It may get hairy…

Archive for March, 2012

Trading friendship for coffee

I promise that soon you’ll get a friendly, happy, choppy, cocky post as per usual, but today I feel the need to once again be morose and a tad macabre.

I haven’t posted since my last depressive post, as this has been a rather hectic few weeks. Ol’ Murphy had his way, when I thought life was down and it couldn’t go worse. My darling friends had paid for me to visit them in Joburg and I decided to return the favour by smashing my friend’s car. Whilst trying to do a good deed, I was transporting my very pregnant friend to her surprise baby shower.

Surprise! We never made it… I was driving, it was my fault. There was assistance from the others shouting different directions and telling me to turn when I did, but, I repeat, I was driving and certainly didn’t use the skills I should have used and thus….bang. Apparently we were on a one way. The accident was pretty intense. It was more dramatic and emotional than your normal crash, involving another car, but thank goodness, no one was hurt at all. That’s the  saving grace that I’m clutching too. I’m still wracked with guilt and was an emotional wreck at the ‘crime scene,’ as the guilt took hold. I’m sure few of you can imagine a Sez, looking like a member of KISS, bawling her eyes out on the side of the road. Anyway, I’ve managed to beg, borrow and steal the excess and the car is now being fixed. I won’t eat for a month, but hey ho 😉 Life goes on and one must do what’s right.

Anyway, the reason I’m writing today isn’t even remotely connected to this, but rather something that dawned on me this morning. While I may not be old, I’ve started to realise that as we get old, we learn to fully appreciate the little things in life: a morning coffee, while watching the sea; the smile of a child; what good fortune we have; reading a book on a Sunday afternoon; having a wild and frenzied night with your friends. However, I’ve started to notice that in the process of getting older, I seem to be dropping friends left, right and centre (how horribly inarticulate is that? Oh well, you get the drift).

When I left Uni, I noticed that those friends, who one spends every day with, but never share a single, deep emotion with, seemed to fade away. I wasn’t perturbed, they weren’t all that important to me, I had my close and dear friends, who I valued and cared for deeply; who consistently praised the strength and depth of our friendship and lived up to what it required.

When I went overseas, I noted that without Facebook, I’m sure many would have forgotten about me (please note, not self-pitying, I felt that went for anyone who went overseas). There was a handful of people who stayed in close contact with me. However, when I announced my return, hoards of people bent over backwards to tell me how they had missed me (sans any contact in at least 6 months….despite our dear friend, Facebook). When I landed, there were few. Even the initial handful of people drained away to perhaps three, maybe four people who I truly appreciated. This wasn’t a matter of timing, for 5 months of living in Joburg, I barely saw anyone other than these few.

Then I pop off to the coast and repeat the same sequence of communication I had when overseas.

Now, it’s with a heavy heart, that I start to see those friendships, upon which I judge all others, fade away. Some stay stagnant, but strong (like those I either left behind in the UK, or those I have known for decades, but, too, reside overseas), but a few start to fade, in a rapidly dismissive way.

I believe, as a rule, that I have tried to be as good a friend as I can possibly be. I’m the first to highlight my faults and take the blame (to risk quoting songs, Annie Lennox echoed my sentiments when she sang “If something goes wrong. I’m the first to admit it. The first to admit it. But the last one to know.”). I know that in my moving to the coast, I haven’t been as good a friend as I could have, because I was prepared for the distance that…well…distance causes. I knew I would start to fade into the background for people and couldn’t be bothered to put effort into something I knew was transient. However, to my special few, I kept up communication – halting communication, albeit, but communication. And then I hit rough patches, and I found the people who were there for me, were not the special few on this continent, but the special few overseas, or people I hadn’t ever imagined would write me supportive comments, such as those who comment on my blog. My friends overseas take the time to supportive, kind letters and I, in return, support and help them along. My special few, I have tried, but now find I have been almost wiped clean of their lives.

It makes me wonder, do I re-evaluate who I am and how I treat friends? No. After some serious retrospection, I like who I am and I know I’m a good friend to those who need me and to those who don’t. Perhaps, sometimes I’m a tad self-involved, but it’s rare and I do try my best to put myself out there for people. And hey, with age I’ve started to realise that if you don’t like me, that’s your problem honey, not mine.

So what rhyme or reason can we blame for this dwindling love and support we’ve so come to count on?

As we get older, do we trade our true friendships for the appreciation of something small, like the first sip of coffee, overlooking the sea?





Dishevelled with a Merlot grin

This isn’t an easy post to write, as it’s about a serious topic, rather than mind-numbing ramblings. Not too serious, well not for you, but for me it rather is.

I have some large changes to make in my life and I’m a tad scared to make them. I’m not scared of change, far from it, but rather I’m scared to continuing to change. The last three years of my life have been about upheaval, nomadic tendencies and constant change. I haven’t wanted to stop moving for more than three months. I could say this was a ‘phase,’ but before this period I too had to change every six months – a big change – be it moving house, job or relationship. In fact, in one day, I managed to lose my house, my job and my car. At the time I was flabbergasted at my bad luck, but it turned out to be one of the positive turning points of my life. Further confirming my unspoken theory – that to keep running will solve everything.

It’s this theory that’s currently bothering me. When I returned from London, I promised myself that wherever I landed, I would stay – so to speak. So I landed in Joburg. I lasted 5 months, granted at a torrid company (although only three months there) and off I popped to KZN, under the strict promise to myself that I shan’t move for at least a year.

Well, I found paradise in a log cabin…that turned out to be the 12th level of Hell (read my first ever posts)…and off I popped to Scottburgh…under the strict promise that I wasn’t to move for a year. It is here I find myself, but I find myself alone. Although surrounded by people, I feel utterly and completely alone. Any poor bugger with the misfortune of asking me how I am, will get an honest answer (not something you’d wish upon yourself…but perhaps your enemy). I have stresses I can’t talk of to those around me (aside from aforementioned poor buggers who I don’t see daily). I know this post may arouse interest and screening questions, but they will get nowhere. My stresses cannot be spoken in Scottburgh. Nor will they. They’re not life-threatening, nor disastrous, nor life-changing, I suppose, but they’re stresses.

And the only way I know how to change this is through change itself. In Scottburgh, there is no one to talk to, few to drink with and after 6 months of either living here or nearby, I’ve realised, there never will. I convinced myself that there would be someone beautiful and perfect waiting for me the other side of sanity, but I find myself swirling deeper into the abyss that is stress and self-absorbtion and know that I will be too blind to see it should it actually occur.

(Apologies, this is turning into a long one).

A touch of honesty – baring of soul so to speak – I’m a rebel…with a cause. I’ve long wanted a family, a kids, settling down (not in the white picket fence, kind of way, the traveling the world while pregnant, stupid kind of way). Lying to myself about my age is no longer possible. I know 28 isn’t all that old, but I’m hell of a broody, always have been and… to be honest…I just want to stop now. The chances of me having kids are less than the average person (or should I say woman?), perhaps not significantly, but it entirely depends on luck in my case. More so than the average person, at least. And with each year, my chances decrease. I have friends who’ve had children in their early, mid or even late 30s, but they don’t have my constitution. I’m not being pessimistic, I’m being a realist. And staying here is helping nothing.I want someone, not anyone, that someone. Yes, I do believe in that someone – illogical as it may be. I want someone who loves me regardless of what I wear, look like or act and I want that person to want what I want – an additional person to share the awesomeness of life with.

I’m loathe to move. I love my house, but I’m slowly on the way to losing the parts of me that make me…well…me. I’m not breath-taking, or utterly vibrant, I make very little difference in people’s lives, but after years spent trying to find myself, I found I actually liked, if not loved myself. And now I’m disappearing. Sucked deep into the same abyss I mentioned above.

I do not want to be this person. Should I move, will it change? I think it will. I’m not looking to move far, just an hour away, but somewhere where I am me, with no obligations, no preconceptions, a place I can truly be me….and a place with people my age. but I hate myself for even thinking of once again moving.  I feel I’m incapable of spending a year in one place. Should it not change, I’m not sure what I’ll do…perhaps see someone to still the swirling…who knows.

For now, I wait for my finances to secure themselves, so I can decide whether or not to change. For better or for worse. To see if I can find myself and to see if I can find someone who wants me as I am now – disheveled with a Merlot grin.


(side note to a friend: Yes, I started a lot of sentences with a conjunction. 1 point to you and 1 point to poetic license).

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