spotlessness

It's a beautiful mid-September's day. The sun is strong and bright but tempered by intermittent grey clouds. The breeze, now a wind that slams against the sash windows, betrays the coming of autumn. I came home mid-morning after struggling to get up for an early meeting that I managed to miss entirely. Cosas de mujeres. I downed some paracetemol, and drifted in and out of consciousness watching 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' nestled in a sea of pillows. There's something comforting in the idea that regardless of what happens, even given the possibility of changing the events of our lives, we eventually return to some 'intended' trajectory. Some encounters, some people, are simply inevitable.

Non-stop socialising across multiple social groupings of varying maturities - the bankers, the architects/designers, the British desis, the Polish gang, etc. - over the past few weeks has been a re-education. Weekends have been much busier with many broken promised engagements on my part. It's almost as if at the core I'm still in middle school - I'm not used to people wanting to hang out with me. In these weeks I've been called a bitch more times than I wish to admit - a mix of constantly taking the piss, being more direct than most, and exhibiting antisocial behaviour in large groups - and yet my phone rings now more than ever before. Only confirms my belief that people are masochistic. The worst I treat them, the more of me they want.

But the weekend has been overwhelmed with one over-riding sentiment: when it rains, it pores. Potential mates abound but I hesitate, finding myself having to readjust my expectations and ideals. Last year I simply said yes to everything and everyone. This year, I'm tempted to step back and not engage, at least until I've figured out what I want. But then, shit happens. It's a good thing that being wrong gets easier as one ages.