broken wings

She isn't involved in my life but I'm involved in hers.  She stepped away, moved out, decided that her family and life weren't for her, but she won't let go.

And it's screwing up the good thing we have.

I worry they will start to think that me coming into their lives is what made it go bad and provoked her latest (and ongoing) outbursts.

And then everything will change.

I should write more.  I should write again.

I've lost my thread.  It was here and now it's wended its way to someone elses' mind for them to figure out something interesting or important to write.

Perhaps I need to go undercover again where I can write the things that are in my head and not the things that can only be uttered out loud.

I adrift

Is it that we (or I perhaps) only have things worth recounting during times of trouble?

I feel bereft of words, adrift in a world of apparently meaningless communications.

I used to write.  I had words that flowed and trickled and poured from my mind and fell upon the pages to be shared and read and now, I have little of nothing, nothing of note or no words spare to determine how they should be ordered.

I should spend time alone with my words, with my thoughts, with my pen.  I should get to know them once more, to make them my friends and see what relationships we can build.

Super man lives

So it would seem that, upon further investigation and the reading of multiple profiles, that men feel they have something to prove.

Hobbies and past times vary between white water rafting, yeti wrestling and great white shark baiting.


It seems to me to be very dull to be interested in a man that likes to watch a movie with a bottle of wine and a bucket of popcorn or go for a walk in the woods, kicking the leaves as you go. 


Quite obviously, that is just not exciting enough for most women and I will find myself turning (even more) into the mad old cat lady.


When did 'ordinary' become a dirty word?

Step 1, you find a girl/boy to love

I am coming to the rapid and unpleasant realisation that I'm getting old.

Having done the deed, taken the first step and actually signed up with a dating site, my age has moved into the next bracket.  The men that I might actually be interested in are in that bracket, or worse, the one above it.


When did I get to the stage of planning dates with someone my dad's age?  Ok, so he's not really 10 years old than me, but surely I'm too young to even be considering men of 50 as suitable/possible/potential options for dinner, drinks and we'll see what happens next?


It's not so much depressing as worrying that I'm running out of time, the buzzer is about to sound and I'll be put out to pasture as being past my prime, unsaleable or, worse, unwanted.


I have even sent out some mails, pinged a few pictures and shuddered at others.  I don't know what I was expected just 3 days in, but more than this was definitely on that list.  


Do people really expect to gain interest from potential partners when they've cropped a picture of themselves with their latest ex, or with a post coital cigarette hanging out of the side of their mouths?


Am I missing something important about basic good manners, or do I just want the unachievable dream?

Liar, liar, pants on fire

It would appear that Hollywood has been lying ot us all these years.

Men do not hang around on street corners or in libraries or coffee shops, randomly waiting to meet the girl of their dreams.


Apparently you have to work at it.  You have to make an effort and go out there stand in front of people, either face to face or on the interweb, looking for emale order men.  


Internet dating has, of course, lost much of its sordid and hushly spoken reputation of a few years ago, but it does still seem like a last resort of the lonely, pathetic and vaguely miserable.


There are multiple tales of success.  Most sites proclaim on their home pages how they lose customers every day, becaase they've found love.  Peddling the dream that love is out there for all, but these days it's a direct cost that's lining someone's deep pockets.


I know people around me who are happy and relaxed and have made achieved the twin goals of marriage AND children.


I just want a nice man, which is harder to locate than the eponymous needle, it would seem.

Doctor heal myself

So, it’s got really bad over the past few days (ok, weeks, who am I kidding?) to the extent that walking up stairs was wiping me out.  Having a conversation was a joke because not only could I not really concentrate; I’d be out of breath just saying hello.

I haven’t run for 10 days and can’t see a point at which I’ll start again – worrying and upsetting in equal measure.

I took myself off to see the Doc this morning for a formal diagnosis; please tell me it isn’t sinister and I can still dive on holiday? Is it asthma, hay fever, an allergy to something else, too much coffee (unlikely as I’m all but caffeine free these days)?

Of course, because I like to be consistent, it’s stress. My peak flow is ‘respectable for someone my age’ (way to make a girl feel good Doc) which rules out asthma. A lack of other symptoms suggests it isn’t an allergy or hayfever, so let’s just go back to that old chestnut, stress.

This was a new Doc, an older guy but full of bright ideas.  Doc Smith, where have you been all my life?

Slow down, smell the roses, breathe in and out – quite literally as it happens.  Six breaths in, six out; Count them.  Enjoy them.  Feel them.  Then start again.

If you get to 13 you’re not concentrating on breathing and your mind is off with the fairies or work or stuff, as usual.

I’ve been told to slow down, do one thing at a time. But if I had time to do one thing at a time I wouldn’t need to be on a conference call, running reports and typing this at the same time!

Have you ever tried it, to stop in the middle of an email or reading a document, preparing a presentation and breathe?  Six breaths in, six breaths out, six in, six out.

But it works.  Amazingly just one six in, on six out (I managed to concentrate for a whole 30 seconds or so!), and my heart has slowed, my breathing easier and my mind, if only just a little, is slower.

That and a long cuddle with the new puppy.

Therapy in one wiggly bundle.