Over and Under

After a big paddy over a big overreaction, leading to a great show for the oldies on a coach, and a surprise cancellation of a tattoo, my love and I walked hand in hand back up an overcrowded street into the town where we had wasted yet another day.

Another tantrum, another proof of my underwhelming sense of self-esteem and lack of understanding for my man and my relationship. I keep finding myself breaking down over little things and giving our problems much better press than they deserve. After all, you should have to pay for a ticket and a heftily overpriced box of popcorn to see someone bare that much in the street. It shouldn’t come to you without you asking first. Bypassers, I apologise, and I demand that you give back all those images that you caught out of the corner of your politically-correct public-place eyes.

Having watched Control, I was actually impressed by how much control Ian Curtis seemed to have of himself. He was passionate, creative, productive, and grabbed opportunities. He was decisive.

The biggest decision I made this weekend was the song I will do my first striptease to as soon as I have a long enough break from my overwhelmed little heart and the bruises and cuts that turn up after a week at work like forgotten unfortunate school friends on social networking sites. That was, until I got over myself and realised that I got it good. I got it bad for my man, he’s got it bad for me, and we got each other whenever we need. Sure he’s a drive away but that’s do-able, and after all the shit we put each other through in public and private, we can still make each other laugh, and set the record straight from there. And that’s another thing I’m grateful for. He may not like it, but he isn’t afraid to argue in public anymore. And I feel so lucky to have that openness because ‘behind closed doors’ is a phrase banned from my hypothetical house-with-dog-and-kids-when-I-grow-up. I am proud of all that I am and I want no one to ignore any part of me before accepting or rejecting me. I like my flaws and my qualities equally, and I like airing my dirty laundry. I almost wish for nosey fifties-feminist neighbours to spy on me and whisper behind snapped-shut curtains.

I need to swear and talk about sex and people I don’t like. I refuse to get over my boyfriend. I am under him, and over myself. My grandchildren will call me Bunny, or Wrinkles by his persuasion, and I will never be over the hill. I will be the kind of adult as in ‘Adult Shop’ and ‘Adult Themes’, but I will never be a grown up.

Oh, and uh, this is the song:


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