Numbers

Well, I did say I'd write about numbers and then I just forgot all about it. The following is vaguely number-related:

Somewhere in the last couple of days, I've heard a discussion on the radio about a relatively new couple comparing 'numbers'. The man had revealed his number of sexual partners to be what he thought of as being quite high and his girlfriend had been so shocked, she wouldn't speak to him. Then the number was revealed, and I was fairly shocked that such a fuss was being made over what seemed to me to be such a small number.

And then I pondered on what exactly was being counted and it all seemed a bit sillier. Quality/Quantity? Length/stamina? Why is sex so frequently talked of as thought it was a sport? Exactly what can be measured about a genuinely sexual, sensual, loving experience between two consenting adults?

I'm not sure some people get it... if you see what I mean.

(some days I should just go for the early night and not burble!)

Magic numbers

Some years ago, someone told me that the following was a well-established fact: that for every three years you'd been in a relationship, it would take you one to really move on from it. At the time I ranted like a loon, because it seemed very unfair that someone who had - as a strictly academic example, of course - been in a miserable relationship for nearly twenty years would have to wait another seven to escape completely from it.

But it's true. Dammit.

So I was thinking about numbers and trying to identify other life formulae that seem to work.

I'll get back to you on this one.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow... (etc)

Ow.

What do you do when painkillers don't touch it and the ones that do turn you into a drivelling fool?

Moan about it, mainly.
It hurts.

What I need is a distraction. I wonder what George Clooney's up to today...

Brahms and horrible list

According to a comprehensive list of posters, on a national talkboard and around the confines of single parenthood and a more-than-fulltime job, I am the 4th most prolific poster. What a shuddersome fact.

Sometimes you should stop talking about it and just do the thing that's on your mind. This is seriously on my mind!

Magnificent Sevens

In amongst all the bah-humbugging about not being able to sleep last (this) night, I got to thinking about Stuff and came to the astounding (I am astounded, therefore it must be astounding) conclusion that my life has fallen into seven year eras. 'Seven year scratchings' sounds far too much like something you'd get from a very dodgy chip shop, so I resisted the urge to grab that for a title.

Anyway. By way of demonstration, here are my Magnificent Sevens. For the sake of proving myself right, I have to make the first a Magnificent Eight. (Please don't quibble about this - it just makes you look anally retentive).

0 - 8 - No idea. No memory of it and no one around who knows anything about it to tell me. So these can be The Bermuda Triangle Years.

8 - 15 - The Dickensian Years. Because they were bizarre and full of the strangest individuals imaginable.

15 - 22 - The Growing Up Years. They did what it says on the tin.

22 - 29 - The Traumatic Transition Years. Moving from one dysfunctional situation to the next, but no less interesting for that. I decided to make no references to naughtiness in the title. So maybe these should be called The Self-Deceiving Years.

29 - 36 - The Fertile Years. These were good times, and two fantastic and unbelievably wonderful children came out of them.

36 - 43 - The Endurance Test Years. And then some. No angstful handwringing for you to endure yourself, reader. Suffice it to say, they were bloody awful.

Now - Now I have a seven year opportunity ahead, it seems to me, which ends when I'm 50 and will want to regroup and make a new seven year itch plan.

So I have been thinking about what these seven years could be, and what I'd like to be able to call them when I get to the end of them. I don't know what I want the title to be, but I do know that I'd like it to be something about construction and contentment.

That is all. I love the number seven, by the way. Always have done.

Missing Inaction

It occurred to me today that I'm getting a bit rubbish at doing nothing. I've got a fine opportunity to lounge about at length at the moment, and I just can't do it.

I need to practise. Here's my first attempt....

Opportunities

Six weeks of open time are ahead of me. First of all, obviously,

HURRAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! for that fact.

More importantly - and this just hit me while I was in the shower (to which subject I shall return shortly) - that's not an opportunity to be lost.

It's 1.30 in the afternoon and I only just showered and dressed. This morning was spent mooching about, waiting for emails, posting on GUT, watching tv... it struck me as I indulged in some serious shower meditation that this morning was a big lost opportunity.

Opportunities should be a time of challenge, don't you think? They should be used to find out new things about yourself and to experience life fully - not briefly and only just enough to post about it from a computer. I love GU and lots of the people on it, but I'm not sure it's good for me.

I'm going to try out some stuff that's good for me. And weaning myself off this laptop a little has to be good for me.