This is not the usual fare for this blog and I could just go post it in LJ but this feels like the place I want to put it. So, enjoy (or not) and let me know your thoughts.
I’ve always been a very physical person and I don’t mean that in a naughty way (except sometimes). At 5ft 9 and tending towards the brick outhouse side of things I suppose it’s inevitable that I have a certain presence. Add to that a raucous laugh, a generous bosom and absolutely no volume control (coupled with a tendency to excessive swearing) whatsoever and you get someone who stands out a bit. I don’t do graceful and delicate. I do loud, tripping over my own trousers (even when sober) and falling off my chair (especially when drunk in pubs in Cumbernauld). I also do hugs, hand-holding and lots and lots of kissing. 95% of the time it’s affectionate rather than sleazy – and as for the other 5% I’m usually blitzed and my moves, such as they are, are so rubbish that it’s sweet, rather than letchy. Or so I like to think.
Anyway, touch is incredibly important to me and I’ve recently realised that it’s one of the things I miss the most as a singleton. I’ve been flying solo for two years now and while I certainly miss the more, er, obvious sides of coupledom, what I really miss is contact from another person. Holding hands, an arm around the shoulders or waist, sitting close together. I suppose on a lot of occasions, that stuff is a pre-cursor to something more – pulling, winching, hooking up or whatever you want to call it – and maybe that’s what I’m really missing – the potential that something like that will happen. My previous relationship was not a disaster area by any means (he was a perfectly decent bloke, just not for me), but at 5.5 years it went on for about 5 years longer than it should have done. The fact that I didn’t want my ex to touch me in any way was a sure sign we were in trouble. It also meant I didn’t get the contact I was craving, so in a way I feel like I’ve been on my own for a lot longer. I needed the reassurance that I was wanted, needed, desired but I didn’t want to be desired by him, which did rather leave me in a pickle.
Despite knowing I was in the wrong place for a very long time (which I would deny whenever I was asked, but the smart ones saw through me) getting over the end of our relationship took me longer than I thought it might. This was coupled with being in an incredibly stressful job (which had little reward for all the stress caused) and being in a fairly depressing flat. Now, it’s all change. I have a cracking new job (which I was incredibly lucky to get), a great new flat and a vastly improved quality of life. I feel much more positive than I have done in a long time. Don’t get me wrong, I still have my long, dark cocktail hours of the soul. I can be appallingly insecure and read the most horrendous things into fairly straightforward situations – nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms – and I’m still too dependent on the validation of others, but I’m getting there. I’ll always be a work in progress, if I was the finished article where the hell would the fun be in that?