The shiny ring. The big white dress. The ceremony in front of hundreds. The decadent reception… Barbie Dolls, fairy tales and stereotypes have a lot to answer for when it comes to the pressure some women undergo in an effort to get their man to tie the knot.
“I must get married before I turn 30 this year,” Sharon repeats to an audience bored with her fixation, asking for advice on how to lure her live-in boyfriend Mike into marriage. She carries with her a sketch of a diamond ring, a photograph of a wedding dress and speaks of the reception venue she has selected. She dreams of a house with a white picket fence and lots of children. Naturally, she will stop working while he becomes the sole provider for their large family. Mike has not even hinted at the happily ever after. One could say that she is slightly obsessive were it not for the fact that I know a few women who share a similar predicament.
As for my advice on how to coerce a man to marry her, I told her the story of my friend Tina, who at the age of twenty, was about to be married after manipulating her (then) boyfriend to pop the ever-after question.
“You too can make D marry you if you’re clever about it,” Tina told me as if she were an expert on proposals.
I reminded her that D has proposed to me twice, on bended knee, but I had no intention of getting engaged at 19 or getting married at 21 while I was a full time student without any life experience.
Tina shrugged. “I’m just saying…” And so was I.
A couple of months after her wedding, she got herself pregnant to educate him in responsibilities. Two years later, they divorced.
Tina’s story fell on Sharon’s deaf ears as she was determined to drag Mike down the aisle before she turns into a pumpkin. I refrained from asking Sharon her expectations of life beyond marriage and the white picket fence. It was all a contrived dream from which she did not want to awake. Maybe she will take the leap year initiative and propose to him today.
Some men will never ask the question until they feel ready. Pressuring them and manipulating them into marriage is a selfish act that serves a one-sided purpose when marriage is meant to be a partnership.
Yet I ponder, do men allow themselves to be coerced into marriage when they’re uncertain and not ready, and why? Do women feel comfortable in the knowledge that through their actions and persistence, they have dragged their man down the aisle?
When the weather heats up and humankind sheds layers of clothing, a new canvas is revealed. During the last few months, I have sighted an unusually high number of ink blots triggering thoughts of pain and permanency.
Inked and coloured, body art now covers unusually large surfaces and locations where once they adorned smaller and less noticeable areas. While they may be pleasing to some, I see these as indelible mistakes to be regretted at some point in life.
I was once asked to photograph a colleague’s lower back tattoo while she was with child in order to record the before and after effects of stretched skin. I obliged, after she almost stripped in our office and the flash went a couple of times, much to the whispers outside. She never returned to work for the ‘after’ shots nor did I get in touch for another photo shoot.
Recently I learned the purpose of the lower back Celtic or tribal tattoo. The man, who was kind enough to allow me five minutes in his brain, was quick to correct when I suggested that it was there to provide a visual stimulus or entertainment during the act, thinking that men can get easily bored. But when told me that it served a more functional purpose, not unlike that of a bank, where certain deposits are made, my response was a long drawn “ahh…”. Clearly, I failed the man-test.
As much as the sight of taut, bare and tanned skin is pleasing to the eye during the hot months, a human chalkboard covered with unusually large tattoos leaves me in search of untarnished skin where my wicked imagination can leave its own indelible marks.
Art may imitate life at present, but I cannot help but see these as ineffaceable mistakes to be regretted later when life ends up imitating art with faded ink and sagged designs.
* Photograph is a close up of a bottle of Parfums Jean-Paul Gaultier, Eau D’été
On the weekend, I took myself and my insecurities to the beach. I walked down the long stretch of sand towards the water’s edge, blue beach bag on my shoulder, Havaianas in hand, and passed by the countless beautiful women who dotted the shoreline with bodies better than mine.
Multi-coloured swimsuits adorned a myriad of body shapes and sizes, triggering a mental comparison of mine to theirs. The one in a pale pink bikini is taller than me yet her skin is covered in large and raised freckles. The one in brown and blue stripes has a totally flat abdomen but her breasts are almost non-existent. The one in powder blue has an hourglass figure but the top of her thighs don’t hide that dimpled look very well. The one in orange bottoms and a black top has beautiful hair and a perfect mouth but she is much shorter than I am. The one in a one piece black costume has arms and legs that are perfectly toned but her face is creased with lines that make her look older than she is. The one in a yellow floral bikini has long and shapely legs but her tummy sticks out farther than her breasts.
And the comparisons continued. By the time I picked my spot, laid my towel on the sand, wiggled out of my beach dress down to my bikini, the insecurities washed away with the next wave that tickled a little girl’s feet.
We live in a world surrounded with images of imperfect perfections. With photoshopped models selling us unattainable figures and flawless skin, air-brushed celebrities promoting their excessive lifestyles as the norm, we are slaves to a rise in insecurities. When the media and society simultaneously poke fun at women with an ever shifting goal post, and praise those for not looking their age, it is with a blatant disregard to the truth being a massive advertising campaign for Botox, liposuction, enhancements and other forms of plastic surgery. We don’t even bat our heavily-mascaraed eyelids when they label younger women “slutty” or “slappers”, older women as “mutton dressed as lamb”, and promote the Brazilian wax and pole dancing to pre-teens.
Just like the inevitable rising tide at the end of a sun-soaked day, there will always be someone who will challenge our insecurities. Taking a fresh and realistic look will serve well to reaffirm our individuality instead of feeding our imperfections.
No woman is perfect, yet we continue to seek that holy grail through imperfect means.
If you’re looking for a happier or fun-charged post, you might like to scroll down or come back another day. This one is for me. I feel the need to purge the thoughts and emotions that have taken over my normality over the last few days before I can return to my usual writing style.
I went to the funeral. There were many people crammed into the church on this unusually hot day. A few hundred in fact, leaving little room but for the late comers who struggled with parking to sit huddled together in the back pews.
The service began with angelic voices. To call it an emotional experience would be stating the obvious. The 25 minute eulogy read more like curriculum vitae interspersed with family events than a celebration of a person’s life, but it was impressive nonetheless. However much it fascinated me, I found it a harrowing experience. Her dearly departed parent shares the same name as mine. And the emotions erupted within me every time I heard it; a premonition I tried to cast aside, or a déjà vu of the future, if there is such a thing. I realised that in my mind I was escaping to a far away land, one that is not grounded in reality.
Due to the family’s wishes as well as circumstances beyond my control, both of which I cannot elaborate on, I was unable to get anywhere near my friend or her family to offer my condolences. I caught a glimpse of her at the end of the service when the procession made its exit. She walked alone, while everyone else was comforted by someone close. Her eyes remained downcast and she held it together, on the outside. My heart broke the moment I saw her. Alone. I wanted to jump out of my pew and hug her. But I could do no such thing. Instead, I hoped that my thoughts would find a way to her, even telepathically.
I felt very upset that I could not offer condolences or comfort on the day before I took my leave of everyone. Sadly, it had to be this way. A few hours later and with clarity of mind, I decided to send her a card and a hand-written long letter. Maybe a quiet get together over a coffee is more our way.
To top the heightened emotions of the day, we were not three. Nor could we be together. Last minute circumstances prevented the third from attending the funeral. I knew she was most upset as much as knew we were three in spirit.
Funerals, and more often wakes, offer a kind of release after one has paid their last respects, a closure of deep emotions that bubble and rise to the surface then somehow find a certain calm. I did not have that closure and it will remain so until I have the heart to write that letter. At least I had the chance to pay my last respects.
Note: I have decided against disabling comments on this post. I know some of you like to have a voice, but I am not expecting any replies. I feel as if I have said everything I need to say, for now. If you have read this post in its entirety, then you have shared some of my sentiments and I thank you.
Snippets of life, whimsical thoughts, and naughty observations as seen through the mischievous eye of a woman who is just at home with Martinis as she is with Caffè Latte. -- Cléa
The shiny ring. The big white dress. The ceremony in front of hundreds. The decadent reception… Barbie Dolls, fairy tales and stereotypes have a lot to answer for when it comes to the pressure some women undergo in an effort to get their man to tie the knot.
When the weather heats up and humankind sheds layers of clothing, a new canvas is revealed. During the last few months, I have sighted an unusually high number of ink blots triggering thoughts of pain and permanency.