I’ve just had an epiphany. I always knew how much I truly loved the story of Bridget Jones' Diary, but it wasn't until I found myself sitting at home, nursing a glass (or two) of wine, mourning over my voicemail-less voicemail and watching the movie for the dozenth time on TV on New Year's Day, the actual day that her story begins, that I realized, it went far, far beyond a deep appreciation. If I did not take drastic action, and SOON, I too, just like Bridget, was on the fast-track to spinsterhood and being eaten by wild dogs. As such, without any resolutions of my own, (beyond having previously been firmly resolved not to do anything that would cause me further disappointment in myself) I have instead resolved to tell the story again from my own Limping Lizard's perspective. Then I can hope-beyond-hope that the exercise will help me identify my own patterns that aren't working (I’m sure there really aren’t THAT many) and move on to becoming the put-together wonder that I was destined to be!
MONDAY, JANUARY 1
It all began on New Year’s Day, in my thirty-fifth year of being single. Once again, I’d found myself on my own, recovering after yet another New Year’s Eve party where I was the only token single looking for someone to kiss as Auld Lang Syne started to play.
The night before was a quiet one. Normally, I really enjoy a chance to get out on the town and celebrate the ringing in of a new year with a couple hundred of my closest friends. Between New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day, there just aren’t any better nights for a single girl to go smingling her way around to a new beau. I call it smingling, because I’ve always used these occasions as a chance to mingle with a few singles, whereas the rest of my life seems to revolve around the Smug Marrieds that Helen Fielding so aptly describes in her literary triumph that tragically describes my life to a T.
However, on this particular New Years Eve, I was blessed to have a few married friends who took me in for their own quiet New Years Eve dinner party. Married they may be, smug not so much. Unlike the fictional Bridget, I count myself very lucky to have these people in my life. While they no longer relate to the chronic loneliness one can battle while at the same time being firmly resolute against settling in any way and equally for living la vie da loca, they are to be credited with the sincere attempt at believing they do. While they may have very small failings in their degree of understanding, they are also a big part of the fabric of my history. They’ve all been tested throughout the trials that only time can serve up and they stand with me still and will no doubt be there with me for years to come. You can’t find friends like that just anywhere, so you put up with the odd communication gap and develop a very deep appreciation of the foundation that they all provide. And since these people make up the family I have chosen, in my version of this little story, I will not be referring to my married friends as Smug Marrieds, but instead will now christen them all with a new term, unique to my own experience, my Best Married Wingnuts otherwise known as my BMWs. (Wishful thinking perhaps, but it may be the only way I ever get a Beemer).
In any case, I was exceedingly grateful for the chance to part-take in a somewhat quieter affair this year as I was in absolutely no shape to go smingling this year. I was still recovering from the remnants of a nasty pneumonia that left me with a hacking, wheezing asthma as a little gift to be remembered by. Call me silly, but my vast experience as a single has never proven that a hacking cough or an incessantly running nose were considered extremely desireable. So I was more than happy to let my BMWs take me in to help me ring in the new year at a slightly slower pace than normal, with the assurance that when the time came, there’d be someone who’d give me a hug and a kiss because they were required by the bonds of friendship to do so!
They did not disappoint. They served up the most incredible home-cooked meal of comfort food (something that a true Singleton intensely appreciates), they provided companionship and good cheer, and most surprisingly, they tolerated my ceaseless cacking and snorting with only mild and almost undetectable repulsion. And when Auld Lang Syne played, I was embraced along with everyone else. Friends like that are to be cherished.
But in the midst of conversations about family planning and buying / renovating houses, I found myself starting to weave in and out of daydreams of someone at my side chatting to me about current events, the markets or even just a sexy little banter about how my brand new bra had helped me to display my assets in a way that gravity had previously never allowed before. (Bridget had her short little skirt. I on the other hand have been blessed in a slightly different way, which usually gives me some grief, but with a new bra in tow, I was amused at the gravity defying act I was pulling off). But with no one to share a little sexy banter with and with my coughing getting progressively worse, I wandered out to the sundeck in front of my hostess’s house, for a quick hit of my new best friend, my puffer.
As I stood out there, it became quickly apparent that I was not quite alone. Looking out directly in front of me, I observed some of Toronto’s finest taking out of some of Toronto’s trash. My friend Nancy has had a cute little pink Tercel for as long as I’ve known her. That car has been with us both through many of our adventures together and I’ve developed a bit of a sentimental attachment for the car that is affectionately known as the Pink Pretty. But at this very moment, I was witnessing the Pink Pretty start the new year being violated in a very indecent way as Officer Friendly was patting down a suspected hooligan as said hooligan was spread eagle across the poor girl’s back-end. It was a very disturbing sight to start the New Year with. I’m not sure that the poor girl will ever be quite the same again.
In any case, things began to develop from there and a few more police cars pulled up, as did a Fire truck and Ambulance. Pandemonium ensued as Officers, Firemen and Paramedics wandered the street rounding up a bunch of young perps a stone’s throw from me and my puffer. I was momentarily concerned for myself (and the Pink Pretty) as I realized that this was escalating and someone could very well start shooting and I was very visible and unprotected in my very exposed sun-room. But as I examined the situation a little more closely, I started to lose any concern for my immediate well being and the sight in front of me began to take on a new meaning. Officers, Firemen, Paramendics, Oh MY!!!! I realized that with a plethora of our city’s finest in front of me, it represented my first smingling opportunity of the year and a very real possibility at landing a date. A singleton must to be able to think outside of the box and recognize, even in the midst of mortal danger, these opportunities for what they really are!
Then I coughed again, fiercely, and I managed to disgust myself entirely as, I’m sorry to say it, I threw up a little in my mouth. Quickly losing any interest in smingling for the moment, I ran inside to take care of the situation. Once I regained my composure, I told my BMWs about all the excitement they were missing outside.
We all went outside again to view the action and as my BMWs took pictures and were excited at the shocking drama unfolding in front of them, I joked, “Ya, but do you think I can get a date?”
Nancy turned around and laughed with me and said, “Sure Liz, all you have to do is go out there, cough up a lung and faint. They’ll all be in the palm of your hand after that, but you might find it hard to score digits after a display of drool and disease”
Knowing that she was quite right, I resolved to take my sorry self back inside and get my breathing under-control, and recover, permanently, so that when the next great opportunity came my way, I’d be in tip-top singleton shape to take full advantage of it.
After making this little pledge to myself, and after Toronto’s Finest had finished with their housekeeping efforts, we recovered the Pink Pretty from her recent injustice to make our way to our respective homes and prepare ourselves for what would hopefully be a fantastic new year ahead.
And after starting the new year off with a quiet day at home, literally trying to catch my breath and watching TV, I had my epiphany, a nearly religious awakening that things had to change. I realized that I needed to stop watching Bridget Jones turn her life around, but instead I needed to take action and do it for myself. If I didn’t take immediate action, if I may borrow directly from the Bridget Jones’ Diary movie , I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine and die fat and alone and be found three weeks later, half-eaten by wild dogs, or turn into Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”.
Bridget chose Chaka Khan, Vodka and her little diary to help set her on the right course. For me it’s going to be Gloria Gaynor, an Italian Cianti and my blog.
So there it is. This is the year I’m going to make some changes and here are my resolutions. Wish me luck.
I will not spend the next year winding up alone watching Bridget Jones’ Diary and listening to Diana Krall. I will take control of my bad habits and tell the truth about this Limping Lizard. The whole exhausting truth.
Resolution number one, obviously will lose an inordinate amount of weight which I need not to disclose here at this time until slightly more decent.
Number two, become utterly successful and contented at work.
Equally important, and I may as well borrow directly again, because she said it better than I ever could. “Will find a nice sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts.”
This may prove a fair challenge as have a major, stereotypical and inexplicable attraction to these traits.
But this year, it’s a clean slate and a new game plan. That includes being less self-involved and supporting family and friends more, improving my finances, my confidence, my charity, my well-roundedness, my health and my writing.
Failure is no longer an option. Those wild dogs are right around the corner.
NEXT UP: The Day After the Resolution
0 comments:
Post a Comment