Disclaimer: This is soaked-in-sleep writing. Read it only if you are truly interested in keeping up with my life and times. And, honestly, I’m not sure it will make much sense even then because I am truly sort of losing the plot here.
I have always found it easy to write about relationships (understatement there). Except for the one with the Consort.
It’s very difficult to write about a relationship that constantly shatters every belief you’ve had about yourself. It happens in such slow, and, dammit, insidious ways that it’s too late to fight it. Like realising that I actually miss not listening to Buddy Holly, Frank Sinatra, or Louis Armstrong in the car. Or that I am all wifely concern about banal things like sleep and eating habits. I’ll probably start cooking and baking in earnest next! Shudder.
These things are not good for the great reputation We (using the Royal pronoun) have in Our own head.
So I don’t write about it. I cannot.
Of course, the main reason I don’t write about it is because we could get mobbed, or arrested, or evil-eyed into a break-up, or ruin lives, or something like that. That has happened. But a later post. Sadly, I can’t write about the most fun and risqué stuff that happens in my life. It’s just not polite to brag, you see, I’m classy that way.
But sometimes, like now, when they are all snoring away or barking or mewing away at night, when I want to sleep – hell, how I want to sleep – and cannot because it is just too fucking noisy; I feel it doesn’t matter. That I must document this as well so when the heartbreak eventually happens, I will have cross-links on the blog. And if the heartbreak doesn’t happen, I will have cross-links on the blog.
I feel shallow and horrible that I am fighting for just those things I have always claimed I do not want or give a fuck about. Relationship. Respectability. Acknowledgement. The damned dread in, ‘But what will people think?’
But it does matter now. Because when you are known, when it’s all acknowledged and above-board; it’s easy to fight your worst enemies. You can actually fight.
Because the voices will no longer be those strange whispers of strangers in the night. Voices on the phone telling another how we were spotted. A strange woman pointing a finger and calling me fat. A sly question in the morning – is it that woman? Or ‘That man?’
When it’s known, I can do the fine, classy, arched eyebrow and say, ‘Yes? Indeed?’ And I can sway down to the strange woman, all suggestive, red-lipped, and say, ‘Why? Do you want to sleep with me, then, doll?’ Sly questions will never dared be asked.
And truly, that is what I want. Because that is how divas fucking behave. With class. With pizzaz. And you only need to be born woman to know you are a diva. Anyone knows that.
Forced morality, society, norms, baggage – divas don’t care about that. They would never get anywhere if they did. If they did, they would just be those women who only crave to be bigger, better, brighter than the other women in the locality because. They would be those women who point at other women and call them names – ugly, fat, thin, dark, fair, short, tall. They would be the ones who would ask sly questions over dinner tables and breakfast buffets. They would be ordinary and worry about conventional stuff like the next big/expensive refrigerator.
No, that’s not the ordinary we want. That’s not the conventional we care about. Cooking meals together, oh that’s a stretch, but at least watching someone cook. Sharing a bed as often as we can, hearing snores day in and day out because it’s comforting and irritating at the same time.
What do we have instead? A celebrity life-style in separate beds, in separate rooms, with separate laptops, and Lady Gaga drowning out the snores with Bad Romance in loop because that’s exactly where we are caught.
Every woman must have that one relationship to make her more of a fun woman and less of an ordinary soul. We all need a man who can worthily benefit from the deep, if now ironical, assertion of, ‘I’m a free bitch, baby.’
The best way to do it, I have providentially discovered, is to be involved with a man of manners. Someone who is an old-fashioned lover boy who coaxes, teases, and loves you into good girlfriend behaviour; who has enough drama and complication in his life that you can never really get bored; where you can live from one self-induced crisis to another; where you can feel truly alive; where there are fireworks and explosions; where your wants overshadow every rational, prudent thought and belief you have ever had.
Ah well, that is love.
Or you can shag the hunky underwear model who is some 20 years your junior.
And if it doesn’t end in a happily ever after, the woman can just look back and smile, toss her hair, wear heels and sashay down the walk of life. A bad romance is essential for a diva to be truly glamourous, you see.
And if there is a happily ever after in my life, after all, I will be sure to share my recipes with you, loves.
Darling, if you are reading this, please do read the lyrics. 😉