It’s Sunday and I’m having a hungover day of reflection…
I go through phases of cleaning. Nothing is ever totally manky in my home but since wife died, I haven’t had to keep up to her high standards. This means washing up goes for 2 days and my house is never completely tidy. Only ever one room at a time. I also cheat and do widow cleaning – it’s basically about spraying everything in sight with Febreeze. However, when I know I’m likely to have people round, or lure someone back, I seem to be able to clean the whole place in half an hour. Powerwidow.
In a way, lust is good because it means that I clean (see above). However, really, lust is BAD. It clouds judgement and makes me think I’ve fallen in love with people I’m not actually in love with. I devastated my wife when I cheated on her. Simply, I was manic and I reeeeeally wanted to have sex. Lust. Pure lust. It was the near downfall of our marriage. Now, I’m lusting after a man, which is totally ridiculous, andI have this niggling feeling that if I fuck him, I will lose that friendship and possibly get pregnant by accident. That won’t stop me in the heat of the moment though. I have no restraint.
Drinking in moderation
Enough said in this post, The Gorgeous Alcoholic. If the bottle’s there, I simply must finish it. Last night, that meant five glasses of prosecco too many at the engagement party of my maid of honour. I may have looked composed in my Roland Mouret dress and Gina stilettos, but inside my head was a woozy mish mash. Without the booze, I think I would have probably been discussing the theatre or something a bit more cultured than fucking girls off Tinder. Ugh. I then proceeded to drunk text one of said girls to tell her I had “excellent lips and tongue” due to my days of playing the flute. Mega cringe. She hasn’t responded.
I lie to myself about the extent of my shopping, trying to soothe it that if it’s bought from a discount shop like TK Maxx, or is in the sale, it’s totally ok. The thing is, I do that every single week and the money mounts up. Yesterday, I made progress in that I took £120 worth of stuff back. However, I then promptly spent the money on aforementioned bottle of prosecco and a taxi home because I had stayed out past the last tube.
Accepting others’ perfectionism
When other people are perfectionists, it drives me up the fucking wall. I want to scream at them, “YOU HAVE NO SENSE OF FUCKING PERSPECTIVE BECAUSE NOBODY HAS DIED ON YOU. I DON’T CARE IF THE SEMI-COLON IS IN THE WRONG FUCKING PLACE” I did this in my head earlier in the week at a colleague. I need to accept that other people have had simpler lives and therefore cannot take a step back, survey the situation and then decide what’s important and what’s not. Sigh.
I’m such an eligible widow, seriously. Come find me ladies.