Almost Indifferent.

I miss manners. I miss the moment when, a man and a woman meet and suddenly air is in drastically insufficient quantities, when eyes are shifted, darted, drawn back again to that which you desperately want to stare at, yet know is in exceedingly bad taste and little manners to even contemplate. Such impudent independence.

I miss when it meant something for a man to request the pleasure of a woman's company for a turn about the drawing room, and when parlour dances and cards where how Friday evenings were spent. I miss empire waistlines, bonnets and pin curls. When relations between an unmarried man, and an unmarried woman, were held to exquisitely high standards, and both parties were more than obliged to maintain those standards; they were proud and most anxious to do so.

I miss balls, and croquet, and houses lit by candlelight. No radio, or television, or Internet to soften our brain cells. When music meant playing the piano or spinnet, and when reading a book was a family affair.

I miss those which I have never known; a man telling me he loves me, and meaning it. A man standing by me through all the awful, hard, proud and desolate moments that go to make up a woman's life, and waking up each day to know he would still be there.

I miss Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Wentworth. I miss Ms. Bennet and Ms. Elliott. I miss Ms. Ryane, and don't quite know how to retrieve here from the place from when she's strayed. So much easier, it is, and more constant, to simply remain distant and frozen from this life, and yearn for that which I have only ever known in past carnations. I miss a moment spent outside under the dark cocoon of a summer sky and the only thing to see riding across the heavens is thick swathes of stars...illuminating space as far as the eye can detect. No streetlights. No sirens. No industry.

I'm well aware that were I living in Jane Austen's time, I would be more than an old maid; I'd be a parlour maid, or a serving maid or potentially, were I very lucky and clever, an upstairs maid. Would I be a married woman, at 37? Unlikely. And yet...

37...in 2010, is akin to 27...in 1813. My only reference is that I, at least, need not rely upon any male relation to see to my livelihood or yearly salary. I, at least, am able to earn my own keep and take care of myself.

But at what cost? Sometimes, I wonder.

Love, Senorita.

There is an irritating-time-wasting-gag-worthy shopping task that I occasionally have to endure, and pay handsomely for the privilege. It may sound simple, to elbow others in front of a messy stand – and that’s in itself cause for ire – and choose a piece of mass-produced cardboard with a few printed words. But in reality, it brings out the red monster within.

Greeting cards work on the premise that the image will grab your attention and the clichéd words will reflect sentiments you are incapable of expressing. They have a short expiry date in your life, unless you hoard memorabilia from every birthday, Christmas, New Year, illness, hospital stay, graduation, farewell, engagement, wedding, anniversary, baby, and death.

Whenever I am given a card, I pity the person watching me open the envelope. If it is a Far Side card, my reaction is to give them a long hard blank stare. I just don’t get it. And if they have to explain it to me, I still don’t think it’s funny. Cute teddy bears, I’ve outgrown when my teddy got jealous, and he’s a precious one I dare not upset. Cutesy cats and dogs are out of the question for someone like me. Floral arrangements, housey cottages, artwork and nature make me reach for the porcelain bowl recycling bin. Girly cards with lots of splashed pink aren’t me.

Which brings me to e-cards. Having enjoyed a ten minute fame in their heyday, flash-animated cartoons with annoying music leave me cold, reaching for that bottle of brandy reserved for cool, sleepless nights. In fact, I have stopped opening them when one innocent click downloaded a malicious virus and hijacked my PC.

But I confess to having in my possession a small collection of memorable cards. They have a stylish and modern design, they are sassy and bold – a bit like me – with just a few heartfelt words written by the sender – like ‘Dear Senorita..., Love Me’.

Which is why I was instantly attracted to this site and I immediately raced to send one. No, not this one.

So, on this Valentine’s Day, permit me to send you all a little expression of my sentiments.

Job Titles When I Become President of My Own Company.

-Super Dooper Director
-Mega Manager
-Executive Dreamer
-Lead Typist In An Office
-Coordinator of Copy Management
-Culinary Cooler Coordinator
-Morale Manager
-Director of Global Gossip
-Group Travel Manager, Happy Hour
-Senior Vice President, Other People’s Personal Business

Impatience!

I've never been a particularly patient person. Most people, including my mother, blame this on me growing up as if I was an only child. As much as I hate having my few character flaws (cough, cough!) blamed on the circumstances of my childhood, I'd have to admit that this is probably true. I mean, it's not like I ever had to fight for the attention of my family of adults, and while my parents couldn't afford to spoil me monetarily, they certainly spoiled me emotionally (wait...that sounds bad). Although, my threshold for bullshit has waxed and waned as I've gotten older, I've found that, yes patience is a virtue and it will be rewarded, but you know old habits die hard.

Things that I have no patience for:

Standing behind old ladies at the supermarket or bank.
Long voicemail messages.
Standing in line in general.
People who ask questions about the menu at a fast food restaurant. Really? It's all crap and it all tastes the same and I only get 30 minutes for lunch, so make a farking decision or bring a damn sandwich.
Any songs over 3 minutes or that has more than 3 guitar solos.
Getting stuck in the right lane at a red light behind someone who is not turning right. Fark you!
People who come to work sick. Your incessant coughing or sniffling makes me stabby.
Wet markets...especially those women who butt in front of you to ask if those cucumbers are locally grown and then proceed to have a 30 minute conversation about their coming-to-Jesus moment with the seller. Die in a fire, will you??

What tries YOUR patience?

Faded Friendships

There is a common perception that when a tragedy of sorts hits, we discover who our real friends are. Unmet expectations from close ones can shatter us while new friends emerge to support us and become our lifeline, diffusing much of our angst and fears. But once we have overcome that life-changing event, and our lives are on the mend, it is not uncommon for those friendships to fade, and consciously little effort is made to restore them.

It’s not that we are ungrateful or selfish. We often hold them in high esteem and always remember them for their kindness. But in essence, they serve as a reminder of a time best forgotten. They may have seen us at our worst and know our deepest vulnerabilities. Although they have played an active and key role in supporting us, we no longer wish to be reminded of those times.

These friendships wane. And we knowingly let go of them as we have let go of those turbulent times. More often than not, we remember them with wistful nostalgia yet we know beyond doubt that we were responsible for the denouncement.

I could cite examples of renowned people who have lived through it, relationships that have survived serious illnesses to see a person into recovery yet the glue that held them together has loosened and come undone. It is ubiquitous to life if we take an honest and examining look around.

I have relinquished such a friendship for similar reasons. I could unconvincingly say that our interests had diverged but I know that she will always be a reminder of a time I must file in the archives in order to live a brighter present.

Yet despite my valid reasons, it leaves me with a little sadness.

Have you been in a friendship that you have let fade away because it triggers memories of a past best forgotten? Have you relinquished a relationship (or potential one) because the person may have seen you at your worst?