An anorexic social calendar

When I look at my diary I believe it is truly starved of any form of spontaneity. I see birthdays, leaving dos, over-due catch-ups, compulsory office socialising... I even see in tiny elated scribble a memo to self: Staying in.

I believe I have become obsessed with the need to fill my waking hours fulfilling obligations. It has become a sweaty workout of squeezing social with work commitments, health with cultural needs, boyfriend with friends, creative with practical considerations…

Are we all this busy? And do you all enjoy the same sick adrenlin rush I do when I am racing from A to B to F to Z?

You see, I think the act of being busy has somehow become representative of the fact that I am such an important person on this planet. If nobody wanted me, why would I be rushing?

This full diary is a superficial truth that I much prefer to stick to rather than fix. Hell, who needs to sleep, rest and contemplate the meaning of life? God damm it, I am busy ‘doing’ the meaning of life.

But I fear I am so wound up doing it, that the feeling it bit I ain’t getting. And surely, that’s not worth starving yourself of a hearty chunk of doing fuck all.

Why you should never say: I love you

These three words are as lethal and as loaded as ‘I’m sorry’. The weight behind the afore-mentioned phrase is elephant in proportion and as over-used as the Hallmark cards it’s printed on.

I have witnessed the ‘I love you’ used on many a battlefield. The first time it is said is typically akin to a long-fire, patiently judged shot to the heart. Ever after, watch for the quick-fire succession of ‘I love you’s’.

You know when a death of a relationship is closing in – you’ll be ambushed by this three-word statement. It is used to induce guilt and offer the attacker a perverse sense of elation and smug victory.

Before I continue… I am not bitter, twisted, mad or sad. I just lament the days when ‘I love you’ was sacred. It had yet to become commercialised. There were no tacky teddy bears with shiny hearts emblazoned with a slogan as fluffy as the filling.

And in the days where domestic bliss was untouched by political correctness, it was a free expression of love. It was innocent, pure and private – just meant for two.

There were no cringe-worthy, yet strangely watch able couch-jumping declarations of it on Oprah. And for us non-celebs, it didn’t come with any notion of practicalities like a pre-nup.

Love doesn’t seem like love to me.

I worry that as soon as I say the words, I will destroy what I have co-created. I am cautious it will become a cliché. But most of all, I fear that it will mean less and less the more I say it.

And why not feel this way? I see it has become everything it is not: manipulative, deceptive and shallow. It has become a yardstick to the success of a relationship, rather than a beautiful consequence of it.

It has lost its way.

The art of cleaning

As the pace of life gets faster, does that mean we become dirtier? Is cleaning one of the first things to go in order to keep up?

Or can we blame our parents…

Maybe it was their quest for us to succeed – to go one step further than them – that meant cleaning lessons simply gathered dust? They made the decision for us: less cleaning, more professional networking.

Could this be why twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings look at me blankly, almost stupidly, when I explain that I defrosted the freezer? (I haven’t done it yet – but I am thinking of it).

This question swiftly arrives on my messy doorstep as my soon-to-be-former flatmate moves out this week. She is… and this is the most nicest way to put it… allergic to elbow grease and blind to her own nasty mess (including the bathroom).

Don’t worry, I am not about to unleash a bile-ridden rant and take you down to the ‘emotional dump’ of fallen flatmates. She has, just sadly, brought to my attention the lack of passion for Mr Muscle.

I can sense you sceptically eying my plastic yellow gloves with suspicion – you think I am a ‘Monica’… I suffer from an anal need to control my surroundings… I simply have no life and cleaning is my substitution for social interaction…

Well, shame on you.

I have been described as easy-going, have friends and go out often. I am a normal person who enjoys a clean house.

But I have to say, when I say these words out aloud, it is I, who feels like a dirty social outcast. The shame of it is more to bare than the dusty side-boards I’ve just spotted.

So why is grime not a crime?

God, that was a little cheesy… but I bet you never thought someone who likes to clean has a sense of humour too.