A Pinch of Salt

I’ve always known that I enjoy the attentions of men. When a nice man pays me a genuine compliment I am momentarily drunk. I suspend myself between feeling guilty and feeling superior to everyone on the planet. I'm giddy. Its nice. When I am called sexy by someone whom I  consider to be sexy, it is an exciting thing indeed. Occasionally, it can be just what the doctor ordered. Other times, it can make me ill.

I discovered the ugly side of this truth at 3am last Friday morning. I was wearing an officer’s hat, an evening dress, and was sitting between my best friend, one Captain, one Leftennant and a Private in the officer’s barracks next to Buckingham palace. I had managed to invite myself along to a private party with a friend, and we had snuck into a separate lounge as an intimate party to discuss the three things contraband at all sophisticated social gatherings: religion, politics and philosophy. Considering the time, and my garb, sophistication was not my agenda.

Freddie the Leftennant was tall, dark, handsome and ready to die for his country at a moments notice. He commanded the Malbec to his lips and said to the Captain, in my direction:

“God! Can you believe just how sexy that girl is?! Its not fair!’

Despite the fact that I was midway through a discussion of the teleological argument concerning the creation of the universe, I didn’t mind the interruption one bit. (I have been known to bore leaves from trees before). I blushed, and couldn’t remember the last time a man I didn’t know was so forthcoming with compliments. The fact that he wasn’t selling me something, or trying to touch me made it all the more surprising. The thing that made my cheeks turn red was my proximity to my best friend, all 5ft 9' of her too. Let me put it this way, at school I was ‘the friend’, and she was ‘the girl’.

But tonight! Tonight I felt like the girl.

I smiled back at him, laughed, and attempted to continue with what I was saying, trying desperately not to look so crimson. Within five minutes Freddie interrupted me again;

“You need compliments don’t you Sarah?”

I stopped. Everyone stopped. The atmosphere immediately became foreign and unwelcoming. I felt hot all over. And not in a good way. I’d always appreciated compliments, but never before did I consider myself dependent on them. Until that moment.

“Yes, I suppose I do”. I murmured. This man had killed people for crying out loud! What was I suppose to say to that exactly?

One minute I’m the girl, the next I’m the fool. I just didn’t get it. Silently I watched Freddie turn all of his attentions towards my best friend instead. As history repeated itself, I made sense of the situation by putting it down to a pick up ‘tactic’. Divide and conquer. All that of nonsense.

The fact of the matter is I didn’t actually care about Freddie at all. What I did care for was that he had exposed the horrible truth behind the girls who grew up awkwardly, and those that side stepped the pubescent gracelessness that I was forced to endure. I’m talking about the girls who have always been genuinely, generously and periodically complimented, and those that always got told ‘well done for doing well at school’. I.e. my best friend, and me.

Within 5 minutes I had seen my sexuality placed upon a pedestal, and hacked down to shreds. I am now at an age where I know that looks aren’t everything, but apparently, I still give an impression to the contrary. As I sat, crucifying my personality and festering in rejection, I wondered if I had ever really outgrown my puberty.

Hear me out: girls who have always been treated as if they have good looks, don’t inherently search for that kind of treatment from others, because they know (subconsciously or not) that they will always recieve it. Whereas the girls who grew up scarcely receiving such compliments, are apparently (and obviously) still seeking that very same, illusive thing years later.

Apparently this is so obvious, so apparent, that even a complete stranger can pick up on it. Freddie, if he should ever think of me again, won’t remember my passions and interests, my sense of humor, the fact I smoked more that night than any of the other officers combined (quite an achievement) or even the way I looked. Instead he will remember the sad and simple fact that I was the girl who needed him to think I looked nice.  That’s one hangover that isn’t worth the night before.

After consideration, I still don’t quite know what it is about me that made him think that. Maybe I just shouldn’t care so much.

The problem is, I never, ever want to project myself to the world in a way that shows people so blatantly that I was an awkward and insecure teen. And that maybe I still am. Not only that, but what does that say about the God I profess to love? Where does he fit into this pattern? Isn't he suppose to make me feel sexy? 

That sounds strange. 
But I know it shouldn't. 
 
The next time a stranger pays me an aesthetic compliment, I’ll take it with a pinch of salt.

Conclusion:

1)   Never trust the words of a drunk Leftennant you’ve just met.

2)   Discern insults and compliments in the same way.

3)   Lets all compliment each other more, so this will cease to be a dependency issue. If we take the power of the compliment back from those who abuse it, we will never trip again.

In Laws: Outlawed.

Everyone knows that they exist, and that they are scary. Some will be lucky and have nice, friendly, warm in-laws. In extremely rare and fortunate cases, people may even prefer their mother or father-in-law to their own. From my in-depth analysis (consisting of swapping horror stories about in-laws with other wives in pubs), I have deduced that these people are the exception, and in-laws from hell are the norm.

They are the high street, the Primark of the family world; what most of us will end up wearing, but not what we feel we really ‘deserve’ to be seen in. The nice in-laws are the Gucci of this familial domain, worn by the truly fortunate among us. They exist purely to make the rest of us jealous.

My own mother-in-law is rather like George from Asda. Our relationship didn’t exactly start out well. She could never understand the whole ‘young, Christian, abstinent’ thing. I swear she thought I was holding out on my husband to entrap him into marrying me. Sure. I’m a sexually manipulative goldigger. It’s what all the young girls in church are doing these days…It didn’t set things off for a good start.

When the wedding day finally came round she turned up late, making me wait in the car for a full 10 minutes. She scuttled down the aisle just before I did, in turn making everyone turn to see her (not me), and ruined what was suppose to be one of the most special moments of my life. People comment at weddings, that the groom’s face is worth a thousand words, my own groom was struggling not to turn around and scream at his mother. No amount of Italian silk, pearls or flowers could change that.

My mother in law is the kind of person who hints that I need a breast reduction, not only to me, or my husband, but also to my friends behind my back. She insisted on straightening my hair the first time she saw me wearing it curly, and meticulously corrects my speech. She is the kind of person who will try on my coat, shoes, hats and scarves (basically anything I leave lying around) and comment on how they don’t, in fact, ‘suit’ her. She is also the kind of person who measured the size of my feet to compare them to hers; this was done by making me stand on the kitchen table barefoot, and tracing around the shape of both of my feet. She also attempted to weigh me on holiday once. If you yawn in front of her, she will offer you Valium. In a nutshell, my mother-in-law is mad.

That being said, every cloud has a silver lining. Over the years I have discerned her madness from her method, her bark from her bite and have even grown to love her.  She has thickened every inch of my skin. She is a Cordon Bleu trained chef (good Sunday lunches), and, like me, she is slightly addicted to charity shops. This has resulted in me filling my martial home with everything from second hand silverware, to medicine cabinets, to sheets. She might be crazy, but that bitch has saved me thousands. Having my hair straightened whilst she wears my clothes is only a small price to pay I figure. I know underneath all the madness, she has always just wanted to connect with me, and longed to see me as the daughter she never had. So I play along, I cut her slack, who knows I could end up just like her one day....crazy, threatened, but bloody good at a Sunday roast.