too sexy for my blog

After my last two blogs, word on the street is that I have “issues”. They stem from deep rooted low self esteem seeds. And what is the fruit of the low self esteem tree? that’s right kids – great green eyed monsters. They are terrors, they have the power to render you completely useless for days on end because some other person had the audacity to be a tiny bit better than you. The green eyes can turn perfectly sunny days into grey miserable ones, flooded with embarrasing accusations. Just this morning I got in a tizzy because my other half has booked a fabulously attractive girl to play at one of his gigs. These are the facts which based her booking:

• To have a multi- musician gig you need more than one musician
• She is a musician
• She is free to play on that date
• My other half needs to book people for gigs so they are a success and he can buy food and clothing.

My list, however, was rather different:

• She is sexy
• Everyone will want to touch her clothes
• She will probably come one stage naked and sexy
• She is very very very sexy

I would also like to point out that I have never, ever heard her music. I haven’t even seen her in the flesh. I based this list purely on the handful of photos I have seen of her. My other half has never once alluded to the way she looks, it was me, and only me that turned her into Aphrodite. If I spent half and hour wringing my guts out about it I only have myself to blame.

I am of course a massive hypocrite. My background music of choice today is Florence and The Machine. Lungs as you probably don’t need me to point out is a dizzyingly assured debut album from a woman who is a brilliant lyric writer. I also don’t need to point that Florence Welch is entirely gorgeous, writhes about on stage like a woman ravaged with pent up sexual frustration and is extremely talented. Based on the above criteria I should therefore hate the breath that emanates from her lungs. But I don’t. I cannot work out what it is that lets certain women slip through my jealousy net, I can only surmise that it is because they exist in that other realm of fame. I will never have to encounter them; their shadow will never darken the sky above my head as I shrink deeper into the pavement. “Real” people on the other hand are THERE, you can sniff them and touch them and everything. In them I have proof sat across from me that fabulousness doesn’t affect just the fortunate, it can exist in the next friend of a friend you are destined to meet. And what are you going to do when you go home after meeting this pinnacle of womanhood? That’s right, you will eat biscuits and not do anything for a fortnight because “there is no point, they do it better than me so why should I even bother.”

I have always considered myself a bit of a misanthrope but I am probably more obsessed with other people than anyone else. It isn’t healthy and I could watch my whole life bob away on my pissy attitude. But I am not the only woman who feels like this. Every woman who has ever said “She is pretty in an obvious way” or “Yeah she has a great voice, but she’s a complete bitch” is guilty of letting the green eyes ruin a moment of her life. I hope I will get to the stage with my issues where I can accept them and make them something I am amused by. But until then I will accept any green eyes you want to throw my way ladies, go on, it will make me feel better: “She has a nice bum yeah, but she can’t write a blog to save her life. Bitch.”

Bitter Elephant

Perhaps I should expand on my last post and introduce the elephant in the room. The large grey pile of under achievement which I keep adding to. I am currently listening to Modern Life is Rubbish, an album along with many others that played throughout my teens. As a fresh young thing listening to this album I was sure that a) I would marry Damon Albarn and b) I would grow up to be a writer of some sort. Neither of these two things have happened. I am being followed around by myself of ten years ago, tugging at my retail uniform and tutting, aggrieved that I have not followed the plans she left for me. As an adult I have finally given my 17 year old self something to rebel against – her future. To say I have even started to grow up would probably be a rather undeserved compliment. I am still habitually in sulks and throw huge embarrassing tantrums when I don’t get my own way. I have come to the point, like many children do with hobbies, where I am thinking of giving up. I have tried writing and im not very good so im throwing a strop and stopping. But the truth is, I haven’t tried. I haven’t even begun to begin trying. All I have written since leaving university is a couple of short stories and some bizarre paragraphs. Diaries I have tried to keep sound self righteous and as excruciating as the journals I kept when I was still at school. I have not tried to write a novel, a poem or an article for a very long time. I am staring at the aforementioned grey elephant waiting for it to evolve enough to write the bloody things for me. As I wallow in inactivity I am surrounded by bright sparkey people, all busying themselves with creativity and ambition. I am deeply envious of these people and in my darkest moments I find myself twisting the respect I feel for them into a tiny digestible nugget of hatred. I ask myself where they get their ideas, their confidence and their passion. To be a writer I always envisaged an insatiable need to write, tearing home in order to get on with the work of being brilliant. I do not have this urge. In fact the thought fillls me with terror, even writing this now I am sweaty of palm not sure if another sentence will be following this one. But I THINK about writing and being a writer almost all the time, its just nothing….ever…..happens. I torment myself with thoughts of “if I was just a bit more confident, if I just had more chutzpah, more to say – there would be no issue”. But, alas, I cannot change who I am and so I either throw my writing tools down amongst all the other things I have given up on (dance, music, dress making, cooking etc etc) and become a bitter old wench, or I just try to write something, anything down. So this is what I plan on doing. I might not make any money, or appear on any shelves but at least when im all crinkly I will know I had tried. As for Damon, I have found someone a hundreds times better, so maybe I am capable of meeting and even surpassing my ambitions afterall.