail, my eyes. It seems like I was alone when I made you, I look and I look and I can barely see traces of another’s genes, right down to the screeching laugh and the tendency to be noisy when you are excited. Through and through, your Mammo’s baby.

I love you so, my baby. I remember when I began to call you my Pickle, it was a few weeks after you were born and because you were such a quiet little baby I could read books and we had a fairly good time together. I read a book in which the little girl was nicknamed The Pickle and I just knew that I would call you that forever. And I still am. My Pink Pickle.

I thank you that you were such a good baby because the post-partum depression I had wouldn’t have stood a whining baby. It was like you somehow knew that if anything happened, I would snap and you and I would lose each other. Despite that my baby, we did lose each other for a few years. And I will forever regret that time. But perhaps for your own good it was God’s plan that we weren’t together then.

Today I watch you fall asleep to yet another one of my made-up stories, struggling valiantly against the Sandman’s pull because you’re so fascinated by the tale I am spinning and I rejoice in the miracle that has been you in my life. I laugh as I pick up your discarded shoe, wondering how long it will be before you actually like wearing shoes. Your grandmother, Gwenny, thinks it’s because you never wore shoes as a baby. We couldn’t find any that would fit. You were such a fat little baby. By the time you could hold anything you were only interested in holding your bottle. Mammo’s baby!

I watch you do your homework and your little brow furrows in concentration; as I move to help you, unable to resist the pull to spare you the hardship of trying to figure out new things, your face clears and a small smile plays on your lips as you figure out the answer! Yes baby that is the answer! You grin mischievously as you pretend to not get it and say, “Mammo, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!” Playing the game, I reply “I don’t have time for Grade 1 homework! I passed my Grade 1!” and you join in, collapsing in giggles, “50 YEARS AGO!” Why is that so funny I always wonder as we wrestle, a happy, giggling mess of arms and legs on the floor. Mommy passed Grade 1 50 years ago. Mama is so funny!

I imagine you reading this, years from now; I think of the fat memory box I am making for you and know that if anything ever had to happen to me, I want you to have these reminders of my love. I’m smiling as I recall the answers to your “Anna Questions” and think what you will say in your 7^th year. Will I still be the one you love? Will sardines still be what you hate? So many little things that will change my baby.

Years from now you will also have questions I do not want answer. Questions you will have the right to ask. Questions you have already started asking and still allow me to get away with asking you to wait until you are older. Even though I would rather not answer those questions, you are perfectly allowed to ask them. I promise you to be honest and to be candid. I pray and hope for your understanding and if necessary your forgiveness.

I dream of so much for you, but above all I pray that you will have dreams of your own and that as your mother you will allow me the privilege of helping you realize some of those dreams. I hope for that you will have the determination to follow those dreams and aspire to be a person who makes a difference in the lives of others and the world. I pray for your strength in the many challenges you are going to face both as a child and an adult. Even now I know you already face challenges and I am proud of how you shoulder your little burdens my baby, and I am always there, to lift them away when I can. I protect you from hurt and when I cannot be there to protect you I want to be to comfort you later.

I love you my Pickle, named by her Grandmother, loved by so many, member of the Church’s Youth Guild, Olympiad taker, Zumba dancer, Ngwazi dancer, Vumarista!, Sunday School Soloist, Giggler Extraordinaire, Ice Cream demolisher, dog lover, skipping rope jumper and so many other things you tackle with all the vigor contained in you chubby little package. I love you with every fiber of my being.

This is for the wimmin!

 Let Us Wear Tights!

Girls, the incessant rubbing together of the thighs when you’re a size 36+ is sooooo not on!! By the end of the day you’re rubbed raw and frantically looking for the Zambuck to soothe “ukutshabuka”! (I don’t know the English word for this!! HAHAHA) Embrace the tights. Choose between black, navy or beige and get a few! Also, they’re great for those sisters with the Jelly Thighs! WOO! Right?

Let us Find Our Favorite Pads and Stick to them!

Yes, it’s nice to experiment! Of course! But woman, make up your damned mind! What the hell is up with women standing staring at the variety of sanitary wares for ages in that aisle? You have not just got your period. You’re not a teenager who stopped shoving the tampon up before it settled and spent the class period (pun truly unintended *smirk*) feeling like someone left a sledge hammer up your wazoo! You’re now a woman whose brand has been established so that you can randomly send your lover/husband/bootycall out to grab them when The Twins make an untimely visit!

Let us Use the Panty liner!

I know I know! I harp on this too much!! But girls, they weren’t invented just for those women who take the morning after pill and are now spotting incessantly! Honest! Let’s set the scenario; “You’re at your boyfriend’s and have just come back from a LONG day wearing WHITE panties. He wants to get his freak on and as he de-panties you viola! Your immaculate white panties with the unmistakable trace of NORMAL female discharge as your vajayjay spent the day self-cleaning undoubtedly in preparation for this very moment (well not reall but…) I think there is the tiniest moment when both of you fondly recall the days when you took the pre-shag bathroom break to make sure all soldiers were in port (everything was perfect)! Panty liners girls, get familiar! A dirty panty is a stink panty!

Vajazzle!

Come on! Let’s stop with the pretence! We all fear that our lovers/husbands/bootycalls will on day leave us for a vajazzled tattooed sex goddess who tattoos his name is glitter on her vajayjay! Get there first! VAJAZZLE for LOVE! Do it! Do it soon. Besides, the sex life has hit the dumps and you’re already lying and saying missionary makes you “feel closer”! Liar! You’re too lazy to “trim the lawn” and when he’s on top he thinks it’s romantic to stare maniacally in your eyes for a “connection” and never realizes he’s losing his precious manhood deep in a miniature Amazon Forest. You don’t mind because you have to work out your To Do list!

Don’t Take it too Seriously!

Everything happens because your enemy is better organized than you are! Relax! HAHAHAH

Love you kids!

J