I am an emotional person. I'm a sucker for that cleansed feeling you get after a good hard crying session, the kind where you can hardly breathe and reams of snot stream from your nose. Sometimes I muse fondly that this intimate acquaintance with my own emotions should qualify me as a superior kind of confidante, the ideal shoulder for my friends to cry on. But it doesn't really work like that.
I think being the kind of person other people like to tell their secrets to has little to do with the type of reaction they think they will get. Sure, my friends know that I'll empathise with whatever's bothering them. They know I will offer hugs and muffins and stroke their ego all they want. But most of the time the urge to confess something is not a rationalised action, It's an impulse, an overpowering urge to unburden some of that grubby knowledge that's been clawing at you from the inside.
So it's partly to do with being there, presence alone enough to persuade someone who wants to spill that you are the one to spill to. But the quality people respond to more often is a kind of ability to invite speech through silence. Therapists use this, and cops, and maybe good friends too. My friend Alan probably knows way more about me than he ever wanted to because he is adept at this, at quietly giving the impression that you can just go ahead and say whatever the hell you want to because whatever it is he'll listen and probably understand too.
As a shy person, this quality destroys my limites reserves of self-restraint. It makes me fizz over. Anyone with a tendancy to be more quiet than otherwise will tell you how exhausting it can be to be around people who would rather talk than wait in silence for you to speak. It is rare and almost exhilerating to be around someone who just waits to hear what you have to say. This silence has an intoxicating effect on me. The knowledge that the listener will hear anything, that of all the things you could say, they'll listen to it all...
This is why two years ago when nobody knew why there were a pair of pants in the communal hallway of our building, Alan knew. This is why me writing "Playground, wink wink' will mean nothing to anyone but him. The ability to listen well is why I told him these things. Perhaps more important though, is that Alan also has the ability to go on keeping his mouth shut, which is why he'll stay a good friend.
December 17, 2008
December 13, 2008
Nothing.
I have bad days and good days. This is true of everyone but what we think of as a bad day might be different.
A bad day for me can only be described in terms borrowed from science fiction. Waking up on a bad day is like lurching into a different world, one with a hostile atmosphere. The air is difficult to breathe. Familiar shapes appear distorted. Everything is tinged darker, everyone seems shrill.
It is difficult to talk to people because they seem to occupy a different universe in which things are funny, in which things make sense. Anyway, my mind seems to be a beat behind everyone elses, so it is easier to keep quiet.
Keeping quiet usually does not help though. The worst part of a bad day is the feeling of being displaced, of floating through the world without making any mark on it. Of being disposable. Just nothing.
This is what a bad day is like. But the trick is, you live it, and then eventually there is a good day. So in the end, not much different from anyone else's bad days really.
A bad day for me can only be described in terms borrowed from science fiction. Waking up on a bad day is like lurching into a different world, one with a hostile atmosphere. The air is difficult to breathe. Familiar shapes appear distorted. Everything is tinged darker, everyone seems shrill.
It is difficult to talk to people because they seem to occupy a different universe in which things are funny, in which things make sense. Anyway, my mind seems to be a beat behind everyone elses, so it is easier to keep quiet.
Keeping quiet usually does not help though. The worst part of a bad day is the feeling of being displaced, of floating through the world without making any mark on it. Of being disposable. Just nothing.
This is what a bad day is like. But the trick is, you live it, and then eventually there is a good day. So in the end, not much different from anyone else's bad days really.
Book review: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
By the author of The Virgin Suicides, this novel deals with the Stephanides family, their move from Greece to America, and the descent down the family tree of the mutated gene which results in the narrator being born an intersex child. (One with ambiguous genitalia.)
It is an epic book, which aims to present a sweeping picture of not only one family's history but also of contemporary American history. For me, the parts of the book that dealt in detail with historical events were the least gripping of an undeniably compelling story. In a different book, I would probably have had more patience for them, but the bits of Middlesex involving instead the intersex narrator Calliope were just so fascinating in comparison. The novel did seem a bit unbalanced in this respect.
However, I should qualify this by saying that I read the last 200 pages or so in a compulsive rush between 1 and 4am last night, so it would be pretty unfair to call any part of the book boring. It dealt quite extensively with the scientific and genetic issues connected to being intersex, as well as the history of the condition. It was not a text which offered any simplistic answers to the complex questions many intersex people and their parents must deal with.
I really enjoyed Middlesex, but I finished it wanting to know more about the narrator's adulthood and future, and about being intersex in today's society. I'm kind of split about this though, because more focus on these things might have made the book less an intelligent exploration of the history of America, its immigrants and the hermaphrodite gene and more of a voyeuristic study. Either way, I'd definitely recommend it - smart, compelling and thought-provoking.
It is an epic book, which aims to present a sweeping picture of not only one family's history but also of contemporary American history. For me, the parts of the book that dealt in detail with historical events were the least gripping of an undeniably compelling story. In a different book, I would probably have had more patience for them, but the bits of Middlesex involving instead the intersex narrator Calliope were just so fascinating in comparison. The novel did seem a bit unbalanced in this respect.
However, I should qualify this by saying that I read the last 200 pages or so in a compulsive rush between 1 and 4am last night, so it would be pretty unfair to call any part of the book boring. It dealt quite extensively with the scientific and genetic issues connected to being intersex, as well as the history of the condition. It was not a text which offered any simplistic answers to the complex questions many intersex people and their parents must deal with.
I really enjoyed Middlesex, but I finished it wanting to know more about the narrator's adulthood and future, and about being intersex in today's society. I'm kind of split about this though, because more focus on these things might have made the book less an intelligent exploration of the history of America, its immigrants and the hermaphrodite gene and more of a voyeuristic study. Either way, I'd definitely recommend it - smart, compelling and thought-provoking.
December 12, 2008
Dissertation on Boots. Skip if you're a heterosexual male without a shoe fetish.
I need to talk to you about my relationship with boots. I don't know what's going on with us. (We'd be an 'it's complicated' on facebook). Everyone thinks we're so right for each other, but I'm still not convinced. Sometimes, I look at boots, and I just think, what is wrong with you? Sure, you might call no heel sensible but I call it boring. This might sound harsh, but there's just no sex appeal. I miss high heels. I know, I know - they treated me badly, my feet are still recovering, but hell, we had some wild times together! Don't get me started on flats. Total downgrade - my calves have never looked so chunky as when we were hooking up.
So. (Dropping the metaphor - think I sucked that one dry.) Ella loves boots. This is a passion that extends even to Uggs. (I know.) I just feel so meh towards them. Look, heels and me go back a long way. (Fun fact: me and my sisters called them cockles when we were little! because of the sound! I don't think I really thought about them as high heels until I was about...12 maybe?) Since the age of 16 I've worn high heels whenever possible. To school, despite a twenty minute walk. Shopping. To uni, despite a thirty minute walk. Out, obviously. To the pub, the park, etc etc. I actually find most heels really comfy, which is probably because all of mine are slightly too big lengthwise because I'm around a 5 and a half in length but definitely a 6 in width. (There is always that slight risk of them slipping off at any given time though.)
Heels are so pretty. And they make me feel good. I love the way you walk in heels, there's something so Joan Holloway about it. (watch Mad Men!) But. I have -reluctantly - been brought to see that heels may not always be the absolute most practical footwear choice. Perhaps. It is more effort to walk up hills in them. And when the ground is icy they can slip. And you do have to reheel them often if you wear them everywhere every day. And I'm skint. So I tried flats. I really did try. I like sneakers, but ballet shoes are just so - blah. Just - blah and bleugh and boring. Boots are better because some of them come with heels. But then see aforementioned heel issues.
Flat boots come with their own set of problems though. I will not wear ankle boots after an incident involving them, me, a mirror and a mini-skirt seven years ago. The pain has still not gone away. Moon boots are clumpy. They make me think of foresters. Other boots are too shiny, too brown, too stripperish, too hipsterish or just plain wrong. But boots do look good with skirts. Or jeans tucked in. It is undeniable a skirt, tights and boots looks like more of an outfit than a skirt, tights and flats.
I used to own a pair of ugly flat boots from Primark. I wore them till they literally fell apart. Then I missed owning boots. So I started the search for a new pair which preferably would not make me vomit in my mouth. I bought these ones:
So. (Dropping the metaphor - think I sucked that one dry.) Ella loves boots. This is a passion that extends even to Uggs. (I know.) I just feel so meh towards them. Look, heels and me go back a long way. (Fun fact: me and my sisters called them cockles when we were little! because of the sound! I don't think I really thought about them as high heels until I was about...12 maybe?) Since the age of 16 I've worn high heels whenever possible. To school, despite a twenty minute walk. Shopping. To uni, despite a thirty minute walk. Out, obviously. To the pub, the park, etc etc. I actually find most heels really comfy, which is probably because all of mine are slightly too big lengthwise because I'm around a 5 and a half in length but definitely a 6 in width. (There is always that slight risk of them slipping off at any given time though.)
Heels are so pretty. And they make me feel good. I love the way you walk in heels, there's something so Joan Holloway about it. (watch Mad Men!) But. I have -reluctantly - been brought to see that heels may not always be the absolute most practical footwear choice. Perhaps. It is more effort to walk up hills in them. And when the ground is icy they can slip. And you do have to reheel them often if you wear them everywhere every day. And I'm skint. So I tried flats. I really did try. I like sneakers, but ballet shoes are just so - blah. Just - blah and bleugh and boring. Boots are better because some of them come with heels. But then see aforementioned heel issues.
Flat boots come with their own set of problems though. I will not wear ankle boots after an incident involving them, me, a mirror and a mini-skirt seven years ago. The pain has still not gone away. Moon boots are clumpy. They make me think of foresters. Other boots are too shiny, too brown, too stripperish, too hipsterish or just plain wrong. But boots do look good with skirts. Or jeans tucked in. It is undeniable a skirt, tights and boots looks like more of an outfit than a skirt, tights and flats.
I used to own a pair of ugly flat boots from Primark. I wore them till they literally fell apart. Then I missed owning boots. So I started the search for a new pair which preferably would not make me vomit in my mouth. I bought these ones:
I didn't entirely hate them and they were reduced. Then they came and I kinda did hate them after all. But! This long boring story is coming to a happy ending! I wore them out. And wow. These boots and me...we're in love. They're so easy to walk in! So functional! Yet the little heel lets you strut to your heart's content! And, oh my good god, the way these boots feel inside...They're lined with some kind of soft plushy cushiony goodness and they're a teensy bit too big so my legs are constantly being caressed by the sides, and it's just...wow.
Do you think this is the deal with crocs? Maybe, just maybe, they feel as good as these boots do. Because, that? Is enough to justify a whole heap of ugliness as far as I'm concerned.
December 11, 2008
My personal ode to carbs
Full disclosure: I do not have many close male friends. To be exact, I have two. (Three if you count my boyfriend! But I'm guessing the whole sexy times part disqualifies him, yes?) Once, I had another good male friend but then I ruined it by gunning for sexy times. (Pre-boyfriend era.) (Also: eww, why do I keep saying sexy times?)
The absence of testosteronally blessed figures in my life doesn't really bother me; overall, I like being friends with girls. There's a kind of shared perspective I think I have with my female friends. Sure, we might have completely different interests, ambitions and attitudes to life, but hey, don't underestimate the bond that can come from shared terror of shitting yourself in childbirth.
So yeah, to sum up, friendships with girls? Good. Some of the things that come with them? Not so good. ***Disclaimer: What is to follow, I do not intend as some sort of sweeping generalisation about women in general. This is based entirely on my own no doubt effed-up experiences.***
Let's talk about female friendships and food. Watching my mum as I grew up, I learned to see food as something to sneak in furtive forkfuls then feel guilty about. Exercise was the means to stave off fat. Fat was the worst label you could attribute to a woman. I do not blame my mum for the way I felt about food and my body. She was, and is, merciless to herself where body image is concerned, but she never once implied that my sisters and I were anything less than beautiful.
But just about every friendship with a girl I've had has involved some sadistic element of competition where eating is concerned. I've run the whole gamut, baby; I've had friends who can't eat unless you are, friends who gloat when they lose half a pound, friends who remark as you eat popcorn that they couldn't possibly, it makes them so bloated. I've had conversations devolve to competitive self-hatred, fighting over who needs to lose more weight, who feels more disgusted when looking in the mirror. I'm so tired of the obligatory show of guilt some girls put on after eating something unhealthy. I'm tired of listening to girls hate on other girls just because they're skinnier. (Seriously, just hate them cos of their clothes like any normal person). These are not girls with eating disorders, (although maybe disordered eating) these are attractive, intelligent women who need to stop obsessing over food.
My friend Ella is the exception to this. I've lived with her for three years now and I think she single-handedly saved me from combining my body issues with my control issues and taking that whole mess to dark, dark places. We have a running joke about how the perfect meal would just be a big bowl of every type of carbs, although obv, mainly pasta and potatoes. We've never once in three years said anything really negative about our own bodies to each other. We joke about looking like death all the time, but I know she would just stare at me with contempt if I started talking about dieting. Because it is just so boring listening to somebody healthy moaning about their weight when you could be talking about Ed Westwick or boots or Hollyoaks. Or, you know, eating.
I know for most people this stuff is obvious, but when I met Ella it really was a revelation to me that anyone could be so confident and completely unfazed by any kind of worries about this stuff. And I know that if one of us really did need to lose weight we would support each other but we would also probably still joke about it and talk about living off carbs and carbs alone.
We're not going to be living together any more after June and I'm scared. It's taken me 21 years to get to a place of inner calm with my body and now I'm going to be on my own again without my Zen master around. So! This is a question for all twenty-something women in Scotland - can we be friends without our feelings towards food coming between us?
The absence of testosteronally blessed figures in my life doesn't really bother me; overall, I like being friends with girls. There's a kind of shared perspective I think I have with my female friends. Sure, we might have completely different interests, ambitions and attitudes to life, but hey, don't underestimate the bond that can come from shared terror of shitting yourself in childbirth.
So yeah, to sum up, friendships with girls? Good. Some of the things that come with them? Not so good. ***Disclaimer: What is to follow, I do not intend as some sort of sweeping generalisation about women in general. This is based entirely on my own no doubt effed-up experiences.***
Let's talk about female friendships and food. Watching my mum as I grew up, I learned to see food as something to sneak in furtive forkfuls then feel guilty about. Exercise was the means to stave off fat. Fat was the worst label you could attribute to a woman. I do not blame my mum for the way I felt about food and my body. She was, and is, merciless to herself where body image is concerned, but she never once implied that my sisters and I were anything less than beautiful.
But just about every friendship with a girl I've had has involved some sadistic element of competition where eating is concerned. I've run the whole gamut, baby; I've had friends who can't eat unless you are, friends who gloat when they lose half a pound, friends who remark as you eat popcorn that they couldn't possibly, it makes them so bloated. I've had conversations devolve to competitive self-hatred, fighting over who needs to lose more weight, who feels more disgusted when looking in the mirror. I'm so tired of the obligatory show of guilt some girls put on after eating something unhealthy. I'm tired of listening to girls hate on other girls just because they're skinnier. (Seriously, just hate them cos of their clothes like any normal person). These are not girls with eating disorders, (although maybe disordered eating) these are attractive, intelligent women who need to stop obsessing over food.
My friend Ella is the exception to this. I've lived with her for three years now and I think she single-handedly saved me from combining my body issues with my control issues and taking that whole mess to dark, dark places. We have a running joke about how the perfect meal would just be a big bowl of every type of carbs, although obv, mainly pasta and potatoes. We've never once in three years said anything really negative about our own bodies to each other. We joke about looking like death all the time, but I know she would just stare at me with contempt if I started talking about dieting. Because it is just so boring listening to somebody healthy moaning about their weight when you could be talking about Ed Westwick or boots or Hollyoaks. Or, you know, eating.
I know for most people this stuff is obvious, but when I met Ella it really was a revelation to me that anyone could be so confident and completely unfazed by any kind of worries about this stuff. And I know that if one of us really did need to lose weight we would support each other but we would also probably still joke about it and talk about living off carbs and carbs alone.
We're not going to be living together any more after June and I'm scared. It's taken me 21 years to get to a place of inner calm with my body and now I'm going to be on my own again without my Zen master around. So! This is a question for all twenty-something women in Scotland - can we be friends without our feelings towards food coming between us?
December 04, 2008
That's what he said
Overheard today:
1st Guy - " So do you think you'll, like, hang out with her again?"
2nd Guy: "Nah, I mean, when she said that one thing she just sounded so much like my mum..."
1st Guy - " So do you think you'll, like, hang out with her again?"
2nd Guy: "Nah, I mean, when she said that one thing she just sounded so much like my mum..."
December 02, 2008
Fluids and failures
Yesterday was a day which seemed designed to demonstrate in a myriad of increasingly humiliating ways why I shouldn't be allowed to leave the house, ever.
After waking up at eleven and having my customary two hour breakfast in bed (fifteen minutes to eat my toast, 1 hour 45 to drink my coffee) (mornings make me grumpy, so I think it's important to delay getting up for as long as humanly possible to optimise my mood for the day ahead) I trotted along to the library prepared for at least one to two hours of gruelling studying.
The first sign of my abysmal lack of even the basic qualities required for mingling with other human beings came when I noticed a large and inderminate stain on my jeans. It had the consistency of a thick paste, could not be rubbed off and was whitish-brown in colour. Closer inspection revealed it was in fact the last existing remnants of a banana. (Note - this was not even a banana I had eaten earlier that day. I don't really like bananas but sometimes I feel compelled to buy them because my mum tells me to. So I bought it, then didn't eat it, then left it lying around my bedroom for a day or two until it rotted and split open before somehow transferring its gummy residue to the thigh area of my favourite jeans.) (I've chucked it out now.)
I shrugged this discovery off, being used to a lifetime of presenting a sub-par appearance to the world, and found a desk in the library. The next sign came when I delved into my bag to get my notebook. The hand I removed was slick and glistening. About this time, I also became aware of a vague odour of...fish. It was strong and unmistakeable, and coming from my bag. The mackeral salad (drenched in olive oil) I had lovingly and a little smugly prepared that morning had leaked its liquid contents from its tupperware container over the bottom of my bag. The container itself was wet all over with fishy juices, so I opted to save my bag from further damage by moving it to my desk, where it emitted wafts of mackeral scented air which hovered in a thick and sickening cloud over my head. I was Fish Girl. Passers-by sprinted from my desk, trying in vain to suppress their nausea. The seat next to me had a turnover rate of 60 students a minute. I was as much of a pariah as it is possible to be in a library already filled with geeks.
The denoument of my day however, the real cherry on the pile of shit, came at a later stage. Leaving my fishy belongings behind, I had gone to seek out some books for an essay due next week. I was trying furiously to not be anxious, a challenging task when most of the books I needed had already been taken out, and had about fifty million holds on them. (Yes, I know I shouldn't leave things to the last minute. Now stop lecturing me and go back and look at the title of this post.) I got to the film noir section, but a vaguely familiar looking girl was blocking the shelf I wanted to get to, reading the contents list of one of the very books I wanted. As I stared at her in a vain attempt at mind control, she turned to me with a smile, and said "Hey, how're you doing?" And I grunted. Although a grunt doesn't accurately describe the sound I made, which in reality was like the deformed love-child of a grunt, a snuffle and a snigger. It was not attractive. It was not cool. It was the sound of somebody failing epically at the business of social interactions. The thing was, I did not have a clue who this very friendly girl was, and frankly at that moment in time I was more focussed on the book she was holding. That book, I was convinced was the Key to my academic success. That book was all that was standing between me and flunking out of uni. It all came down to That Book. And as I watched, she responded to my grunt by walking away, still holding the book.
I slunk out of the library shortly after that, bookless but stuffed to the gills with Omega-3. I realised today that the friendly, book-stealing girl is someone I have sat a few rows away from in my film noir class for the last ten weeks. And actually spoken to several times. Ah well, another fledgling friendship shot down before it ever took off.
After waking up at eleven and having my customary two hour breakfast in bed (fifteen minutes to eat my toast, 1 hour 45 to drink my coffee) (mornings make me grumpy, so I think it's important to delay getting up for as long as humanly possible to optimise my mood for the day ahead) I trotted along to the library prepared for at least one to two hours of gruelling studying.
The first sign of my abysmal lack of even the basic qualities required for mingling with other human beings came when I noticed a large and inderminate stain on my jeans. It had the consistency of a thick paste, could not be rubbed off and was whitish-brown in colour. Closer inspection revealed it was in fact the last existing remnants of a banana. (Note - this was not even a banana I had eaten earlier that day. I don't really like bananas but sometimes I feel compelled to buy them because my mum tells me to. So I bought it, then didn't eat it, then left it lying around my bedroom for a day or two until it rotted and split open before somehow transferring its gummy residue to the thigh area of my favourite jeans.) (I've chucked it out now.)
I shrugged this discovery off, being used to a lifetime of presenting a sub-par appearance to the world, and found a desk in the library. The next sign came when I delved into my bag to get my notebook. The hand I removed was slick and glistening. About this time, I also became aware of a vague odour of...fish. It was strong and unmistakeable, and coming from my bag. The mackeral salad (drenched in olive oil) I had lovingly and a little smugly prepared that morning had leaked its liquid contents from its tupperware container over the bottom of my bag. The container itself was wet all over with fishy juices, so I opted to save my bag from further damage by moving it to my desk, where it emitted wafts of mackeral scented air which hovered in a thick and sickening cloud over my head. I was Fish Girl. Passers-by sprinted from my desk, trying in vain to suppress their nausea. The seat next to me had a turnover rate of 60 students a minute. I was as much of a pariah as it is possible to be in a library already filled with geeks.
The denoument of my day however, the real cherry on the pile of shit, came at a later stage. Leaving my fishy belongings behind, I had gone to seek out some books for an essay due next week. I was trying furiously to not be anxious, a challenging task when most of the books I needed had already been taken out, and had about fifty million holds on them. (Yes, I know I shouldn't leave things to the last minute. Now stop lecturing me and go back and look at the title of this post.) I got to the film noir section, but a vaguely familiar looking girl was blocking the shelf I wanted to get to, reading the contents list of one of the very books I wanted. As I stared at her in a vain attempt at mind control, she turned to me with a smile, and said "Hey, how're you doing?" And I grunted. Although a grunt doesn't accurately describe the sound I made, which in reality was like the deformed love-child of a grunt, a snuffle and a snigger. It was not attractive. It was not cool. It was the sound of somebody failing epically at the business of social interactions. The thing was, I did not have a clue who this very friendly girl was, and frankly at that moment in time I was more focussed on the book she was holding. That book, I was convinced was the Key to my academic success. That book was all that was standing between me and flunking out of uni. It all came down to That Book. And as I watched, she responded to my grunt by walking away, still holding the book.
I slunk out of the library shortly after that, bookless but stuffed to the gills with Omega-3. I realised today that the friendly, book-stealing girl is someone I have sat a few rows away from in my film noir class for the last ten weeks. And actually spoken to several times. Ah well, another fledgling friendship shot down before it ever took off.
November 27, 2008
Boobs, Seepage, Angst
***Disclaimer: This post may not be suitable for parents or siblings. Proceed at your own risk!***
Umm....
One of list of side effects in birth control packet:
your breasts may feel tender, painful or they may get slightly larger OR OOZE A LITTLE MILK.
I was not warned of this. Seriously, people? THIS HAPPENS? To the childless? Wow. (And by the way guys, the correct response when your girlfriend tells you about this is NOT "Hot." Yes, I am fully aware that it is a natural process, and I am completely down with that, but that does not mean I'm ready to accept the idea that my boyfriend has a breast milk fetish.) (He doesn't though. Right? RIGHT?)
Umm....
One of list of side effects in birth control packet:
your breasts may feel tender, painful or they may get slightly larger OR OOZE A LITTLE MILK.
I was not warned of this. Seriously, people? THIS HAPPENS? To the childless? Wow. (And by the way guys, the correct response when your girlfriend tells you about this is NOT "Hot." Yes, I am fully aware that it is a natural process, and I am completely down with that, but that does not mean I'm ready to accept the idea that my boyfriend has a breast milk fetish.) (He doesn't though. Right? RIGHT?)
November 26, 2008
Living your life through others, or, why my friends shouldn't be allowed to date
Last night my friend Will went on a date. This was a Major Event in my life for several reasons, none of which remotely justify the amount of squeeing that went on in our flat before he left to go on said date, and all of which are incredibly selfish.
Reason the first:
Dating is just not a very Scottish thing. As a nation, we tend not to have the necessary finesse to handle the portion of the evening which is usually meant to consist of civilized small-talk, and prefer to progress to just getting shit-faced together.
Reason the second:
Will totally got this date by going up to a stranger and asking him out. I know. It blew my mind too. People actually have the balls to do that? People I know? Wow, I really need to work on elevating my social skills.
Reason the third:
I have been in the same relationship for more than three years. The thought of dating scares the crap out of me.
Reason the first:
Dating is just not a very Scottish thing. As a nation, we tend not to have the necessary finesse to handle the portion of the evening which is usually meant to consist of civilized small-talk, and prefer to progress to just getting shit-faced together.
Reason the second:
Will totally got this date by going up to a stranger and asking him out. I know. It blew my mind too. People actually have the balls to do that? People I know? Wow, I really need to work on elevating my social skills.
Reason the third:
I have been in the same relationship for more than three years. The thought of dating scares the crap out of me.
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