I Can't Get No...Satisfaction

It was almost 5PM on December 30, 2006. It should have been dark, and yet the light looked like summertime. It reminded me of the light in LA right before night falls. It reminded me of how I so wanted to travel. Wouldn’t it be great I thought, if you could just keep on driving, off the island and on to another?

Sporadic holidays, however, were less of an option now than they would have been this time last year, when all that tied me to Dublin was a part-time job and…and then I realised—I had changed jobs on numerous occasions in the past year, I had changed some friends, I had even changed my drink—but I was still in the same relationship that I am in today. That had to mean something, but it did not signify the prime reason for my staying in Dublin...or did it?

Firstly there was college. I thought about how I talked my way into Journalism school, and how I wouldn’t be walking away from that until I was well and truly finished. I realised, I didn’t want to travel because I disliked my life in Dublin. I liked it a lot. I was studying one of my passions in college. I also had an unrealistically supportive family. Add to that a number of true, good friends and a significant other who appeared to want to share their future—or at least their twenties—with me. Isolating myself on the other side of the Atlantic right now seemed about as good timing as arriving first at your own birthday party.

Later that night, as I tossed and turned in bed, having indulged in too much mulled wine and O.C. DVDs, I had a realisation. What had excelled me in life in the past year was my dissatisfaction. Always believing that you must control what is in your hands, because there is so much that is out of your hands that cannot be controlled. That was practically my life motto. Dissatisfaction hadn’t upset me so much as driven me to going that extra mile in life. Travelling all those thousands of miles would just be another push I’d give myself.

“What else is there”, I wondered—the fault of a friend, a few years older than I—telling me to be careful about settling down so young. I knew, partly from some time spent on the other side of the pond, partly from the aforementioned over-indulging of The O.C.—that there were other people, other cultures, other friendships, other relationships—waiting to be discovered, experienced, and of course, written about.

But would everything still be waiting for me when I got back to my fair city? Would my significant other welcome me back with open arms and say, “I’m so glad you’re back”? I knew then that it was a chance I wasn’t willing to take - yet. Maybe in Summertime I'd be ready. Maybe I would be ready in a year’s time. Maybe I’d be ready at 25.

But when would I stop pushing, I had to wonder. When would I finally be satisfied? For once, I didn’t have the answers to my own questions, at least not yet. But someday, I would find them, whichever country they lay in.

The Nightmare Before Christmas

Like a relationship, your wardrobe often includes one key piece that keeps it all together - the glue, if you will. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the black blazer. On any given Saturday night, the black blazer can take you from "hell" to "hello" in a matter of minutes, with the search being called off for that finishing item of your outfit.

My black blazer, named YSL, short for Yves Saint Laurent, was one that I desperately tried not to rely on, for fear of its inevitable departure in the future. I alternated, between YSL, originally keeping it for significant events, to the more run-of-the-mill Zara tweed blazer, and sometimes, if I was tired of the sight of both, the reliable Navy Ralph.

My relationship with YSL, however, spiralled out of control before you could say "one of a kind". Soon, YSL and I were not only attending parties together, but also book launches, casual drinks and...GIGS. And like a relationship, when things are at the worst possible imaginable point, you expect, if it's going to end, it's going to end now, right? No. Not so.

YSL, I can assure you, was never left unattended at gigs. Never left over a seat at Landsdowne or sprawled along the grass at Phoenix Park. While I would happily subject my scruffy €45 denim jacket to this kind of treatment, YSL was worth more than that, not just in terms of money, but to me. I knew that it had a significant use, and while I didn't expect to take YSL out for all time, I certainly didn't forsee a parting in the near future.

Just like any significant other, an evening on the tiles can be unpredictable. When I agreed to meet a bunch of guys at a hotel bar in town for drinks, I didn't realise I was in turn agreeing to parttake in what would become "the night I lost YSL". It started like any other Saturday night. A couple of glasses of wine, relaxed house music, and catching up on the "who's who and what's new" front.

Of course, in today's world, or at least in Dublin, there are a variety of things to make and do, and we are not the kind to sit around for long without wanting to move on. Two hours later, at a late bar, with two more glasses of wine, I decided, it was indeed time that I took a trip to the little boys room. As we all know, sometimes, events aren't suitable for even our nearest and dearest, and so we have to go it alone.

On this occasion, I somehow felt that in the company of my guy friends, YSL would hardly notice my 3-minute disappearance. Unfortunately for me, I learned my lesson the hard way. No matter how attentive you are to your dearest, the minute you take your attention elsewhere, someone else is waiting to step in and wear what once belonged to you.

On my return from the little boys room, I discovered that without notice, my YSL blazer had left the building. Like those before it, it had moved on to new places, possibly in Dublin, possibly some place else. I would never know. And like those before it, not knowing was the hardest part.

Style This Season: Sincerity Out, Strategy In

Being pulled from the rails this season, it seems, is one very important and underrated piece in anyone’s life wardrobe: sincerity, and in it’s place, unashamedly hangs strategy, being snapped up not just by Dubliners, but by once independent men and women around the world.

I sometimes wonder what life was like before relationships played a role. I thought about how people go from being together in love, to being separate in life. And then it came—the realisation—I may well be suffering from a case of co-dependency.

The condition it seems, is rapidly spreading through Dublin, and yet when inspected closer, an underlying issue can often be revealed.

We all have needs, and it’s perfectly acceptable for us to go about fulfilling these, but I was alarmed to find that like in our career path, there are people who go about fulfilling their needs by methods of applying a formula to their significant other.

In relationships, and in life, there’s the type of person who listens, and then there’s the person who listens and at the same time thinks about how what they’re hearing affects themselves.

Selfish…or strategic? Perhaps it is both. In a business situation, this trait is one that will help you get ahead of your game, considering the impact of an occurrence on ourselves, and how we can use it to advantage us.

In a relationship, the art of being self-centred is far less desirable to potential significant others. The question we must ask ourselves is: “are we really listening at all?”

It isn’t all bad news though, the followers of this trend do give something back – they enquire about your feelings. But is this enquiry sincere, I wondered, and will your reply be used positively? Surely giving feedback in a relationship is no different to giving feedback to your bank? If you know it's not going to be taken onboard, surely you're wasting your precious time.

People, who feel the need to be overly vocal of their feelings, feel less convinced of the message they’re trying to sell to you than someone who doesn’t go to great lengths. This is a belief I can understand. Surely, where feelings are concerned, it's more a case time for “A little less conversation…”

I found myself with my analytical friend Roisin, discussing insincerity over coffees before 12 in the afternoon. This I thought surely makes me a crazy person. Apparently though, I am not the only one who has these type thoughts. Should you rely on your gut feeling when it comes to the sincerity of someone, I questioned. On past experiences alone, I regret to say, sometimes, it is safer to judge a book by its cover, contrary to popular belief.

If, like the “I’m listening but it’s about me” formula, this need advertising is used for self-building purposes, enabling you to be used purely—if lovingly—as a building block for significant other’s goal life, then surely it is not you that is being treasured, but instead what you represent to significant other.

All of this over-selling of feelings and need talk could only lead to bad things, I thought, ultimately leaving you too co-dependant, thinking that as well as air, water and a little bit of food, you need love—or at least a purpose-built relationship—to live.

Coffee & Monogamy

Now don't get me wrong, I like Starbucks as much as the next coffee-lover, but it is with the Irish-owned Butlers Chocolate Cafe I am having what you could call a long-standing love affair.

The affair had started long before Starbucks moved into Dublin, and whilst the latter had plenty to offer that didn't exist at the former, I had already very much settled in my relationship with Butlers, and found that its small, less-corporate, homely feel was definitely enough to keep me there.

Like any live-in lover, I see Mr or Ms Butler every morning before anyone else, and like any lover worth their salt, my coffee comes not too quickly, so as to let me enjoy the experience of waiting, watching the journey it makes, and most importantly, it comes with chocolate.

The unfortunate part of my affair, I hesitate to say, is the price that I must pay before I've even taken a sip. And sure, it's only €260, but like relationships, coffee is addictive, and "every little helps" as Tesco says -- or something like that. The consolation to this, absent at some other coffee institutions, is my loyalty card. In relationships, a loyalty card would surely increase chances of monogamous behaviour, given that there's an incentive not to shop around and miss out on a stamp, or a hole, as is the case with a cafe in Dublin 6 I won't namecheck.

What if, like after seven cups of coffee, after seven sessions of steam, you were to recieve a free session? Free, you might say, is the availability of your significant other on all occasions. But, boundaries exist, surely, unless it is a case you've got yourself hooked up with Mr or Ms Open-to-suggestion. What if, I wondered, the eighth session, just like the eighth cup, was laid out on a plate, with extra options. Say, for instance, "Would you like an extra shot or perhaps some cream?"

As I strolled through my day of successes and stresses, all seeming relevant and monumental at the time, when in fact they are the most minut of details, I had to wonder, why is it that I give in to doing it twice -- as in drinking that second cup of Butlers before I leave the city. Is it because I need to see the familiar face who's still present and pleasant since my morning visit, like a lover on significant other's return from work, is it that I need a hit of espresso, or is it simply the old concept of "you're the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last at night"?

I had one final thought: which party would distribute this loyalty card in a relationship? And who would be the holder? It all boils down to one thing: Who runs the coffee shop in your relationship?

Without Good Reason

As I stepped off the Luas and on to the pavement outside St Stephen's Green, I began to think about the year gone by. So much had occured that had affected me I thought, and yet it all felt somewhat one year behind schedule.

My year out consisted of creating career options and dismissing them, finally realising that there were only two real options - to write songs, or to write period. Either way it wouldn't matter. Either way the final quarter of this year had seen my work released in both forms.

Time however, seemed to be something that I had not yet grasped nor accepted. I often feel like Hugh Grant in About A Boy, dividing my day into segments. Half hour coffee break, fifteen minutes to read Music Week, ten minutes to read the sport, approximately 16 hours to think. I find that when I don't engage in my daily rituals, my balance is entirely offset.

As I wandered through a Christmas-lit Grafton Street, I realised that in the past year intimacy had been limited to one person. Though had it not been, would it have been so-called? This was true, valid intimacy. Sure, mistakes had been made, but nothing that couldn't be solved by 20 seconds of eye contact, 20 minutes of chat and 20 further minutes of passion.

"Are you sure it's passion?", a friend debated recently when speaking of heated relationships. The question could surely be answered effectively by a quick visit to my word-bank. Search: problem or passion? Resulting terms: Most Definitely Passion.

The problem, in reality, had been pretty much immediate. I entered into what I felt was an immediate rebound. So did I sabotage my previous relationship to be with this apparant rebounder, I wondered. Or is that total bullshit?

I didn't know, but as a I stepped on to the bus home, with my rain-drenched everything and my once white socks now brown from the dye of my decks, I was sure of one thing - the certainty that no matter what problems existed in life or in love, I had never been the kind of guy to let go without good reason, even if that did mean being a full year behind schedule.

The Perfect Fit

When sometimes you feel that things aren't right in a relationship, you don't say a thing, and yet when things are fantastic, you cannot help but vocalize your feelings. I had to wonder, when we already know ourselves, who are we hiding our negative feelings from, and why?

BT say it's good to talk, and they're right. Prepare yourself for the worst, and then you will find that you care less about what you're about to tell Beloved, because deep down you know, if it's over, it's over.

In my case, in my most recent relationship, yes, a real actual relationship (I tell you all that I'm single to make myself appear more sexually available, may repeat in future), I had questions from day one. Before I properly got together with Beloved, it was the first official, third unofficial date. The "make or break" date. Dinner, pleasantries.

I told myself break. And then I couldn't help but ask myself, why do we feel the need to pigeonhole ourselves into dating one genre of girl or guy? What I'm saying is not 'you can't have a type', but if your type isn't working, does that mean you need to change your type, or indeed is it that you haven't found 'the one' within your type? We could analyse this to death, and perhaps, that is the real problem. We are so specific about finding the perfect fit.

We only have to look at the rest of our lives to realise this is true. Your morning coffee - applicable. Look at the menu in Starbucks - there is endless amounts of choice. Will you be having Grande or Tall? Full Fat or Non Fat? Caff or Decaff? And that's just the beginining.

Shopping for clothes - applicable. Whatever happened to sizes S, M & L, and their true meanings. Now we have XXS, XS, S, M, L, XXL, XXXL, and yet most are afraid to venture below S or beyond L. Eleanor Goggin, an Irish columnist, was in a hip Irish boutique when she emerged from the fitting room, contained a little too tightly in a size L top.

"Have you got this in a bigger size?", she asked the salesperson. "XXL, you mean", salesperson roared. Here we have a prime example of embarrassment and shame, because it is outside of the 'acceptable box', which when you think about it, isn't too far away from your Unsuitable Beloved according to your friends, who "know you better than anyone".

Maybe, like the 32" trousers on my 31" waist, some things don't fit perfectly, but it doesn't mean that you can't go on until you've either lost or gained an extra inch. And when you eventually do, I can tell you almost for sure, you still won't want to part with your Beloved.