The New Age Dump

You know, I often wonder what courtship must be like back in the day. When men were interviewed by a girls' parents for purity of intention and women went out on chaperoned dates. The days when the notion of pre marital sex was diabolical and romance, ah sweet romance, ruled the day. Roles and rules were cleary demarcated with little room for mistake and misrepresentation. It must have been so much more...simple.

It's a sign of our times you know, that these days when you turn on the radio and song after song is a rendition of the same song, heart brokenly cried out by some female singer.

It's also a sign of our times when relationships, immersed in deep physical intimacy are in other aspects, ie. emotionally, fleeting and impersonal. We connect over vodka, flirt over SMS and fall into a relationship (of sorts) over sex. There are assumptions of affection from sweet nothings imbued into drunken slurs and promises of a future extracted from scrambled eggs the morning after. We find ourselves in 'a relationship of sorts', 'seeing' someone rather than 'going out' and in some cases not acknowledging it at all, except for the sex at the end of the night.

But these relationships, openly acknowledged or quietly carrying on in our minds, are very real. They are real interactions as opposed to the daydreams we have about Brad Pitt. Just because they are never openly admitted, nor discussed does not mean they don't exist. I call these 'grey relationships' because they don't fall into your usual, girl meets boy, they date, they marry etc. It's the relationship of the millenia, the SATC-type relationship.

In many cases, these relationships (unhealthy to begin with), inevitably draw to an end. Without air, it cannot breathe and slowly begins to stagnate. Mind you, there are no big fights, no cutting remarks. In this aspect, the 'grey relationship' breakup is a remarkably bitter-free event. Hints of withdrawal come from a subtle decline of phone calls, fewer texts and a general build up of "Wow, I have so much work!" excuses. It is amazingly courteous.

Problem is, you cannot openly dump someone if the relationship was never officially admitted. Again, it's a sign of our times and we live in an age of minimalism. Welcome to the age of self dumping. Meaning, you dump him in your mind. Meaning you tell yourself that you will no longer respond eagerly to his messages, you will go out with him only if it's with a group of people and you most certainly will not sleep with him ever again.

Self dumping is a very lonely break up indeed, because you can't unleash your frustrations on any act which the other party did or did not do, can't base it on an implied promise or any words that were never expressly communicated.

When everything is based on nuances and innuendos, there's really not alot you can go on.

I'm not quite sure when such casual relationships came into existence. Being a serial monogomist, I have always been in very openly expressive relationships and I suppose I have for many years, been shielded from this very strange phenomenom. I won't judge it however, but I must draw the conclusion that it's just a way of how people deal with their buildup of baggage, during a time when what they want and need the most is love, but they are yet are so afraid of receiving it.

Anyway, I just wanted to make a point about self-dumping. It is by far, the most painless dumping I have ever experienced.

Mojo Revisited: A Short Story

You know, I spent many years trying to figure out what happened to my mojo. It just upped one day and left. I was so perplexed it actually moved me to attempt to write a book about it. Working title - "Help! I've Lost Me My Mojo: A Memoir".

Needless to say, I did not get past the Foreword.

In case you aren't familiar with the lingo, Google it. Mojo actually has its own Wikipedia page:
"Mojo refers to a magical charm bag used in hoodoo, and in modern usage may also refer to sexual potency." Obviously, I refer to the latter, one's ability to pull.

So mojo left and I was left dazed and confused, and of course, very celibate.

I looked high and low for mojo - invested in all sorts of tools - light reflecting foundations, meal replacements, vodka bottles, lycra...mojo refused to be found.

It was a dark, dark place to be. At times, it felt like I was losing my worth, my measure, my very point of being born female!

I blamed it on hormones, on turning thirty, to being allergic to alcohol, on gay men.

Well, after a while, I just stopped looking and resigned myself to the fact that mojo was lost forever and I may as well make peace with a mojo-free life. After all, it was one less thing to worry about.

Then one day, mojo turned up again!

Mojo, I have learned, never actually left. It had fallen asleep inside my brain somewhere, where I had never thought to look. Now that I have learned this very important lesson, I have placed mojo in a box that fits its size (not as inflated as I thought) where it now sits in a very prominent prosition - where I can see it and always be reminded that it exists and always has.

Whiskey Mornings

Sigh, it's true what they say. Alcoholic binges kill brain cells.

Forget this blog, even updating my Facebook status requires effort.

Sad as it may be, and speculate as you may as to why, but getting a second wind in your is thirties is just as fun, just as indulgent and far more childish. It's just what I need - pink, vodka-laced icing on top of the jadedness.

Just wonder whether my liver can take it the second time around...

Cheers y'all.