I've been o'ding on Brit tv lately. Not on purpose, purely by chance, and truly--I'm not a tv watcher by nature. I picked up my wayward cable again last year when Mike was coming to stay as it was Canadian winter, he needed American football, and he loves the Food Network. I can take or leave TV. But, truth be told, it has had, lately, a good effect on me. As in: tranquilizing. As in, my not so much up in my head. Me, unwinding, and reading in front of it, as I always do, and letting my thoughts take flight, like they do when I read.
So, it's been all good.
Caught another wonderful UK Law and Order tonight, all sorts of complicated.
Then, while flipping, lying on the couch and icing my foot (don't ask. too many kilometers on the weekend, way too much ambition to work off 2 dinners, and far too challenging of a pace set), anyway, icing away, watching DUSK (last night I made it through Candyman ALONE, and I have to say--I didn't just focus on the horror of it all--I looked at the gorgeously-shot, ariel views of Chicago, the backdrop of the southside against the glittering architecture of the beckoning city--that is the realy horror if you ask me. The true parts).
Anyway, flipping about, RICE-ing, and I stumbled on IFC "Secret Diary of a Call Girl". This is the Brit's answer to Carrie Bradshaw. Instead of writing a column about sex, though, she gets paid to have it. See? The Brits like to, sometimes (alot) show the Americans how it's done (good on them). And while British men are not my thing in real life, on film and in speech they are delish. But whatever. I digress.
Once again, as with Law and Order UK vs Law and Order Gorefest Inc, Secret Diary is more about feelings than Sex and the City was. I am not kidding.
Tonight's eppy hinged on the word "kinky", ie, something with kinks and twists. And, as the heroine Belle so succinctly put it, finding that one who loves yours unconditionally. I liked the sound of that. This little in-the-head dialogue, clearly taken from Carrie's endless narrative, was, however, voiced-over the images of her fellow prossy-best-friend falling head over heels (reciprocated) in love with a whacky client, and pasted us against the passionate "one of" (Brit slang for a one-night-stand, how do they think this stuff up?) with a man Belle is interested in, who dumps her seconds after their 'shag'.
Christ. Ouch.
It brought me back to my own twenties, not in 'fond memory' express lane either. It brought me back to all those one-ofs, those men who thought that by f*cking you, they could control you, and how wrong they really were. I thought about how selective I was in the men I brought into my little Bathurst world at the time. About how exciting it could be when I did let someone in. And how crushing I felt when they disappointed me (or when, worst of all, over and over--I disappointed myself).
I'm just musing. I watched the images on Secret Diary, I remembered the excitement of those times, those days, more importantly, those nights, and how I was not sad to see them go.
I reflect that this is what it took to get me here, with Mike. I met him over ten years ago. Yet I wasn't ready to accept and love myself until about two years ago, just before I 'met' him again, for the second time.
Where-we're-supposed to be.
It's just that kind of post.
Me musing, practising, looking.
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