You’d think, by now, that we’d have learnt how to learn a lesson. That we make the necessary mental calculations required to not keep doing the same things and expecting different results. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that we’d KNOW. That we’d be grown-up enough to pay attention. Apparently not. Because nevertheless we persist in…
We need a system. A better system. Because right now we are all about introducing ourselves to people we’ve met before – which is insulting. And saying ‘we’ve met’ to complete strangers, which is bewildering and really not very polite. Manners are meant to put people at ease, not panic and offend them. We are too keen. We should just go floppy and aim for an enigmatic and husky ‘hello’.
Getting house plants
Because it’ll be different this time. It will. Our black fingers will mystically transform into nature-nurturing paws of plenty. A mere glance from us will have those pot plants inching upwards, blossoming, producing new and unheard of varieties of blossom and fruit. *what’s that tiny sound?* *the sound of plants crying* We even managed to kill some succulents. Quite hard, that.
Hate watching season after season of something on Netflix because you are too mentally over-loaded to start anything new and get to know the characters and the plotlines and so you sit and stare – inwardly seething – and thinking it will suddenly get good and the actors will get un-annoying.
Mornings are so hot. Not – generally – as in sexy. But as in sweaty. Hot shower. Layers. Forgetting things. Up and down. In and out. Tempers frayed. Keys. Phone. Laptop. Stuff. Other people’s stuff. Boiling physically and emotionally. Can’t even look at a coat. Wool. Ugh. Body temperature may never again regulate. Tights? The work of the devil. Scarf? Can hardly breathe at the thought. Leave house for icy commute in floaty dress. Hypothermic by 9:02. So cold by lunchtime that we end up buying a coat that we can’t afford and hate forever and which stares at us, from the cupboard, in all of our failure.
After all these years. And all the mistakes. And all the regrets. And all the therapy (‘Why did you feel the need to not be present?’) we persist in thinking that being drunk will make us, not only brave, but somehow irresistible to any person but the wrong person. Just as, when booze is free-flowing, we wilfully ignore any concept of units and decide that we are immune to the effects of alcohol.
Something to chew on
We no longer have teenage brains (thank God) or teenaged bottoms (bit of a shame, that) but we also no longer have teenaged teeth. Which we remember only after taking a savage bite into a vast toffee or slab of nougat. Will it rip out a filling or a crown? We don’t think of pain. Or drills. We think of overdrafts. And bills. And yet….