A quiet time...

So I’m talking to this lovely gentleman earlier in the evening, and he makes the passing remark that once you pass 35 and you’re single, going out becomes a lot more complicated; most, if not all, of your friends are attached, odds are married with kids, playing happy families and such like couple nonsense.  You no longer have a plan for every hour of the weekend, he said, and I agreed.  If you’re lucky you may have a plan once a month, but only for the daylight hours of the weekend, before the kids need to be taken home and put to bed.  Now people, I got no babies, real or imagined.  I have nowhere to be by 8 pm.  I have no reason to get up at the crack of dawn.  And as much as I despair at the death of my social life, thanks to other people’s marital status, I absolutely love that I am loose like a langa.  A langa with no plan, but loose nonetheless.  It’s brilliant!  Well, maybe not so much.  I want my single friends back.  I want people I can while away an afternoon with, secure in the knowledge that the only plan for later that evening is going dancing in some suitably crowded establishment of (ill?) repute. 


I need new friends, ideally long of tooth, like myself, but lacking in plan, like myself.

In a conversation with my mother, not long after said conversation with said gentleman, she not so innocently pointed out that I have no business attending other people’s weddings when I am not married myself, this after I told her I couldn’t go visit her next Saturday, because I have to go for a former workmate’s wedding.  She laughed as she uttered this proclamation, but then she felt the need to add, ‘I’m serious…’ after the laughter.  And she was.  She expounded.  At length.  I told her to stop talking shit (not in those exact words, I told her ‘wacha kunichokoza madam!’  Much more polite, no?  Probably not.), and then I went on to distract her with a bit of bullshit about her Jubilee government and their silly antics, hoping to distract her (she voted 6-piece in the last election, for the prezzo(s) and co., and thanks to her brilliance, her governor is now an alleged pharmacist with feminist leanings, in the loosest sense of the word feminist.  Can you say divine justice?).  The woman, my mother, was not to be derailed from her Saturday night mission, unfortunately, and she pressed on with her attack on my singleness, repeating that I have no business at a wedding, in a church no less, without a husband at my side.  Then she told me to make sure I don’t work too hard and made me promise to eat a vegetable soon, and then she rang off, smiling smugly no doubt, proud of her none too subtle hints at grandbabies.

And that was my Saturday night.  Exciting no?  No.

Ah fuck it!  Who says I have to go out every weekend to be happy and fulfilled?  Who says a night spent with Steven Soderbergh and a bottle of wine is a bad thing?  The man is a genius, and the wine is Chilean, also genius.  I don’t care what my mother says, I don’t need a husband to be part of this society.  Or do I?  I love my mother, but she has the frightening ability to make me think about crap that I don’t need to be thinking about.  Damn that woman, damn her!  No, I shall remain focused!  I shall not be distracted by her quest for yet another child named after her good self.  I’m all good.  I am, right?  So help me, if you are not nodding right now I will find you and I will slap you… 

I still need new friends though, friends who are loose on a Sato, and not looking to funga, because those ones are always trouble, they’re the ones who insist on going to bloody Westlands at 2 in the morning, and then they dump you at the door as they follow the nearest thing in a short skirt, or a tight shirt.  Trust me, do not go clubbing with those types, it never ends well.  How it ends is with you dropping off a strange girl in some remote part of the city centre, because your idiot pal took the other one home, and the other one was the one who allegedly had their cab fare in her purse (really?).  True story.  I really need new friends…

Earlier this week a (new-ish) friend told me I needed to get away from the blog, get away from Alex and her workaholic tendencies (his words), get back into the world, so to speak.  He meant well, I hope, he was thinking more along the lines of finding myself another hobby, preferably one that does not involve talking to strangers.  Thing is, I don’t think he realises what its like to be a single 30 something in this city, a discerning single 30 something.  The thing about being in your 30’s, you no longer feel the need to chase the party, preferring to go out only when you are moved by the spirit(s), going out to places where real conversations are had, where the music has a melody, where the pictures on the wall are more art than neon beer ad (or where there are no pictures at all), where the people sitting at the counter aren’t nursing Pilsners (no offence).  At my age, I go out to enjoy the company of other people, and not to get my drunk on, because I get my drunk on way better in my house, with my old school jams and my (almost) premium alcohol.  I’m just saying, these days, going out is even more of a social activity than it was in my 20’s, in the sense that the quality of the company is as important, if not more so, as the drink in my hand.  I’m guessing the younglings reading this are looking at me with one eye, suspicious.  My dear young ones, the time will come when being (seen) at the hottest bar is no longer enough.  For real.  Live it up while you can, in 5 years you will sound like me.  Insert evil laughter here… 

On a completely unrelated note, I’m listening to Johnny Gill’s ‘Provocative’ tonight, an album that should be required listening to anyone who claims to love R&B.

Hush, don’t say a word just come on in, my baby,
Your body language explains it all, girl you need love,
It’s been a hard day for you and me,
But now we’re free, enjoy a summer’s evening…

Now the work is over,
Let the tension fade,
Now it’s a quiet time for loving,
A quiet time to play…

Ah Mr Gill, you are a lovely, lovely man  ‘A Quiet time To Play’ is the kind of song you want playing on that mellow evening when all is right in your world, kinda, and lust is on your mind, kinda.  I shall say no more, because if you don’t feel me on this, then you are clearly in the wrong place.  Did I mention there’s no point to this post?  I didn’t?  My bad.  Ladies and gentlemen, there is absolutely no point to this post.  None.