The Obsession

24th November 2014

Do you ever wake up and think, “Is this it? Is this all there is to life?” because I do, regularly lately. Opening my eyes to the same old thing, every single day. I glance over at my overly bright, digital alarm clock. It’s only 5.30am. The two dots between the number 5 and 30 continually flash. I wish it’d stop. The giant, red numbers highlighting how little sleep I’ve had and how tiring the day will be. The room is dark, cold and generally depressing. Ideal circumstances for sleep, yet still I can’t manage it. I don’t want to get up, but laying here isn’t helping one bit. Sleeping has been such a struggle lately. The ability to turn off one’s mind and simply go to sleep is a talent that I’ve yet to master. The stress of work, relationships and generally keeping on top of adult life is slowly but surely, breaking my soul. No one warms you how difficult things actually are as a twenty seven year old woman. When I was 16, I swore to myself that I’d be organised with my life, that I wouldn’t let it pass me by or swallow me up. I’d surely be a married, home-owner with a baby on the way by this point in my life at the very least. I’d have travelled the world, have the dream career, the perfect husband. None of this is the case. The furthest I’ve travelled is the south of France. A family holiday with my sister, father, mother and grandmother. Nothing overly thrilling but pleasant enough for someone who has never really been anywhere or seen anything. I could take a splash at the beach and rest in the sun, something very different from the United Kingdom at least. As for the perfect husband, that’s been more of a struggle than anyone could have predicted… I’ve had many boyfriends. Well, I say many, it’s been two officially. They were nice, decent looking with adequate minds. They were funny and had good jobs. My family liked them both. They just weren’t settling down material. Not for me anyway. I’ve always been a bit like that. Always looking for something new, something better. Nothing is ever good enough or sufficient to keep me entertained for long. Until now. My latest partner, Rowan, is not overly liked by my family, neither does he have looks that one would consider traditionally attractive. He is reasonably witty and good natured. He makes me laugh. We’ve been together for almost 3 years now. He’s a little older than me, approximately eight years older. I suspect that this is the main reason for my family, particularly my Mother, deciding he is not the one. She also had previous boyfriends who were older that used to knock her about, so I think she worries on my behalf. Her prejudice does her an injustice. Rowan is nice. I like him. Which is surely all that counts?

It’s 5.47am. I’m no closer to getting to sleep with everything overtaking my mind. Polluting it with nonsense. I try counting sheep. The most certain method for keeping oneself awake. Who even came up with this as a way to make you relax? It’s absolutely ridiculous. I bet it was some la-de-da sciencey type with a PhD from Oxbridge who never actually got a proper job after submitting his sheepy thesis. Even the sheep counting is getting me het up. “Let it go, Josephine” I mutter to myself out loud under my breath. This is obviously the worst thing to do, as I then have the main song from Frozen running through my head. I give up. I get out of bed and head towards the shower, after checking all my social media sites of course. Something incredibly exiting may have happened to someone I never speak to anymore in the six hours I was in my bed. Of course, this wasn’t the case but I came across a few cute dog pictures, so that made it a worthy task. I jump in the shower, as silently as I can, easing the shower door, careful not to wake Rowan who’s still sound asleep in the bed. Having an en-suite is pretty great, until one of you needs a night piss or has to go into work early. I turn the temperature of the shower as hot as I can get it. I’m always cold and these early, winter mornings don’t help. The warmness of the water and the darkness of the room makes me feel sleepy. Bloody typical.

I now have the momentous task of drying my waist length, golden, ashy locks. I love having long hair. I’ve always had long hair. It’s probably the most girly aspect of myself, which is why I think I cling on to it. Drying a mop as long and as thick as mine though, is a major task and one I don’t undertake lightly. I know I’ll give up once the top is dry and stick the rest of it in a side plait with the ends still sopping wet most likely. Obviously, this is happening in the spare bedroom across the hall. It’s still only 6.15am. I can’t deal with waking Rowan. It’s not that I’m scared of him in any way but I can’t deal with his moods. He’s very into sulking and complaining is his forte. Nothing ever causes an argument with him, which would be preferable. I don’t believe in stewing or festering, silent hatred. I think men feed off it though, at least, my man does. Even when I crashed his car. His prised, shiny, black Audi, there was still no argument. No comment about my bad driving. No demands for garage fees. Just silence at the dinner table with the occasional, short answer to any questions that went his way. I hate this about him. I want someone to tell me when I’m in the wrong, or argue their point of view or at least be able to express themselves or form some level of opinion at all. I can’t deal with toddler like behaviour from a man nearly ten years my senior.

I head down to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast. Something nice for a change now I actually have some time in the morning, albeit by accident. I’m not normally an early riser. I put the kettle on and saunter over to the fridge, not rushing in the slightest. I dig out the eggs and the bread. There’s only brown left, how disappointing. I decide to treat myself to two poached eggs, avocado and toast with a coffee in one of my posh, vintage cups and saucers. I kid myself that this is healthy, although everyone knows that avocado is insanely fattening. I eat it all like I’ve never seen food before. I’ve been on a bit of a diet lately. By diet, I mean, skipping meals and trying to avoid food all together by replacing meals with water. It’s working wonderfully, I’ve lost 2.5kg in a month. I’m not sure the experts would promote my new-found method of weight loss however. Borderline starvation is not a preferred strategy. I’ll stop soon. I’m already reasonably thin. A size 8 should be adequate. Particularly for a 5ft5 woman. It gets addictive though, the level of control you have, restricting and monitoring everything you eat and controlling how much weight you lose or put on. It’s difficult to stop. Some people would describe my behaviour as neurotic, perhaps even anorexic. My Mother certainly thinks so. I like to put a more positive spin on it, I class myself as disciplined, determined. Rowan has already binned my scales, he’s decided it’s unhealthy too. I have a spare pair in the boot of my car though, not that I’ll ever let him find them. I tidy up my mess and sneak back upstairs and rummage in my wardrobe, still in the dark, using the torch on my phone. It’s 7am now and Rowan’s still snoring away from the bed. He looks so peaceful and cosy, buried in the duvet in the middle of our bed. I want to slap him. Laying there with no worries at all. I take a deep breath and continue with getting ready. This is my chance to go into work looking relatively pretty. My hair is done, I treated myself to a fishtail plait today instead of the usual type, my hair almost dry. I may as well make the most of this early morning and go all out with a full face of make-up, tastefully done of course. I whip out a floral, light blue pencil skirt with a matching sky blue top with short sleeves with a pair of beige, court shoes to match. Only New Look footwear but nice enough. Fashionable office wear is very much my thing when I can be bothered, which isn’t that often, admittedly. I dig out my Ted Baker make up bag and start plastering my work face on in the dark. I nearly always do my make up in a half-lit room. The minimal lighting makes your foundation look so much nicer, no blemishes on your skin at all in a semi dark room. Of course, if you take this approach, you must then avoid all mirrors in natural lighting or worse, the bright lighting in the work’s toilet. It’ll knock your confidence for six. I’m finally ready. Fed, washed, dressed and pretty.

I start scrolling again through Instagram as you do when there is a millisecond of time that isn’t being filled by something and immediately feel much less attractive when beautiful, filtered women pop up again and again. This I suppose, is the joys of modern life as a woman. I’d much prefer to have been born in the 1940’s or 50’s and I very often dress in such a way that reflects this preference. Sure, women didn’t have the freedoms that us ladies have now. They were restricted in their career paths, education and choices in general. They were expected to settle down young and have babies with virtually the first man they met but they didn’t have the pressures we have now. At least not to this extent. They didn’t have to worry about the constant comparison, either by oneself or by another, on social media. They didn’t have to worry about their other half being so very accessible to other women via text or online. Neither did they have to worry about making it in their chosen career whilst simultaneously being this ideal, stepford-wife type. Their limited choices and freedoms were in fact a blessing in disguise. To be able to merely look after the household would be a dream for many modern day women. In this day and age, women are expected to still be beautiful and look after the household whilst excelling in their chosen career, along with raising children. To put a job before one’s children is considered by many, to be sinful, particularly by other women, but for a woman to not excel in her career because she is distracted by motherhood, it is considered harmful to women and their constant quest for equality. It is surely then contradictory to equality for a woman to be the perfect home maker and a strong career woman? Men only have to perform one task excellently. Why must women be expected to perform two to keep on par with them? Equality has gone too far and yet not far enough. I don’t want to be going to work from 9-5, five days a week to then be doing all the shopping, cooking and cleaning too. It’s all so tedious, so tiring. Ideally, I’d either be a housewife, one of the ones that goes to lunches and coffee mornings whilst their cleaner pops in to do all the chores, or I’d have a house husband. I don’t want to be dealing with this “do it all” nonsense that women have now decided is equality. I stop my thoughts there and realise I’m getting myself into a rage and it’s only Monday morning. I’m a rager. I’ve always been a rager. My Mother named me aptly after Josephine March from her favourite novel, Little Women. The ballsiest sister out of the four in Alcott’s novel, with a hot temper and many opinions. I think she’d hoped I wouldn’t turn into a modern-day version of the character, but there we are. Of course, no one calls me Josephine, unless I’ve been very naughty. I’m generally Josie, Jo or sometimes just J, depending on how lazy the person is who’s calling me. I don’t like my name. It’s so traditional and ancient sounding. Why my Mother thought Josephine Clara Alexandra Clarke was a good idea for a baby girl born in 1987 was a good idea, I’ll never understand. I think it’s something to do with her name being Anne. She had to go overboard with me.

Rowan finally stirs. “J, what are you doing up this early?” he mutters with his eyes still mainly closed, half sat up whilst leaning on his elbow. I hate pointless chit chat like this, particularly in the early morning. Why does he need to interrogate my every move? I got up a bit early, so what? “I couldn’t sleep, so decided to get up” I respond politely. Not highlighting my aggravation towards him despite him being conscious for no more than 43 seconds. I offer to make him a coffee, mainly to prevent any more interaction if I’m honest. I make the worst coffee. I have no idea why he accepted the offer. I have no idea how anyone can make instant coffee taste bad, but nonetheless, I manage it. He smiles at me from across the room when I return with a mug of steaming, disgusting tasting coffee and taps the bed, in a hint for me to get back in with him. He rarely pays me any attention. I know he loves me deep down, but we seem to have skipped all the romance of being a relatively new couple, in love, who’ve recently moved in together to being a pair of sixty year olds who vegetate in front of the television constantly as soon as we’re in each-others company. My daily routine consists of going to work for eight hours, doing the shopping on the way home, cooking the dinner as soon as I get in and doing the washing before a lacklustre evening in front of a screen, with minimal conversation. Rowan is nearly always playing his Xbox as soon as I get back from work, making no effort to assist with the house chores despite always being home before me. His hours are far more flexible than mine due to his job. He’s an Architect. It’s one of the things that first drew me to him in the first place. He’s a very clever man and he has a knack for creativity. I clamber back into the bed and lay next to him, being careful not to mess up my recently applied face and begin to wonder when we got to this point in our relationship, when did it all get so, bland. I begin to analyse and reminisce, I embrace my habit of overthinking and Rowan does nothing to distract me. He’s engrossed in his silent coffee sipping.

We met on Tinder, the online dating app. I was so very reluctant at first to even attempt this method of dating at first but my best friend, Martha, convinced me that this was the way to go after we’d started the consumption of our second bottle of Malbec. Everyone knows that any decision made after one bottle of wine is always going to be an excellent idea. “Come on Jo, give me your phone” she demanded, reaching over the sofa towards me with her hand outstretched. Reluctantly I handed her my phone and the nightmare process of creating a profile began. There is nothing so cringe worthy as making an online dating profile. The bio has to be witty, honest, hilarious and sexy all in one go, as no one will want to go on a date with a boring, old prune. I let Martha deal with this. I also let her deal with the five photos you have to upload, as I couldn’t decide which one’s reflected my personality best. I liked the sporty, action type ones which I thought made me look interesting and cool but she disagreed. It wasn’t sexy and appealing enough apparently. She would know. She’s had more men on the go than I would know what to do with. Not in a slutty way, but in a free, independent, modern day woman, kind of way. “No strings, no hassle” as she regularly likes to tell me. I’m fairly envious of this approach but would never be brave or social enough to try it myself. Martha is a very confident, charismatic character with a talent for attracting and handling men. Taming them to suit her needs if you will. Men have always preferred her to me despite her not being quite as aesthetic. She’s attractive but not traditionally pretty. She has shoulder length, wavy, thick copper hair, with legs almost as long as my entire body. She’s very slim and elegant looking and you can’t help but look at her when she enters a room. She’s always immaculately dressed and her make up heavy and perfect. She eclipses everyone else around her without even trying. We’ve been friends since we met at university in Bristol, doing our undergraduate Law degrees. Of course, Martha being Martha, she picked up the first-class honours at graduation, whilst I was second best with my measly 2:1. It’s always been Martha and Jo. Never Jo and Martha. I’m happy enough to walk in her shadow though, too much limelight isn’t really my thing. We began the process of our man hunt online on my behalf. Martha judging them entirely on their appearance with me trying to sneak a peak at their bios before she swiped them away, never to be seen again. After several more glasses of red, because this is how time is measured when you’re with friends, we came across Rowan. Martha was all ready to swipe him away as he wasn’t her type at all. A little too old for her with no prominent muscles on show. He was too much of a genuine, human being for Martha’s attention to be captured. “Wait” I said as I grabbed the phone off her. The bio read “Irish, 32, Architect, new to Bath”. It wasn’t funny or particularly sexy but it said what it needed to and I appreciated the bluntness. “He’s too old for you, he even has grey bits in his hair on the edges” Martha protested whilst gulping too large a mouthful from her glass. I inspected the pictures closer, having only glanced at them previously. He seemed tall. Around 6 foot at least, though it’s difficult to tell from a photograph. His hair was dark for the most part, though Martha was right, there was a few streaks of grey around the edges, but nothing too major. This didn’t bother me anyway. He had a kind, handsome-ish face that had an honesty about it that none of the other Tinder men seemed to possess. He had a good job and was Irish. What woman doesn’t love an Irish accent on a tall, dark haired man. I decided to swipe right. We had a match. “He liked me too, look!” I expressed to Martha, who was already losing interest in this task and was more interested in her phone and her own love life as she sat on the end of the sofa smirking to herself about something. Some kinky message from one of her many men I expect. Eventually, after a few minutes or so, she remembered I was there and her attention was back in the room. “So, are you going to message him? Will you ask him to go out for a drink?” She blurted out with a new-found enthusiasm. I didn’t know what to write. So as usual, Martha took charge. “Hey there” she typed and sent, the conversation was started. “There you go” she announced triumphantly like she’d been any help at all. “Now it’s your turn and remember, be yourself but sexier” she said whilst getting up to make her escape. I put my phone to one side and headed towards the front door to see her out. “Until next time darling. Keep me updated with Irish” she demanded on her way out, objectifying him with his nationality immediately. “His name is Rowan” I shout as she’s halfway down the driveway, attempting to remind her that men are people too.

As I closed the door I heard a ping from my phone in the living room. A very quick response indeed. I walked swiftly back to the other room and snatched up my phone in an overly keen fashion. It was Rowan. “Hey there, pretty lady” it read. I had that warm, fuzzy feeling inside my stomach as I read the message. I was being silly. “He’s probably messaging many different women exactly the same thing” I told myself. I couldn’t help but feel a buzz from it. We chatted for hours about everything and anything until the early hours in the morning, when I eventually dropped off to sleep. This went on for around a month when I decided to be brave and actually meet him in person. I wasn’t intending to ever meet him if I’m honest and was happy enough just receiving flattering messages but Martha persuaded me to make it my new years resolution to go on a blind date and convinced me that I might even enjoy it. I hate dates. They are so awkward and awful. They’re like an interview where you’re being judged on how you look as well as who you are as a person. Giving you double the reason to doubt yourself and scrutinise if you’re good enough. I put my fears to one side, embraced Martha’s confidence in the plan and arranged a date with Rowan.