It seems it’s de rigueur to write ‘a review of the year’ post; to drag back through the memories stored on your own corner of the internet and repackage them into bite size morsels for final ingestion and digestion as the bells strike 12, Auld Lang Syne is sung again and 2008 goes the same way as the rest – into the archives.
I’ve got to come clean though, as despite the amount of emotional vomit that I’ve spewed on here on a weekly basis (sorry, that’s one awful analogy) you could accuse me of gross misrepresentation because actually in real life this year hasn’t been quite the annus horribilis I’ve described.
Actually, I can finally admit, that behind the scenes it’s been a pretty good one.
If not to sound like a walking cliché 2008 has been a year of learning about myself, learning that I am able to do things on my own, be on my own, travel on my own and stand on my own two feet. It’s been a year of good lessons.
Watching my little sister get married through a haze of snotty tears was probably the biggest turning point this year. Despite her morbid choice of dancing tunes (Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol and Happy Ending by Mika), bitter jealousy of her perfect day, dress, figure, life, man and now forthcoming bambino, its gave me something to aspire to, to not just go with the flow, to not hold myself back, to actually go out and get my dream, my life, to not just be a part of someone else’s.
If the wedding made me realise what I wanted, then it was a being let down by a friend that made me realise I could actually go out and get it. Maybe I did only travel on my own for 3 weeks, maybe I wasn’t a proper backpacker in some people’s eyes, but I did it, I got on those buses, stayed at those hostels, partied with all forms of the age spectrum, lay on an Australian beach under the stars and dealt with a Huntsman spider without screaming. Oh and hit up Tokyo on my own. I’m proud of myself for feeling the fear and running with it.
Of course the biggest milestone in anyone’s year is not NYE but their birthday. This years was particularly epic as I’ll now be ticking the ‘under 40’ box on forms, keeping hairdressers busy colouring my rapidly greying hair, and will be keeping to my first ever diet. Strangely, I actually enjoyed turning 30 in June; archiving a whole decade was bloody cathartic but being asked for ID to buy alcohol on my 30th birthday gave me infinitely more pleasure.
Of course 2008 also brought its tough times, but today I can even put a positive spin on them.
I broke up with someone for the first time this year. Not a mutual agreement. Just me saying, no I don’t want you anymore. I was humbled by the hurt I inflicted and when it happened to me just 3 weeks ago I found I was strong enough to realise that ‘here is the rest of my life in your hands’ type relationships really need both people to be ready for a future together, that both people need to put in 100% effort.
But 2008 was really all about how resilient I could be. Facing up to the fact that I could have cancer is the hardest thing I have ever done. In any of my years to date. Ok, actually maybe that would be all the camera tests (revolting) but I’m managing to not bury my head in the sand about it all and hope that it might go away if I ignore it. It hasn’t. It won’t. January will bring more tests, but up to now they are all coming back clear and for that I am very thankful.
And now to 2009.
In 12 hours time the champagne will have been drunk, the party poppers popped, and the resolutions broken. Ill have sung Auld Lang Syne for the 12th time. The 1st of January will dawn fresh and new, a clean slate to be dirtied with bad behaviour and a chance to make more inappropriate choices.
Happy New Year everyone!
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right gude willy waught,
For auld lang syne.
Kx
P.S a translation for non Scots….. and here’s my hand my trusty friend and give me yours…and we’ll take a right good-drink, for times gone by. …I think I prefer the way Burns says it!
There are not many things in this world that scare the shit out of me more than the thought that I’m meant to be looking for someone to love me.
Admittedly I’m not a self-indulgent fuck-up that thinks no-one-will-ever-love-me-i’m-going-to-eat-worms type, as I reckon on reflection you could do a lot worse than me. I don’t have that many bad habits apart from being a bit too pragmatic for my own good, hard-nosed on occasion and a tendency to be purposely obtuse when faced with un-deserved superiority complexes. And people who use big words.
A-hem
Basically, despite my general air of forgetfulness, laziness and stubbornness, you’d still pick me out of the cage line up – i’m loyal, well-trained and have lovely silky hair.
It’s not finding someone to love that’s the issue, but the thought of love itself. I’m scared of it. In fact, love scares me more than cows, architects, people who don’t like football, airplanes, number withheld phone calls and my mother when she’s on a rant about my smoking.
Being in love, of being wide open in front of someone (and not for lust purposes), handing your sanity over to be stomped upon seems like complete madness to me. I’ve always been reluctant to let go, to stop being Peter Pan, to grow up, settle down. Settle. Maybe I have expectations set so high about what I think real love is meant to be that I won’t ever achieve even a semblance of it.
I know no one is perfect, that we all make mistakes in relationships, that the sooner the spell the other person has over you is broken the better but I still cant trust love to be there for me.
Finding someone who wants to be with me, taking each day as it comes is more important to me that someone who dreams of a romantic happy ending.
But then maybe being in love is like a female orgasm, you never know exactly what you should be expecting to get, how long its going to last for and that everyone’s experience is different.
Even the cynic in me knows practise makes perfect.
Kx
My head has been all of a dither recently what with the boy issues, the coming home to the parents issues and spending my energy fighting the mild form of ‘I’m actually a bit lonely’ depression that always hits me at this time of year. I know I go through ups and downs throughout the year, but there is something about Christmas and all the enforced jollity that makes me think far too much about things.
Take this for example..
Last night my mother had her friends over to dress their Christmas cakes with a splash of coloured icing sugar, a sprinkle of silver balls and a heavy coating of gossip. What struck me about this group of women (all of which have children I went to playgroup, primary or secondary school with) was their inherent need to boast about the success of their individual child’s ability to catch that man (or woman) and bear grand children; a result that in these mum’s eyes achieved the ultimate A+ in life.
I wasn’t let off lightly. I could feel the crashing sense of disappointment from the other mums that, as I was there listening in, they couldn’t rubbish my lack of stable relationship and sprog bearing potential. But despite my protestations that I wasn’t in any rush to splice my troth and join coupledom I’ve still woken up this morning feeling the pressure of joining Match.com and picking the first hairy backed neanderthal I see in the hope that I too can have a ‘successful life’.
I’m not sure at what point all these women went from sleepless nights worrying about their errant daughter having a healthy and adult sex life (“Please be careful!”) to actively encouraging us to find the closest man to act as a sperm donor. Is it at the point when they give up trying to rid themselves of the grey hairs and the size 12 waist? Or is it when their friends start bringing the baby photos to their weekly witches coven coffee morning? I’m not sure myself when this magical switch happens, but I’m surrounded by it and its honestly sending me slightly insane.
Luckily my lovely papa hates babies and is happy to hide in the local pub with me where there is plenty of Christmas cheer instead. I’ll raise a glass to all you lovely new bloggy friends tonight.
Happy Christmas to one and all.
Mwah
Kx
P.S sorry about all the spelling mistakes you’ll see on your readers, i have a hangover and no MSWord to correct my spelling here…
Home again usually means strapping on the hiking boots, wearing a silly coat and hat and walking up hill for a minimum of 6 miles. Non stop. With no beer half way round unfortunatley.
Plus I cant seem to get a mobile signal in my parents house, but i can half way up Shuttlingslow in the middle of fricking nowhere. What gives? At least there is internet.
But there is nothing like the Peak District on a freezing misty day to make you forget city life, city boys and paying more than £2 a drink in a pub where no one knows your name. Ah home again….
1. Path to Shuttlingslow
2. Shuttlingslow (yes i did get to the top, the evidence is an awful photo of me in a tomato red coat)
3. Looking back over Macclesfield Forest
4. Macclesfield Forest