31

Age, it is just a number after all but it doesn’t seem that way. It takes on a life of its own; an arbitrary statistic that hangs around like an unwelcome guest at a party, irritating not merely by its presence but by the fact it exists at all. It’s a party; things should be good, relaxed, happy. Anything that doesn’t fit with the ebb and flow of familiar conversation jars, butting into everyone’s subconscious, becoming part of the problem but so entwined with the whole fiasco that to remove it would mean ending everything. It’s the rubbish colleague at work whom everyone thinks should be fired but if they were, the conversation in the staff room would become stilted and boring. It’s the dry, disgusting cake that a random relative bakes that you know is going to be horrible but you eat it anyway because you know you have to and perhaps, one day, it will be better.

My number is 31. I’m lucky, I’ve managed to do most of what I set out to do by now but there are things missing, wife, kids, an Irish Setter called “Dog”. But I’m not ready; the number doesn’t fit my psyche. Sometimes it feels like I am wearing another man’s body, the number etched on my forehead like a crude practical joke. Why do we define it so? Why is it so important? I suppose it’s because we mark out our lives by events, birth and death the bookends, our experiences the books, with coloured markers to highlight the expected milestones; birthdays, education, first kiss, virginity, marriage, birth of the firstborn, grandkids, retirement... Mine has some interesting, funny and thought provoking books but most of the coloured markers sit stacked at the end, like lifetime confetti. A life yet to be lived.

But I struggle with this view; I struggle with the notion of what is expected of me, it is partly why I am where I am today and not in an office in London making numbers dance for faceless people. I want my life to be marked by the people I meet, by the lives I touch and by the things I do that make a difference. I want to be judged by who I am not what I have done, but that is difficult because what we do is part of who we are, what we have achieved is part of the plethora of bricks that builds our soul. I know the coloured markers will one day be placed amongst the many books I still have to write but I no longer fear that fate as I once did. Still the number sits astride the bookcase, smiling his fateful grin and waving his hand in mocking metronome, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock ....

An aside: thank you for the many kind words and comfort I received from the last post but I can assure everyone I am happy with who I am and where I am. As one famous author once said, a writer is someone who writes and whilst I try to actually write something proper like, I will continue to write this blog. Still it is good to know there are so many people who care about me, that is both touching and warming and I thank you again.

A funny old Christmas

I have insomnia again, which is why I am writing this at 1:50am instead of sleeping. I get it a lot, not persistent; it’s not a problem, mainly because I know exactly why I can’t sleep. The more I think the less I sleep, and sometimes I think a lot.

This Christmas has been a strange one, don’t get me wrong I had a good day, a lie in, a picnic in the park, drank too much, ate too much, had a few laughs and wore a stupid paper hat, but it wasn’t the same. I’m in Melbourne and things were just a little wrong, things that you have been brought up to expect suddenly aren’t there, it gives the whole proceedings a detached air, almost like an outer body experience. I mean people were wearing shorts; we were having a picnic, on Christmas Day, a picnic! There was no family, no traditions, the things that annoyed me about this time of year are suddenly the things I miss the most. Like the way my Mum always buys a strange selection of beers and spirits when for years I’ve only drunk wine and the way I have the same conversation with my Nan about three times. They say everyone has at least one Christmas or Birthday when you are on your own and, even though I wasn’t technically alone, this has felt like mine. At least I have the Boxing Day test to look forward to and some great friends in Melbourne to make me smile.

My dry spell...

I have been following a friend of mine’s blog, which is very good and I recommend it (life and talisha). If you click on the link you will notice she is very beautiful (she is also a great person, annoyingly) and it is good to get her view on the world because, despite what people claim, being attractive has huge advantages (it also has disadvantages I admit). Now I know some people are going to rant and rave about me saying this, and many will disagree but these are my experiences, from the perspective of someone who is average looking.

I’m in a bar/ club, I get bored and fancy talking to someone, I approach and before I open my mouth I get the “absolutely no way” look, I get this a lot. Girls are expert at this look, brilliant in fact. The only way to negate this seems to be either to be out with other attractive girls or to have a good looking friend. Once I’m actually talking I have half a chance. I am average looking so I have to employ other avenues, witty banter is normally my in but sometimes sarcasm and irony can back fire, badly. That said I went through a period of having success internet dating because girls got to know me before they actually, you know, saw me. Not that I am ugly but I am also not hot. I’d say about a 6 (feel free to comment, as I said before I don’t really mind what people think).

I used to think I was quite good at flirting and making people feel good about themselves but recently this has backfired too. Apparently you should only make the girl you are interested in feel this way. But what if you don’t know who you are interested in, which in my case is true initially because my major turn on is intelligence so I have to actually talk to them first, or, as it was in this particular case, if you aren’t interested in any of them and just enjoy flirting? Even so I get further than most because I’m confident but, either consciously or subconsciously, attractive people are given more lifelines, they are allowed more mistakes. The thing that most girls I approach don’t realise is that I am genuinely just looking for someone interesting to talk to; I am so stupidly picky that it is unlikely I will continue to find her attractive once we start talking. You can tell when I am really interested in someone when I don’t talk and just stare, like a creepy zombie. Inside my head is a conversation going something like this:

“she’s pretty and intelligent, I am enjoying talking to her, just relax, she’s smiling, she not running away, it’s all good. I know, find out if she’s single, no don’t that’s too forward, too obvious, relax, just chat, she’s only human. Talk, just talk, no, don’t, don’t clam up, stop it. Relax you idiot, don’t fuck this up, shit you’re fucking this up, what are you doing? You idiot, say something! Anything, no, not that, that’s lame and a little creepy, stop staring. Just. Stop. Staring. That’s it, it’s over, she thinks you’re a moron, and there you go, she’s gone, she’s left and you haven’t even got her number, typical...”

Still I am interested in people and in human behaviour so I find the whole process amusing. This used to make me angry but I’ve grown up, it is pointless raging at your genes when there is absolutely nothing you can do about it, and I like other aspects of being me. I know that my recent slump is also because I am overweight and don’t currently have the motivation to change this. Thing is if I get fit, slim and looking reasonable then I might have to address the real reasons I am having no luck, either my personality sucks, I really am that ugly or I just don’t want a girlfriend. These are harder questions to face because they tunnel to the core of who I am rather than just what I look like.

This may contain things that some people find offensive...

One of the brilliant things about Australian's is how friendly they are, and laid back. They are really easy to talk to but this had lead to the unleashing of an annoying habit I have of offending people without meaning to, partly because I don't explain myself clearly sometimes and partly because I am an arrogant something or other. (see last post for classic example).

Other examples have included my comments on Australia and why it is different from the UK. I have dropped such stupid comments as "Australian men are misogynistic" to "why are you so afraid of lesbians, exactly?". Not very proud of these moments, caused by my mouth engaging several hours before my brain has had a chance to calculate all possible outcomes and offended people. I have tried changing this only to get comments like "you're very quite today Mark?" and "what's wrong? don't you have an opinion?". So now I just go with the flow and know I risk causing offence. Still at least people can laugh at me.

I know I will offend and for that I am sorry, but I am starting to realise that I have to write, I have to let these ideas and thoughts out so I am going to continue to offend. If that is a problem then please read something else.

On a separate note, loving the fact the Ashes is on terrestrial TV, not loving the fact the English have rediscovered their batting collapse form.

I am beautiful

What is beauty? Do you ever stand around naked thinking, maybe I need a new body? An upgrade, maybe something a slightly different shade and shape?

If you are like me you do, occasionally wondering what is beauty? Who decides that I am not the perfect specimen and that Brad Pitt is? I partly think my resistance to going to the gym and changing my body style is the resistance to this culture prescription of what a guy should look like. That and the strands of laziness that have woven themselves into my being over the past, well, forever.

Denis Dutton has an interesting view on beauty (see video), linking it to evolution and putting beauty at the very core of human nature. I am not sure I completely agree with him but I like the pictures and it has made me think at least.

As a person who's self worth has nothing to do with what he looks like and everything to do with what is inside the strive for perfection bemuses me. I just don't understand the whole urge to make yourself different to who you are, especially superficially. Plastic surgery does not change your age and make-up does not stop you from being a bitch. It may fool a few drunk people for a couple of hours but what about the morning after?

Since moving to the Gold Coast the question of beauty has stirred it's ugly head a few times. You cannot have a society based around the beach without the question of body image rising to the surface. After all it seems most Gold Coastians spend their entire life in as little clothing as possible (not that I am complaining most of the time). Maybe that is why the word I most commonly hear to describe the Gold Coast is "fake". If you try and project an image that isn't true then, when people see through the mask, they loose respect, take back the most valuable of human gifts, trust.

Perhaps that is what true beauty is, the confidence to be who you are meant to be whatever people may think of you. Well, it is the lesson I am taking and one of the core pillars of my new paradigm, the New Mark Strategy (NMS).

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it” Confucius.

End. M

The new tomorrow

This is the dawn of the new tomorrow. As part of the New Mark Strategy I am going to write something everyday. Hopefully I am able to link this to facebook and twitter so people can follow my thoughts and adventures. M