Say No to Joint Savings

“You have to be a cynic to be a journalist”. So said George Hook, in his raspy tone, during a talk to a group of journalism and public relations students in Dublin last week.

The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.

“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.

Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.

I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.

Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.

They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.

One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.

And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.

Good Conversation With Strangers

Recently, after more than two and a half years in a relationship, the lid was lifted on the box that had safely contained me for the duration.

I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.

What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.

Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.

My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.

I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.

Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.

Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.

My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.

I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.

It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.

Change of Character

Have you ever taken a long hard look at yourself and realised in one profound moment that you are not at all who you thought that you were?

I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.

This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.

I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.

My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.

It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.

Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.

Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.

Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.

But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.

The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.

There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.

Textual Assault

Why do we have to live in a society where our every move is broken down, scrutinized, and decided upon as being acceptable or unacceptable?

I’ve chosen to advocate this concept, you might say, like the unacknowledged choice to become popular and endorse popular kids rules and regulations, and so I deserve everything I get, right? We’re not kids anymore though, and really, shouldn’t we have moved on by now?

When is it that we’re allowed to stop playing silly games and start to favor clever adult life? We’re in our twenties. This is our prime. This is our prime and we know it. We have chosen to carry on like Californian Valley kids, despite the fact that this--Dublin--is not the real Orange County. It’s not even close.

There may be faux Valley-girl accents and fake bake, and there may be upper crust surfer dude slurs and slang, but the fact of the matter is, this is as close to resemblance as we’re getting to our buffed-up Aberzombies across the Atlantic.

Dating is complicated, not dating even more so. So is it any wonder we’ve been sent into a frenzy, trying to get things in order by deciding on what can be done in the dating world, and what cannot. The first impression is important, of course, but so too is the second.

Let’s be hypothetical. We’ve exchanged phone numbers. “Digits”, in Valley-speak. There has been text-based communication. “Which college do you go to?” is either a polite--although surely it’s unlikely politeness exists within these circles--“I’m not that interested in you as a potential lover” or maybe, one would hope, it is just another way of determining your status before any further action is taken. They say 30-something's want a HIV-test and an ATM receipt before they agree on a second date, maybe 20’s somethings just need to know the educational institution you attend.

So what happens then, when there is a drop off in text conversation? Is it socially acceptable for he or she at the would-be receiving end to text twice in a row? Is it as Valley guys would say, “liable of landing you in a court room for Textual Assault”?

Surely not! What if, you’ve already opened the deal with a kiss or three? This defines the shared human relationship as “kissing”, Valley-talk for the phase where you are not quite “seeing” someone, nor are you friends.

The nerds--I mean, smart kids--always did say that they would be winners one day. The popular kids laughed in their faces. And maybe they were right. Maybe they’ve paired off, lost the puppy fat, and are today laugh-snorting into their Star Trek lunch boxes at the expense of the petty preppies.

For it is the preppies that established this dating code, and have failed to update the rulebook. Playing by the rules of a school kid in your twenties just isn’t going to fly. At least it isn’t my belief that this can be the foundation of a serious relationship.

So unless there’s a textbook-type out there willing to have you--if only for research purposes--you’re looking at 30-40 years of hardcore game-play.

The Hours of Desire

It was a Sunday morning and I was walking along Grafton Street. The weather was cold. Wet and cold. There was a frost air that I considered confirmation that October had arrived.

There were many matters to be attended to. There was the college assignment, there was the research. There was the fact that I had not been to the gym or played sports of any kind in many months, and was hiding a few inches of winter weight under my three-quarter length black coat, soaked.

There were the credit card bills that would not be paid in full this month. There was the day that lay ahead, nine hours of work that were at best irrelevant. There were the words that had to be told to Significant Other. The dreaded words.

“I can’t see you tonight”.

And that was the worst part. I could deal with the rain and the sodden coat and the irrelevance of the work and the bills that would not be paid. It was the words. As the days go by, I find myself saying “next week will be better”, like an over-booked socialite. What happens in life, I had to wonder, when it is required of you to fulfil a number of different roles which are both demanding and important in some capacities.

Do you focus on being wonderful at work? Paying intricate attention to detail despite the fact that your salary is something even you sneer at? Do you pretend that it will all take care of itself and take in a double vodka Martini with your urban friends? Or do you believe that indeed the meaning of life is love and nestle with Significant Other and forget about the world, as those acknowledging it continue to run with scissors.

You have to think about it. But you also have to understand that there will be an end point for thinking and a beginning for deciding.

But it’s decisions that many of us in 20-something Dublin find ourselves incapable of making. We know what it is that we want. We want to be able to fund our social lives. And so we work. We want “guys nights out”, and we don’t want to have to explain it. We want to go on dinner dates, and to the theatre and to wonderful concerts and on mini-breaks to New York and Milan. We want to be educated and to take in the finest books and the broadest quality of music. We so badly want it all, and that is that.

And it was this that made me realise. I had made a decision. I had decided not to decide just yet. I would have a hamper-style life containing a little bit of everything that I loved and liked. And at some point I would decide to endorse one or two or three of the contained items, and to put the others aside. But for now, want was enough. The want alone, the desire. The desire to have it all and to maintain it all so beautifully and with elegance and poise was what made life “just fantastic” on a wet morning on Grafton Street.

There were the hours ahead. Of work. There were the hours ahead. Of explanation. There were the hours ahead. Of saying the words that one did not want at all to say. The were the hours ahead. Of desire. And it was this that allowed me to smile.

Ex and the Liffey

That’s the thing about Dublin city. Once you’ve known someone, it’s difficult to not know them. It’s a small, intimate county, sometimes so intimate that it’s possible to meet your ex-boss at lunch and your ex-lover at cocktail hour, all in a day.

The social scene of Dublin is undoubtedly divided in a similar way to most other cosmopolitan cities in the world. There’s the “it” places, and there’s the “not it” places. It’s pretty much black and white, but it’s by no means simple. Soon enough, at say 19 or 20, you find the scene that fits you best, and make friends, not to mention dates, with those who fill the bars, coffee shops and restaurants you frequent.

What happens though, when the friendships turn sour and the dates become just that - a string of dinners, drinks, mueseum openings and movies with stranger after stranger? What happens, I have noticed, is that you never can say “I am never seeing that person again”, because most likely you will.

In a few short days last week I managed to take what I considered to be an unnecessary trip down Memory Lane. On yet another Summer morning disguised by rain, wind and general dreariness, I huddled into my usual coffee haunt. There she was, on front of me in the line of impatient workers waiting for their caffeine fix: the dreaded ex-boss.

There she was, with her unmistakable ash brown hair, black twin-set and pearl necklace. She looked around, as though she had sensed being looked at. I looked at her, a moment passed as we both decided whether or not to bother being falsely nice to each other. The “Hi how are you?” that came from both our formerly pursed lips indicated that we both cared far too much about the circles we moved in to ignore each other merely because an actual disliking existed.

Two cappuccinos and ten hours later, the last thing on my mind was that another, much more painful type of ex would be drinking another, much stronger drink mere inches away from me. As I stood beside the bar of a popular city centre dancing haunt, sipping a vodka-soda which was far too light for my liking, Beloved moved backward on sighting of a former lover. It was then that I realised, it happens to everyone, ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends living on the island were bumping into each other left, right and centre, and they were even engaging in flowery conversation.

And there it was, the first lover. It wasn’t love, or was it? Maybe lust. It didn’t even matter. After all, it had only been a couple of months, almost three years ago. What mattered was that I was here now, standing on front of an ex and wondering what the appropriate level of engagement would be. A perfunctory hello allowed me to stop wondering and set the bar for my response. It seemed so odd that two people could share a bed, each others bodies, thoughts and lives for a time, only to avoid any sort of real communication upon their next encounter.

Did it signify something, I questioned. Why did I even care? I cared because it felt like opening the Sunday newspapers to find no comment columns on the week’s news - it wasn’t something that was required, but it was a nice touch.

Later that night, I realised, it’s difficult to not know someone you had once known, but maybe it was possible to acknowledge someone you had known a lot of, very little.

Simon Says "Game Over"

It is recommended that you read the previous columns listed below before reading the following column:

The Reason To Rebound
No Pressure Over Cappuccino


Midweek, 12 noon, a rare opportunity arose where the sun stayed out long enough over Dublin city centre for myself and Simon (my highly educated, highly frustrated friend) to eat lunch in the great outdoors of South William Street.

As the tables began to fill and our fiery-haired waitress approached to take our order, I realised that I had not yet glanced at the menu, for there were far more pressing items on the agenda: Simon's love-life, circa the last three months.

The couple, who split in January this year one week after my 21st intimate birthday dinner at the Morrison (coincidentally under that very roof), reconcilliated their love at the beginning of the summer, and while I was apprehensive, I was glad to see Simon glow once again. Not for long, it would seem.

In Simon's eyes, the reunion would mean that the couple could resume couple-oriented activities, you know, kissing, sex...and mini breaks. Mini-breaks, Simon would soon discover, were the only thing on the menu. I sympathised, and yet I wondered what was the underlying problem of the Dark Lord that meant sextra curricular activities must be ruled out. I couldn't help but wonder, had the fact that Simon had made the decision to dump the Dark Lord back in January encouraged growth in the gaping hole that was the Dark Lord's self-esteem?

That lack of self-esteem was endearing at first, though with self-esteem, come side-effects. He possessing the low esteem requires the feeling of control, and when that control is given, well, everything is hunky dory. However, when control is taken away, out comes the self esteem monster...revenge.

The well disguised revenge included a "no labels" rule. Simon was in hell. Well, he was in Aldi when he really wanted to be in Superquinn, and let's face it, that's pretty much the same thing. "This is not a relationship, it's a trial", said the Dark Lord. Simon couldn't help but feel like a lab rat. Pessimism, naturally, was order of the day, and sprinkled on the relationship, apologies, "not relationship" at any given opportunity.

Suffice to say, after his fun, the Dark Lord decided that the flight home from said mini break was the ideal moment to terminate the relationship. As I had suggested weeks prior, this would happen at a time when it was least expected by Simon, just to allow the Dark Lord have added kicks.

Simon, once again, had been booted, full force, out of the driver seat. "I just feel, had I not gone back into it the first time I would be totally over the entire issue now", he told me, toying with his fish cakes, which at this point were as cold as his love life. "And now, I'm here, basically hijacked", he said despairingly.

"Well there's only one thing you can do now", I interrupted. "And that is to viciously cut the toxic Dark Lord out of your life, if not for good, for an extended period".

"You know what", my anxiety-ridden friend announced, sounding more powerful than before, "Simon Says Game Over".

And just like that, I realised, I had hardly touched my Tandoori Chicken, which was still mid air on fork, for I was far too busy devouring the contents of Simon's non-labelled mess. It re-enforces the thought that, we are far more interested in stories of doom and gloom that those of hope and happiness.

One Child Warrants Many Remarks

What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say "only child"? Spoiled? Loner? Selfish parents? Smart parents? These are a few of the remarks I have heard in the past when innocently uttering the words "I'm an only child".

The most common of course is the spoiled remark. Everyone thinks it, and is totally willing to say it without any apprehension - to the face of you, the only child, or more hilariously, to the parents of said child. Would these people turn to a large struggling family and suggest "I bet you're scraping by with all those kids of yours?" I dare to guess, they would not.

If you're the eldest child of the family, there is little to be said, the youngest prompts the nowadays expected "ah, the baby!" and rarely further discussion. Maybe then, the only child shares more with the middle child, as unlikely as that might seem.

The middle child is the opposite of the only child in some ways, though it remains somewhat less spoken of. The odd "ooh the middle child (insert poor him/her sympathetic comment or expression)" occurs, and perhaps due to it being a negative subject, there is more to be said.

So what then, about only children being sad loners? Recently, my suspicion that the only child is in fact a happy loner, has been supported. The connotation with loner is negative, naturally, but why is this the case? Recently, I heard of another only child, aged in his 40s, who had remarkably similar views on the matter of time to oneself.

Patrick, a businessman, is way beyond being a loner. He's married, for one, and has children. When his children strayed the family home and wife packed her suitcase and took off on a "girls weekend", there were no questions being asked. Patrick was happy to put his golf clubs in the car and take off - alone. No invitations to friends or associates. The house didn't feel empty either, he promised. I believed him.

This confirmed my theory (well, as much as any case study can confirm a theory), that the only child is often more suitably equipped, and therefore able to be alone, and more importantly, to be happy about it.

The third and fourth remarks, the "what selfish parents they/you are" (these people are brazen!), and "they/you were the clever ones", are purely a matter of opinion, though in the view of many only children and their parents out there, not an opinion that needs to be discussed.

Why should how many children you choose to deliver be any different to one's decision to become vegetarian, or to purchase ridiculously expensive Prada shoes which remain in their box for all eternity. People: you know who you are - it's not your stomach, it's not your money, and it most certainly isn't your family!

The Comfort Zone

And so it is polling day again, almost one month since the Dail was dissolved by our President Mary McAleese on the advice of the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern TD. The sky is grey (normal), the traffic is fierce (normal) and everyone in Ireland is complaining about something (it's in our blood).

Our Taoiseach of ten years, Bertie "Average Joe" Ahern, has spent the majority of his time trying to defend himself (the personal finances crisis of last September has only now lowered its ugly head)--and the reputation of his party, Fianna Fail, against attacks regarding the quite profound state of our health system (Ireland is a developed country, did you know?)

Defending, indeed, is what Bertie has been doing. He has, however, failed to answer questions directly, beating about the bush and charming his way out in a fashion resembling a pop star after excessive media training.

Perhaps, it is this charm that has sent a considerable amount of the Irish population into a love-sick state. Bertie has once again charmed us, and we are putty in his fingers. And like a romantic relationship, we are completely blind to what is truly going on.

It takes someone externally to enable us to realise that we are indeed, acting like a very large bunch of pre-pubescent girls. And we cannot deny, this has occurred, more prominently in the later stages of this year’s election campaign.

The media, not the independent broadcasters, with a tendency to border on bias, but our national public service broadcaster, RTE, and our most popular print institution, the Irish Independent, have been pushing the envelope, and the concept of voting for an alternative government--Fine Gael, coupled with…actually, almost anyone who can pull in the figures will do--upon our public.

No-one needs to be told that when an admired film critic recommends a new picture highly, one is far more likely to flock to the cinema with friends, but is the same true of a political journalist--or in the case of this year, any journalist at all--recommending a certain political party?

Perhaps, there are people of our green island who don’t exactly love the idea of being told a film is a “must-see”, and it is those people, who in many cases don’t know their politics from their polo-neck, will trot to their local polling place and give their vote to Bertie Ahern, the man who can do no wrong, even when he does.

It is, I might suggest, also some of these people, who are fond of the comfort zone, who, upon finding a job whilst isn’t particularly satisfying, though pays a stable wage, will close the door, and in turn their minds, on the potential possibilities change can offer. Some call it sensible, others call it safe.

Change, you see, brings nervousness, though nervousness should almost always be embraced, for as soon as we become satisfied, we become complacent, and complacency can only lead to a decline in success.

The question it comes down to is: “Are you satisfied?”. Are you satisfied that our health system, specifically our resources (unused, ignored) for cystic fibrosis, allow sufferers to live until on average the age of 21. In Northern Ireland, sufferers can live until 33. In the United States a patient can expect to live into their late forties. It is the primitive conditions in our hospitals that kill our Irish children.

Are you satisfied that the person who is supposed to make promises for our votes is instead claiming we should congratulate him on the matter? I have to wonder, does this sound like a man who intends on making improvements?

Unfortunately, being the rebellious and cantankerous nation that we are, the kind who whinge endlessly about politicians, journalists, taxi drivers and the weather, we will give our votes to Ahern instead of the slightly “advantaged” media, and the media, in turn, will move on to rebelling against someone else.

We can be thankful that the publicity stunts, the relentless canvassing and the colossal media coverage has ended, but will we play it safe, and allow Bertie to lead Fianna Fail for another term, a little like Ireland’s highly-rated and highest-paid journalist Kevin Myers remarked, is not entirely different than being the leader of argumentative headhunters in Papua-New-Guinea, or will we take our feet off first base in order to reach second?

Like the clichéd tones of our leader might announce, “only time will tell”.

Imaginary Boundaries

Being friends with only one type of person hinders ones growth as a person themselves. Cliques--that’s right, groups of people who refuse to broaden their horizons by letting those who are so-called ‘different’ into their social circles--are cheating themselves out of being bigger, more interesting people.

“Different from what?”, I find myself wondering. Different from normal? What constitutes normal? Does normal mean traditional? Who or what defines traditional? Are there a number of different ‘traditionals’ depending on your social class? Of course, if you even try to suggest to a person that labelling someone or something ‘different’ is completely offensive in itself, you run the risk of being labelled a crazy person.

The same goes for people who label themselves ‘different’--plenty of people do it--but I’ve always wondered, are they labelling themselves to lessen the chances of others doing so? It hurts less to acknowledge parts of ourselves that we’re uncomfortable with than having them pointed out to us by someone else.

Take a look at some of the world’s comedians. Jo Brand has more than once labelled herself fat. It doesn’t stop people calling her such names but it is fair to say that many find it hysterical that she does this herself. For Brand, it means the attention she receives is more “she’s so funny” than “she’s so fat”--surely exactly what is desired, and intended.

Labels are such a big part of life, no matter where in the world you live. People want to be able to identify other people as part of a genre, whether it’s “working-class”, “preppy”, “camp”, “butch”. Why is this? Because we just love familiarity. Why else do we go to see the same movie disguised as a new movie several times every year? Why else do some people become aggravated when a movie dares to do something different?

Whilst it’s fine to acknowledge that most people fit into a genre, surely it’s completely wrong to expect for someone in any genre to replicate all of your connotations with the label. Does a working-class person have to live in a council estate and wear sports clothing? Do “preppy” boys have to date “preppy” girls and play polo? Do gay men have to wear clothes two sizes too small for them and act like women, and do gay women have to pierce their bodies and wear black?

No, they do not. It is indeed a case that people in each of these genres, and others, decide to play polo or to wear black, and once a person sees this of a similar type person on more than two or three occasions, they assign a label. At the same time, when we choose our friends, we look for similarities to ourselves.

We want to be able to share good conversation. We want to have people laugh at our jokes. We want to be able to sit in silence with our friends and for it to be the most comfortable thing in the world. We want not to have to explain ourselves and feel that our friends are working against us when they should be helping us. In truth, we want it all, which is why we are so careful about who we let in.

It would be untrue to say that genres can’t be mixed, and that they can’t compliment each other. But it’s difficult to get along and connect fully with someone who has different beliefs and different ideas of life, and so in our lives, we settle for the same, because we are afraid.

Afraid and lazy, to step out of the box. “What box?”, I find myself wondering. The answer is, there is no box, and there are no boundaries, only those which we set for ourselves.

Affluenza - The 21st Century 20-Something

Once upon a time, it was all about keeping up with the Jones’s. For today’s generation of Irish 20-somethings, however, it’s all about keeping up with the Gilsons, the O’Driscolls and the Davisons.

Unlike their idols, Ireland’s current generation of twenty-somethings have no real interest in working for the money. Having been supplied with all that their little heart’s desire, so much as a thank you to their suppliers—their parents—would be considered a favour.

They spend their days in college, attending sparse lectures and filling the time in between lunching, something the mother’s of these big babies had to wait sometimes up to ten years to devote themselves to.

Add to this a list that reads like a Jennifer Lopez request sheet: a car, nothing less than a VW Golf for him, a petrol-guzzling SUV if you’re anyone; designer clothing (changed seasonally, at very least)—and no, you don’t get away with this one if you’ve “got boys”. Haven’t you heard, whether you’re little Oisinn or Ciaran is a music lover or a sports enthusiast, there’s an image to be portrayed.

There are icons. For the girls there’s the string of Assets models, and for the boys there’s the Irish rugby team, who seem to spend more time in Krystle and Renards than on the actual pitch.

Then there’s Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham and the men who buy them salad. The bottom line is, the twenty-somethings of today are not so much influenced by their neighbours, but by the celebrity idols of their time, the real opinion leaders.

“Kate mixes designer with high street and vintage pieces”, says your darling daughter—meaning she’ll get by on a €10 vintage top, €50 high street jeans, and naturally the designer shoes and bag—Chanel or similar—price: excess of €300 for the shoes, and €500 for the bag.

To her majesty, they’re priceless. “They’re not just shoes, they’re Jimmy Choos”, she says, in an accent that sounds more Orange County than South County.

The social lives of the South County crew are another cause of concern for their parents. While mummy and daddy pay college fees and expenses, their little babies are out having the time of their lives, sipping Cosmopolitans, all the while rubbing shoulders with accomplished thirty-something’s who they aspire to follow, but without the hard graft.

Trips around Europe are entirely essential. Paris, Milan, Moscow, the places that would have been a holiday and a half to their parents are seen as a mere mini-break by these designer-wearing demons.

One might wonder, does providing for your children to such unrealistic extents provide a pedestal for them to fall from when they finally have to do it themselves?

When this time comes around, it will be a great disappointment to realise that MasterCard is not a charity for 25-year-old children who are experiencing “vast social opportunities without the financial resources”.

Perhaps, it is already too late, for the tone of this decades twenty-something has already been set, and it is one of expectance, not acceptance.

Rebellion Has it’s Reasons to Return

Children and teenagers often rebel when they feel confined by rules, believing that they themselves should be able to make their own decisions, take their own risks, and make their own mistakes. What then, does it signify, when an adult rebels?

Between the ages of 18 and 21, depending on the culture one lives in, we are told that we are now old enough to make our own decisions in life. Finally, we think to ourselves, we can sit in the driver seat and decide for ourselves exactly where it is we go in life, the timeframe in which we undertake our life transformation in, and the location in which it occurs. We choose our choice.

It is no longer required for us to validate our plans via our parents. It is similarly no longer required that we seek approval of the places we wish to spend our time. It is no longer required that we seek approval of the people with whom we wish to spend our time--this perhaps, is the single most deadly change in being in charge of our own lives.

No longer are we drowned in remarks about not getting in with the ‘wrong crowd’, or hanging out in areas which leave a lot to be desired. In place of such remarks we find more subtle forms of communication from those who care about us, and frankly, often know best. The monologue which once drove us crazy with anger is now substituted with a watered down comment or in some cases, a simple shrug or similar nonverbal communication.

It is then that we realise, advice wasn’t so bad after all. Advice. That is what the lectures boiled down to, though at the time, this was not seen, for rebellion had been activated and had created a sort of tunnel vision experienced otherwise only by the narrow-minded and the colossally determined.

What if, rebellion had run its course and ended, perhaps prematurely in one’s teens? Is it a case that this individual is ready for responsibility and by the same token ready to take advice on board in an mature way? Or is it like a sickness that hasn’t quite reached a head, and will leave suspicions of a return later in life?

As a teenager, I would have said the former was true. Today, my opinion has been reformed. Now I believe in individual circumstances. Now I believe it cannot be concluded that rebellion will rear its ugly head once again if it hasn’t enjoyed a full stretch in the time it most commonly occurs.

Though I also acknowledge that if a container has been put on rebellion, this itself is enough to cause mayhem later in life. Perhaps it could be said that it depends on what happens to us in the phases immediately after our teenage years. Maybe it is about allowing the post-teenage freedom phase to run its course, knowing for an extended period that you, and you only, are sitting in the driver seat.

Possibly this is the time where one decides--consciously or otherwise--what they will throw away for good, what they will put away for later, and what they will keep for now.

Circles of Communication

As I stood alone with everybody at a low-key leaving party of a friend of a friend, I got to thinking how there are many people I’ve met through the years, friends, lovers and perfect strangers, that I’ve had instantaneous connections with.

Most of my friends today were met through work environments where there was a shared interest. Did interests, age or cultural background have any real effect on the communication between people, I contemplated.

When interests are shared, a discussion is made easier due to the fact that both people are able to make contributions, and stimulate interest from the other person. You don’t need to know anything about each other, yet the conversation shared is enjoyed, and most importantly, it’s comfortable.

So then, is age an issue? Can you possibly enjoy a friendship, relationship or merely a conversation with someone who is years older, or younger, than yourself? Whilst taking into consideration that the age of someone often determines their history, the type of life and perhaps standard of life that they’ve led, and their feelings about society today, people cannot be defined by their age.

Just weeks earlier I sat at a dinner party at a table of nine. Two men and women aged in their 40s, a female in her 30s and two young, free, single 20-something women took their places. My connection with two of the 40-something women developed instantly and kept me entertained, if slightly surprised, for the duration of the evening. Why, out of everyone at the table, had my connection been made with these individuals and not the others?

I figured that I was interested in hearing what these people had to say. They had opinions, they had lives that interested me, and that interested themselves, and they weren’t afraid to talk about them. Details were of the utmost importance, and this was something that I could certainly relate to. I was stimulated.

Cultural backgrounds can bring individuals together in the same way interests do. When history and similarities in the environment we have grown up in are shared, there is a point of conversation. On the other hand, it is interesting to meet non-nationals, as well as people from other cultures. This too can create conversation, sharing alternative experiences and furthering our learning.

What is it, then, that allows us to connect with someone upon meeting? If it’s not age, and it’s not our backgrounds, can we conclude that we have a superior communication experience with those who share our interests? Surely, I thought, it had to be more than that.

Whatever it was, I figured that I had a long list of interests, and no-one in the room to share them with that night at the intimate, low-key party. And so I waited, with just my thoughts, for someone to stimulate me, and like clockwork, a similar-minded soul entered the room.

Whether there was such thing as “the one” or not, I hadn’t yet learned, but I had learned that there were lots of “ones”. And they would crop up every so often, willing to communicate.

Honesty - The Best Policy?

They say that you can’t go wrong with honesty. Honesty allows everyone to identify where they stand. And the greatest thing about honesty is that it can be applied to not just your lover, but also your friends and family.

Some people find it inconceivably difficult to be honest. Saying I love you face to face for the first time can be a nightmarish experience, wondering if the response will be “thank you” or worse “I have to go”.

Honesty, for me, is not one of life’s problems. In fact, I care so much about honesty I insist upon voicing details which in certain scenarios, can be unwelcome to say the least. I realised this whilst sitting alone in a casual downtown bar on Tuesday night. My drinking partner of the evening had gone to the bathroom. I had a moment of silence to reflect on the pitiless monologue I had just recited.

Did I feel regret, I wondered. Arriving at the conclusion that I did not, I realised that honesty to me is more important than its effects. Some people, I have learned, prefer lies. This may be controversial to say, and god knows it will anger many to read, but it is the truth--and it is for this reason that people will be angered.

As a pro-honesty person, you would think that I wouldn’t be able to pretend play with a lover when I was experiencing a separate emotional journey myself. Not so. But it is not about being able, I have learned. It is about choice. Did I really want to conceal my feelings to enable another person to feel that everything is hunky dory?

I may be selfish, I thought, but I am not self-destructive. And I wouldn’t be changing my policy for anyone.

No Pressure Over Cappuccino

My good friend Simon closed a door last week, but little did he know that several windows were about to be opened for him.

As Simon went shopping for stationary supplies with his friend Teresa, an errand that he actually enjoyed, the last thing on his mind was dating. Apparantly though, the same could not be said of his female friend.

“Let’s go for coffee”, Teresa suggested. Never one to decline an opportunity to sit down and catch up properly, Simon agreed that it was, indeed time for coffee. And sandwiches. As their orders arrived in a hip café contained within a period building downtown, Teresa stood. “Oh my god, hi!” she announced as one of her friends—good-looking, definitely—appeared at the tableside.

Simon sighed. A lunch interrupted sometimes felt like someone walking in on you having sex with your lover. It was that sacred. To Teresa, however, no such sacredness existed. “Join us”, she exclaimed. Since when did it become socially acceptable for lunch arrangements to be made without the fellow lunch partner being consulted, Simon had to wonder.

A few short minutes after the good-looking friend had joined, now complete with sandwiches and coffee also, Teresa realised she needed the bathroom. Simon, not known for his shyness, engaged in small talk and a little more with the new person.

“Would you go for a drink sometime?” the new person questioned. If Simon had been the sarcastic self that he is with friends he would have said something along the lines of “Oh, well, I like to go for drinks all the time”, adding atonally “Would this drink be something specific?” But Simon had good manners, and knew that while a drinks invitation over cappuccino meant that Dublin had come along, it may not be ready for sarcasm with strangers. Obliging the offer, Simon started to wonder where his original lunch partner had got to—it had been fifteen minutes, after all.

The new person didn’t seem phased. Simon wondered if maybe Teresa, head in toilet, required assistance. And then everything fell into place. Teresa, it seemed, felt that it was Simon who required assistance; in arranging a replacement for his recently departed Beloved. Or was it the good-looking friend who she was trying to help out?

As Teresa walked back to the table, casually, she remarked, “I’m so sorry, I was just so distracted by the new furniture downstairs…amazing”. Deciding against protesting against the arranged lunch date that had just occurred thanks to Teresa, Simon finished his sandwich.

Maybe it was the coffee, or perhaps it was the sight of the good-looking friend and the idea of drinks together that had required no effort on his part, but Simon decided that today; he was ready for whatever Dublin had to throw at him.

The Reason to Rebound

They say that as one door closes, another opens. They also say that when you’ve split up with a partner, you should give yourself time to grieve its loss. I had to wonder, were ‘they’ perhaps generalising a little too much? Surely everything depends on individual circumstances.

One of my best friends, we’ll call him Simon, recently split with his partner. He didn’t feel the need to lock himself indoors for exactly half the duration of the relationship--that’s how long ‘they’ say it takes to get over someone properly--Simon felt that one and a half years would be too long a period to stay indoors. I had to agree.

On our first encounter since the split, a delve-in-deep conversation was likely to occur, but due to being in company, the content was monitored. Post-break-up discussion can be violent, and we understood that others in our lives not aware of each scenario that had taken place internally over the past three years, may be caused to run scared.

We did, however, discuss rebound, and the possibilities of introducing this powerful ingredient into the recipe of loss of relationship recovery. I, on one hand, love the concept of the rebound. If, like Simon and I, you are prone to returning to situations that are bad for you, the rebound can take you so far out of the said situation that not only do you completely forget its existence, you wonder what its relevance was in the first place.

On the other hand, the last time I rebounded, mere minutes after a VPB (Very Public Break-up), I somehow landed in a one-and-a-half year relationship. I still don’t know how it happened. I’m very aware that I didn’t chase this person, and so I think that the lack of chase perhaps has from time to time made me wonder how this person is here, opposite me, in life. It’s sort of like going out for drinks, becoming incredibly drunk, and finding yourself at home in bed. An ingredient is absent, and yet the final product tells you otherwise.

Either way, I entertained the idea of a rebound for Simon, but did not encourage it. Simon, in his mind, knew that there were other future relationship prospects outside of ‘the situation’ but his heart did not allow his mind to validate this thought. I got to thinking, “why, must the heart be honoured with such authority and opinion?” A rebound was the only way for the heart to be brought in sync with the mind, I concluded.

Three nights later, as Simon documented his weekend to me, sitting in the theatre during the interval of Julius Caesar, I realised that a new door had opened, but more importantly, that the one behind him had finally been closed.

Relationships & Real Estate

As I listened to Paul, a twenty-something friend of a friend, ramble about how difficult it is being single, I zoned out for a few minutes. Are people staying in relationships because there may not be anything else suitable available?

Like the real estate market in Ireland, the dating market is experiencing a dry spell. Investing in a new relationship, which requires years of hard work, is like moving into a second-hand house. First you have to pay stamp duty. In relationships, this is equivalent to splashing out on those novelty beginning-of-relationship gifts. You have to strip the wallpaper--just like removing the remains of your new significant other's previous relationship. Only then can you start to redecorate to your taste, because like a second hand house, your new significant other comes with some traits you know you can't live with.

"You're so lucky to be in a relationship", claimed Paul. I suddenly felt like I'd bought my way into the market mere months before it had taken a price hike--before a relationship was unattainable. Selling now would be a risk, right? It's not like I'm unhappy in my relationship anyway. Like the 3-bed dormer bungalow I live in, it's comfortable, warm and despite the fact that I feel suffocated from time-to-time, there's a certain sentimentality that comes with it.

According to Paul, no-one wants to commit these days. This confirmed my ideology that the dating game is just like the property market. As soon as things slow down, and properties of interest are nowhere to be seen, people freeze. No-one wants to commit to something, have to pay for it and maintain the upkeep, only to realise that they've made a bad purchase years later when the market picks up.

Unfortunately, no-one knows how long the dry spell will last, and so some will move away, in hope of better opportunities overseas, just like 1980's Ireland. Some will remain, and rent, never truly making an investment, but rather buying time, and a temporary roof, while a decision is being formed.

Whatever you decide to do, always keep one eye on the real estate market, and the other on potential significant other's, for you never know who else has an appointment for a viewing.

The Right Road

On Thursday morning I set about my day, took the bus, listened to John Mayer's Heavier Things, picked up the morning newspaper, took my morning coffee and walked the walk to class. It was like any other day, or so I thought. I would go to the gym after classes had finished, certainly.

My day took its first turn upon second period of the day being cancelled. It's amazing, I thought, how your day can change just like that, leaving you to make a quick decision as to what you will do with your newly free time. Life is just like that--twists and turns in the road, and every so often, a set of crossroads. There is always a number of options at these times, and ultimately, as adults, we make the decision as to which road we will take by ourselves.

Decision-making can be tough, and sometimes I wish there was an instructor to inform me of the difficulties I might run into along each road, to allow me to weigh up the pros and cons of each. No such instructor exists - except for the one in our own minds. Sometimes we will regret the decisions that we have made in the past, but as everyone knows, mistakes must be made to learn from them. But who is to say which road is right and which one is wrong?

I decided, the road to the cinema was the one that I would take. My college friend and I decided that we would indulge in a day time movie, and what better than the new Renee Zellweger. The mutual feeling was that this was most certainly the right road to take for the day. Following the movie, we embarked on some window-shopping, wondering why, at sale time, do purchases seem so much less special.

The attention of the sales clerk is not on you, but on the piles of sweaters needing re-folding, and the small but meaningful details--tissue wrap and ribbon--have all been ignored, and in their place you will find your purchases in a red bag with 'SALE' emblazoned on either side, which is anything but meaningful.

Following our shopping experience, I pondered my next hour. I decided, I would miss my usual bus home--for what had been usual about the day?--and visit the gym instead. After my workout, I shared a moment of small (well, microscopic), chat with a fellow member in the changing room. It seemed for a moment, as if we might be friends. It seemed for a moment, as if it might have been fate.

That day, I learned to trust my instinct, and to always do what feels right to me, for it might just lead me down the right road.

The Warning Light

People say that all good things must come to an end. I imagine this to be the most upsetting part of life. On the other hand, I have a strong feeling that if the things that are so good in our lives didn’t come to an end; they would more than likely turn to shit in the long run. We would appreciate things less, almost certainly.

Like listening to the last track of your favourite album, knowing deep down, but not acknowledging, that there is no more; like the last kiss with a lover; and like the last breath of life, if you know that this will be the last, sadness is felt, but history is acknowledged, and while on many levels you don’t want to leave at all, you are aware that you must, for something else is waiting—another love, another life, or more simply, your new favourite album.

Another thing you hear people saying is how you need to work at a relationship. I think it’s fair to say, in general, the opening months of a relationship don’t require an awful lot of work beyond “the chase”. The rest is games—whether you’re playing hard to get, or downright getting to know each other.

It is in the later days that the work begins. Is this tiring work a signal of unsuitability, or is it something that is experienced—frequently—in even the most suited relationships? Either way, I find myself asking, how much should you have to work at a relationship? Shouldn’t there be a warning light on my body somewhere indicating an overload? I wouldn’t want to actually drive myself mentally or physically into the ground just to confirm my hardship to keep a difficult relationship alive.

Giving up feels like a weakness for most people, but perhaps, it is an achievement of sorts. We can acknowledge that we tried. We should also realise that we have our strengths, and we have our weaknesses, and ultimately, we can’t win every time.

Like an album that fails after track 13, that could have been a work of art if left to this many tracks, a relationship that is forced along will leave a less fond memory upon it’s finale.

And no matter how far into the future we make plans for ourselves and our significant other, if the warning light appears—a holiday, a mutually owned dog, or a house in the most perfect leafy avenue—won't save what we are known to call “us”.