Within the division of labour in my house, ironing is jealously guarded by my mother. I don’t question it much. However, my mother is too attached to the 80s. This means my trousers invariably end up with pleats.

So, about 18months ago, I bought an iron to combat pleats. It was on sale. I kept the iron and ironed on my table with a towel across it. Something happened to the iron my mother was using and my iron was promoted to head iron.

My iron died last week.

I knew there was an iron in a box in my room. – I don’t know how it got there, but that’s not unusual for my room. I handed up this iron as a substitute for the newly departed.

My mother reliably informs me that this iron I have brought forth as tribute is broken.

Why are we keeping a broken iron?

I get a new iron.

My mother directs that the two dead irons be put into storage. I storage I find a third iron. I ask why we are keeping broken irons.

“Its just the fuse that needs changing.”

How long has that iron been sitting in the pantry collecting dust, waiting for that moment when the plug fuse will be changed?

Why are we collecting broken irons?

Tell me something interesting

“Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

That statement looms large, terrifying in its endless possibilities and simultaneously limited options.

Interesting? Interesting to who – me, or you? Why would you want to know something I find interesting about myself? What are you trying to figure out – what’s interesting or what I find interesting? Why are you asking? What do you want?

I said something I find interesting about me. You were quiet. Was it not interesting?  Did I make a social gaff?  How can you ask me that?

I’m not interesting. I don’t have interesting stories, not really. I don’t get involved with people if I can avoid it.

People are heavy, cloying and distracting when they get too close. They ask things like, “Tell me something interesting about yourself?”

Relay Race

Sometimes, I think life is like a relay race. I’m putting in effort now to hand over to the next person or generation. My effort is only a part of a longer journey and I’m not the one to reach the finish line.

I have never truly planned ahead. Five year life plans are alien to me. I don’t ever see myself living that long and then I’m surprised to find myself five years on, alive and convincing the world that I’ve got this adulting thing down.

But, in the short term I try to lend my will to others, to help where I can. I want to transfer whatever will and resolve I have to those closest to me so they can carry on – that is my passing of the baton.

What am I blithering on about?

Palm to Palm they Kissed

I don’t really consciously recall living in a reality where I “waited” for sex.

I read The Cigarette Girl when I was in high school and the idea that I wasn’t constrained by hand me down etiquette from Cosmopolitan about when it was ok to have sex, the “three dates to first base” rule, stuck with me.

Pretty much since I entered the Meat Market I have subscribed to the belief that lusting after someone sexually is not bad. I do not have to want to marry,  date or even want to intimately know someone to lust after them and to consummate that lust.

I’m not sure if this is normal or usual for people around me. But, once I laid those ground rules with people they accepted them (for the most part ) and dealt with me like that. I like the simplicity of it. I want you. You want me. Let’s act on this want. If it leads to more,it leads to more. If it doesn’t then my lust is not unrequited.

What’s weird currently is that I’ve met someone who doesn’t want to be physically intimate because it’s too soon.

What does that mean?

Are we alone?

Have you ever been small? Smaller than other people?

I have. I am.

I was somewhere between 14 and 16 when a man came up behind me in a mall, and in an apparent drunken stupor ran his hands over me like he had a right to. I didn’t know what to do.

I had been taught my whole life to be polite, I didn’t know how to get this unknown man off of me, what to do, how to handle it without making it worse, without being wrong. I was scolded for not reacting by the same person who years before told me not to fight back when being beaten in front of my uncle.

I was 12 when I ended up in a guy’s hotel room. He was in his early 30s. I am not one of those women who looks older than she is, having filled out in womanly ways. I was 12. I can see him taking up the only room chair so I had to sit on the bed. I can feel his finger tips undoing my hair band. – that memory is part of why I’ve kept my hair short more often than not. And it was only my friend fronting that our families were leaving that gave me an out.

I was 14 when I invited my then boyfriend over. I was 14 when I first said, “no,” uncertain of the act. I was 14 when he accepted it, then some time later told me to sit on him. I didn’t know how to say no twice. I was 14 when I kicked him out of my house balling my eyes out.

For all that I have a vicious mouth, I will rarely have a physical advantage with a man.

I will take the steps over the lift at the Gym because I’m still afraid to get stuck in a small enclosed space with a man in a situation I can’t get out of. Steps always have exit space.

I have never asked someone to my house after 14 without considering and accepting that it could lead to sex that I would consent to, even if I wasn’t 100% committed to it. It’s easier to justify being reluctant than being forced.

Broken eggs

It’s apparently Good Friday today. Having been confirmed into the Catholic faith, I’m expected to know what that means. Nope.

It’s a public holiday today and Monday.

I made it to midday before I had my first drink.

I dislike public holidays. Being couped up with my mother sends my anxiety levels rocketing and being altered seems to be the only effective coping mechanism.

I went out last night.

I’ve been paying for it all day.

God, never let me have children of my own and burden them.