Prefer to read it in another language?

Showing posts with label Fifty Shades of Grey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fifty Shades of Grey. Show all posts

Friday, 19 October 2012

44. 50 shades of green

  -->
At 20-something, I was an ardent serial dater but convinced that ‘THE one’ only existed in movies and fairytales.  Thrice engaged, friends swiftly tagged me ‘the runaway bride’.  But I couldn’t help it as I see-sawed between hurtling towards, and then running screaming from, the white-picket-fence-2.5 kids stereotype of my generation. Fueling my emotional schizophrenia, was my memory of being a bi-product of a union that imploded when my father’s two-timing came to light and a determination to never put myself in a position where I could be similarly cuckolded.  And then, I met Matt.  And in spite of myself and my fears, I fell head-over-heels (relatively cautiously) and allowed myself to be vulnerable (somewhat reluctantly!).

But for the first few years, I worried.  Worried that my older brother would turn out to be right when he ‘sagely’ told me that ALL men cheat because they ‘simply cannot help it’.   And the problem was, I often witnessed it myself.  At work, wherever I sang, all sorts of men would pursue me with ardent declarations of love (only to cheekily turn up with their wives/girlfriends days/weeks or months later!); or later on, as a mother on the school run, having dads ‘hit’ on me.  And I would feign ignorance – if only to avoid the entailing drama!  Later I would ask Matt, “Am I SO old fashioned and such a prude that these guys’ behavior bother me?”  Was I a prig to measure these situations against whether I would be comfortable with Matt behaving or talking that way with another girl; or how would he feel if I behaved that way?  Was I over-reacting by then steering clear of that latest pesky geezer-in-question?  But by the time I got to 30-something, it was evident that the cause of marriages collapsing was no longer male-dominated. 

Which brings me to the topic de jour: why do some, BOTH men and women, feel that what they have at home is not enough?  An acquaintance has recently started texting and going on ‘dates’ with a man she met at a nightclub on a girls’ night out.  The problem?  1. She is married with the 'requisite' 2.5 children  2. The ‘other man’ doesn’t know she’s married – and the lies and half-truths just multiply!

Not wanting to play judge nor jury here because nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors,  but using this scenario as an example, why do so many dabble with the taboo – be it flirting, ‘hooking up’, or a full blown affaire de Coeur in spite of the nagging feeling there cannot be a happy ending and at least one person will end up devastated.  Why the sabotage?  Men who say things they shouldn’t and make promises they couldn’t possibly keep because of prior 'commitments', women who risk everything in exchange for a little bit of attention or the ones who romanticise that bastard ex -- perhaps looking to recreate something they read in books like D H Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover or E L James’ Fifty Shades of Grey,  to fabricate an ‘exciting’ diversion from what they consider their monotonous and dreary everyday. 

This whole ‘grass is greener on the other side’ notion is often fiction at its 'best'  because majority of the time, if you climbed over the ‘fence’, there’s a high likelihood that its astro-turf or worse, dyed!  Over the years, I’ve had friends (both male and female) whom I’ve had to shake and ask “What were you thinking?”, only to be faced with responses of varying versions of how things weren’t perfect at home and blah, blah, blah..  They forget it takes two to tango.

And so, in spite of some 16 years together, I don’t assume that Matt and I are impervious to the relationship fallout's we have both since witnessed all around us and we try to keep a close eye of the state of our marriage, working very hard to keep things interesting between us.  I am no gardener but I DO know that the grass is greener where it is watered, mowed, fertilised and taken care of.

******************

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

39. Its a fine line..

  -->
It’s a fine line between pleasure and pain.  No, I am not referring to 80s Aussie rock band Divinyls’ song “Pleasure and Pain”; nor am I alluding to the kind of ‘proceedings’ as described in E L James’ “Fifty Shades of Grey”!  Okay, let me start again.  As you may have heard, I have been putting my poor 40-something-year-old body through some punishment for the sake of training for a running event in Angkor Wat in December.  Yes, yes, I’m talking about it again!  How can I not when so much of my week revolves around it at the moment. 

Anyhow, a couple of weeks ago, around the same time Matt got injured, I felt a muscle in my right leg twinge.  In denial, my training continued regardless, but the grumbling muscle finally got the better of me and I booked myself in for a massage a few days later when a spare hour happily appeared in my diary.

“Ahhhh.. this will get me back in proper working order..” I thought as I got ‘into position’ and waited for the therapist.  I was absolutely aching all over and so tired of being in pain.  My masseur du jour entered the room and the first thing she said was: “You run.”  Just those two words and then, she got to work.   “How’s the pressure?” she asked.  I told her she could go a little harder.  My mistake.  BIG mistake.

With that response, the ‘pain-fest’ kicked up a gear but what topped it off was my now-excruciating massage was also peppered with all sorts of pointers from my new ‘guru’.  Apparently, I had ‘bubbles’ all through my system (I thought they were knots!) which were brought on by hot showers and my supposed precarious consumption of peanuts and cold drinks.  She admonished me for using air-conditioning and when I countered I don’t actually have it on during the day, she tarried with a “what about in the car?”  My ‘guru’ then started telling me how one side of me was not longer bloated due to her expert massaging (okaaaaay..) and then started prodding different parts of my aching muscles – I think to determine whether or not I deserved more punishment.  Darn!  I started with aching muscles but now felt like my body was riddled with many more ailments that I had walked in with!

Suddenly, I had a flashback!  Some ten months ago, I was at this very same ‘spa’ and the therapist had, towards the end of my session, started kneading overly enthusiastically around my stomach region.  I remember grabbing at her hands, saying she had to either stop or be more gentle.  That’s when she mumbled something about how my womb had ‘dropped’ and needed pushing back!  I remember pleading with her through the pain that I already had three children and didn’t need my womb to be in the right place as I had NO intention of using it again in this lifetime!  She stopped – albeit reluctantly.

And that’s when the penny dropped!  Holy cannenoli!   The therapist then and the one hovering over me now were one and the same!  Armed with this new knowledge, the session continued with me largely dutifully agreeing to everything she said: “Can you feel how much better that feels?”  Me: “Yes, yes, much better.”

We parted ways with her showing me how to do a dead lift (she offered, I didn’t ask why but just tried to look interested!) and a stern directive to make another appointment to see her within three weeks (okaaaaay…. NOT!).  I made a quick exit citing an imaginary meeting.

I had another much-needed massage today.  Yes, I asked for a different therapist and yes, her technique was much MUCH more suited to my ‘pain threshold’.  That said, perhaps I should start thinking about why I put my body through so much torture.. ah yes, now I remember.  Its because I HAVE to due to my love affair with food.  Oh well, as the saying goes: it’s a fine line…

****************