“In my dreams! I have a plan, if I got myself a wealthy man….MONEY MONEY MONEY! It’s a rich mans world! A man like that is hard to find…”.
Ah yes, my lullaby. Abba tells it just right. I want too much in life. My boss insinuates this every other day (after I ask for another ludicrous raise, new responsibilities and other general diva like behaviour- I mean can I be the CEO please?). The answer always kind-of means the same thing – “be patient Ellen”.
Well. I fucking cannot be patient. It’s not in my blood. At 20 years old I had a plan. I would be married by 25! Buy a house! Have my first child by 27. Be a CEO. Well friends, I am turning 27 this year and as the minutes tick by, I wonder why I am sitting on my bed in a digs, Yes a digs, (This is also known as ‘shared living’) and not owning my own home.
Also did I mention I am single? In London (the horror)! Single! Did I think I would have a hot body by now, also yes. I had high hopes. But alas right now I am behaving like a mad cretin shoving my mouth full of cheese curls while I write this. Before all my fans get so worried about me (you know, because this blog is so popular and all), my mother has already rung to ask if I had some protein with my dinner. I did, I had a hard-boiled egg with pesto. PESTO! I didn’t even know about pesto before London. I thought it was a vitamin mush for my dogs when I saw it in my fridge at home in South Africa. This pesto is life changing. Anyway, enough about pesto. Like clockwork, before I go to bed my mother will message and ask about my vitamin intake today. I will lie and say I ate some oranges but realistically I have taken some vitamins from Holland and Barratt (I love pills just by the way) and called it a “healthy day.” I should make more smoothies, cook more spinach, eat more tofu (become a vegan, change my name to ‘Sage’, go on a yoga trip to Bali, become holistic, you know, the usual).
Speaking of tofu, one thing you should know about me is that I do not cook. It is a waste of my time. It takes ten years to buy groceries, fifteen years to cook and fifty years to clean it all up. I can never get the portions right. I will cook some sloppy mess for an army OR have a boiled egg and some chips (like tonight). There is no in-between. Asking me to eat healthily after 6 pm is like asking Zuma to deliver a decent speech in parliament. They both have the same tragic outcomes.
I dream of a life where I come home to my clean house (hardest part of digs living is not killing your housemates with the nearest tea spoon), a fiancé/husband/boyfriend with a meal ready (dare I reverse the stereotype?) a loving cuddle and a cup of tea together. I have no connection to Brittany’s Instagram quote telling me to “love my single life”. No. No likes for you. I WANT A MAN! I DO! IS THIS A CRIME? But nope. Bumble just never calls back for a second date.
I am not a single person. I have always been in relationships. Freud would have much to say about this, and he is probably right. But I don’t care. I dream of the day where my rent is less (bed sharing). Cooking for two people (is cheaper and less depressing than my egg-dinner life). Pooling together money for dinners, sharing meal, organising holidays together. Waking up with ‘that’ person – so cheesy I know (yes sometimes that “morning snake poke” is the last thing you want when you have been drooling all night – but you could always whack that snake with a stick if you don’t fancy it at 6 am).
This brings me to the problem of the single salary. Better or worse financially? I shave my legs and armpits (for what- razors and shaving cream add up BTW from POUND LAND) I have spent THOUSANDS on (pubic) laser hair removal (yes I just wrote this online), facials, cream, gym contracts in order to get this 6/10 body and yet I go to bed alone. I take myself out for dinner. I buy my own flowers and perfume. Some days I am so liberated and I think mad thoughts like “YOLO FUCK YA’LL dudes” hashtagging#independantwomen #idontneednoman. I usually end up with a tattoo after these days and a new hair style (throw in a chart which will document my ‘exercise plan’). I will go to the office, guns blazing! My boss will know I am having an episode and ask me when I last slept. My assistant will look so worried (and scared) he will try hide his 6 ft 5 self behind his computer while he plays on Tinder. I will feel like I am taking over the world and close 50 deals in one day. I am also a maniac. Is it the Ritalin or the MAD BOOST from the vitamins? No one knows. Other days I get home and I look at my sad little eggs in their bowl and wonder if they are also feeling lost. Probably not because I will eat them and then they will have no feelings. Oh life can be so cruel my little eggs! But then again they are eggs so they don’t have a dwindling bank account either.
Do I miss washing skid marked broekies? Do I miss hearing about your poo schedule? No. I do not. Let us also remember, I work in the porn industry so nothing can REALLY shock me (I think this job is why I can’t get a second Bumble date- or is it my over bearing personality…to be debated).
Tonight I will go to bed alone, with my single salary but I will also go to bed knowing that I am single, therefore I make the rules. I can use my sexuality to do this, get a tiny bit ahead…wherever, whenever. I am a diva. It doesn’t matter anymore that we openly speak of such things. I don’t care. These days I think this a new wave of feminism. Perhaps yes, perhaps some real feminists might come and burn me in the night. We aren’t supposed to talk about using our sexuality to get ahead. I am not supposed to talk about many things. It’s not lady like. I’ve heard this often: “men want to marry a lady”. Well I guess men don’t always want to marry women like me. Diva demands! Big mouth! Unrealistic expectations in relatiosnhips from social media. Ah yes, but I want what I want, I don’t want to settle. I need someone to run free with me. You know what I am saying?
So in closing, thank you very much Filipo for ordering my cab after my free dinner- can you also order me 5 Mcdonalds burgers? For later of course. I gym every day (because, I am single I don’t rush home to cook for no man- and alas I never will) so I will add some nuggets in there. Actually throw some chips in there too Filipo. It is on your account because after all, in reality I am an ex Bryanston go-er and curently live in Acton. At 10 pm and me and my nuggets go to sleep quite peacefully. No skid-marked broekies for me.
See you later rich married peeps.