The Scrabble Test

““The problem with growing up,” Quentin said, “is that once you’re grown up, people who aren’t grown up aren’t fun anymore.” ”

— Lev Grossman, The Magicians

I was listening to The Great Gatsby soundtrack yesterday and in particular the Lana del Ray song 'Young and Beautiful' - well, it would be fair to say, a bit incessantly. It's a great song, and it fits the mood of Gatsby so well - the reckless hedonistic abandon of the 20s and maybe/maybe not doomed love.

It also raises a question which we all think about in one form or another, whether we are single, coupled up or somewhere in between:

"Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?"

It's something we all have to face. Time stops for no man, and it seems doubly so that it stops for no woman for some extremely unfair reason (case in point; grey hair looks better on men. I'm sorry, but it does). Growing older we soon learn who is willing to love us for us and not for pure physical appeal.

Even more importantly we learn whom we want to love ourselves.

I was talking about this with the still very very youthful and extremely beautiful Miss K the other day. We were discussing relationships (as one does) and she said 'yep, they have to pass The Scrabble Test'. And this is so very true when it comes to longevity in love.

What's The Scrabble Test? It's simple.

Think about the person you're with presently (if you are with someone - if not, think about the person you feel you'd like to be with). Now imagine the future. You're seventy or eighty years old. Believe me, it's on its way - admittedly for some of us it's closer than for others. It's after dinner on a Saturday night. You're sitting on the sofa with them, vino in hand (hey, eighty doesn't have to be boring!)

Now.

It's time to... 

Whip out the Scrabble. And whip their butts.

And laugh while you do it. 

Firstly I suppose, can you see yourself with said person at eighty? And if so, can you see yourself happily playing board games and reading together and snorting and pretty much being as much of an idiot as you are at twenty-five, or thirty-five, or forty-one?

That's The Scrabble Test.

You can call it the Trivial Pursuit Test, or the Backgammon Test, or whatever the hell you want, but my point is this; love is the sum of a whole lot of parts. And one of the biggest parts is like - and laughter.

And stupidy stupid. To quote Baldrick the Great. So make sure you bestow your affections on someone you still want to beat up over board games in years to come.

I bet they'll think you're beautiful forever.

Am I Not Pretty Enough?

““In youth, it was a way I had,
To do my best to please.
And change, with every passing lad
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do,
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you””

— Dorothy Parker

I've been wondering about something recently. It's nothing ground-breaking - in fact it's something women all over the world discuss on a daily basis, but for some reason, it's been brought to the fore amongst the chicks that I know very strongly of late.

Why do we have such a low opinion of ourselves when it comes to the opposite sex? Or to put it more bluntly; if things don't work out, why do we always assume that we are the ones who should have done more, been better looking, been funnier, been smarter, been more attentive, been less needy, been more needy - and coming back to it again - been more attractive.

I am not going on a feminist rant here. I consider myself a feminist; I believe enormously strongly in the equality of women and men in life, in the workplace and in the home. I do everything I can to promote that equality. But I don't think women are better than men, just as I don't think men are better than women. My goodness, the person I speak to fifteen times a day on the phone is a bloke (admittedly he is also a Panda, so perhaps that explains things - ha, sorry Panda). I suppose what I am trying to say is that in terms of he said/she said, that's not what this is about.

This is purely about why we, as women - smart, funny, beautiful women - continue to blame ourselves when things go pear-shaped with boys.

And we do. We just do. And quite honestly? We need to stop.

There is a girl that I know. She is one of the most giving, open-hearted, loving and tender people on the planet; male or female. She would fight to the death, not for herself, mind you, but for the people that she loves.

She is beautiful both inside and out, which is a rare combination indeed.

She went out with a total nightmare of a bloke (and he is a nightmare - I know that of which I speak) at a time when she was vulnerable and hurting and frankly, easy prey for someone to mess with her head. Which he has done extremely successfully, to the point where her self-confidence has been shattered to pieces, and I know that a corner of her heart will now always have a sliver of broken glass in it that will occasionally dig in and cause a small bleed.

And she blames herself for him not wanting her anymore.

I say this now to every amazing woman that I know - and as every woman that I know is amazing, that's a lot of women;

You are pretty enough. You are smart. You are special, and funny, and spectacular. You deserve to be loved and cherished and desired. If things go wrong, yes, there is usually fault on both sides; but it is on both sides. Don't assume it's because you are to blame.

I am not a fan of Kasey Chambers. Honestly, her voice does the whole nails down a chalkboard thing to me. But that song does resonate in a way - with one reservation; the words need to be turned inside out. The message for all the gorgeous women I know should be this.

I am pretty enough. In fact, I am stunning. Particularly first thing of a morning, when my hair is all messy and I have a bare face. I am not too outspoken. Informed opinionated is awesome; you should thank your lucky stars that you have a girl who knows what is going on beyond who has broken up with whom in La-La Land. If I don't make you laugh, then tough noodles - it means you have a craptacular sense of humour. Because I am funny as a funny thing with added funny. I don't need to try it harder. I try damned hard, every single day.

Next time a girlfriend breaks up with someone, and says 'it was all my fault - I just wasn't good enough', I am going to do three things.

Firstly, get them wildly and inappropriately drunk on really good champagne.

Secondly, make them listen to an entire Kasey Chambers album as punishment for that statement.

And thirdly - possibly a little while after the hangover, because they won't be looking too crash hot, and it would be hard to justify what I am trying to make them see - I will shove them in front of a mirror. And I will make them stare until they see the truth.

They are beautiful.

And nobody has the right to say they are not beautiful 'enough'.

Heel Thyself

““I like Cinderella, I really do. She has a good work ethic. I appreciate a good, hard-working gal. And she likes shoes. The fairy tale is all about the shoe at the end, and I’m a big shoe girl.”

”

— Amy Adams

I was talking to someone the other day about this blog and they said to me 'I really like what you write - the whole gratitude thingy, it's lovely. It makes such a difference to my day - you should feel really good about it'. I was just feeling all warm and fuzzy (and perhaps a little teary, because well, it had been a bad day), and was about to thank them, when they put their hand on my arm and shook their head at me.

'You do ruin it all though of course'.

Huh?

'It's all that stuff about shoes. It's so trivial and shallow. You should only be writing about meaningful issues. Otherwise, well, nobody's ever going to take you seriously. OK, bye!'

And they were gone, like a well-intentioned air to surface missile which had completed its mission and could knock off for afternoon tea.

Said target of the strike stood there dumbfounded for a minute or two. And then realised something.

I like writing about shoes. If I didn't write about shoes, I wouldn't be able to write about anything more meaningful, because it is the trivial and shallow pretty bits of life that carry me through the sookypuss parts, and let me get on with being grateful.

Shoes are spectacular. They are an instant mood-lifter. Feel craptacular? Throw on a pair of black suede stilettos. Bam. Suddenly the sun is shining - even if just a little bit. Throw in a little black dress and the world is your oyster.

Something about a pair of stunning shoes makes me feel mysterious and alluring. Sometimes it makes the difference between me being able to go forth with confidence into a room full of strangers - or not. And they don't have to be high; they just have to be gorgeous. And much as I might tout that 'one must suffer to be beautiful', they also have to be comfortable.

Shoes are a little piece of heaven wrapped up in tissue paper and individual cloth bags. And I love them. From a purely logical perspective, there is no point to them other than to keep my feet from freezing. Do they love me back? Hell no. They are pieces of dead animal and slithers of satin and lace. I'm besotted, not insane. Are they a good investment? Only if leather suddenly becomes a viable building material (NB: check out leather as a viable building material). But that's not the point.

The point is, shoes are seriously fabulous.

And I will write about them.

Because otherwise I might hurt their feelings, and next time I wear my favourite nude patent Mary-Janes, I might get a blister.

And cue the insanity.