Married man vs Bachelor

The fairytale all bachelors THINK they live in

You, my single young stallion friend –  are NOT as “free” as you want the rest of the world to think you are.

Yes, I know you can go out to clubs whenever you want and you have like a hundred names on your phone of girls you want all your buddies to believe you have on speed dial as booty calls.

Yes, I know you have like a thousand xbox games and a fridge full of beer and you and the boys have loud weekend parties at your combined furnished pad which you share with two other single friends.

Together your group is the Mount Everest of singledom. You and your man-pose have it made man. You are the modern hunters of the concrete jungle. If cool could be likened to a movie, you guys would make the Hangover series look like a Tom and Jerry rerun. Except of course the guys in the Hangover actually had careers. And money. And well kitted apartments. And they partied in exotic locations. With hookers. And they’re all actors.

I think your idea of being a single guy out on the prowl every weekend is a lie. Worst of all, it’s a lie you tell yourself and you know it. All your friends know that you’re lying to yourself but they keep quiet about it, because they find your lie rather amusing.

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Reality check boys!

You’re not a hunter. You’re just real easy prey.

Here’s the proof to blow your mind a little:

You and your single buddies hit the club on Friday night.

You go early and make sure you have enough spending cash for drinks and whatever else you need to make it a good night. At the club, you pay an entrance fee. You walk in and head straight to the bar (scanning the area for hotties of course as you do so). At the bar you congregate with other groups of single dudes and start talking about work, and sport and hot girls.

An hour or so later, you and the group move closer to the dancefloor (not to dance – because you haven’t had nearly enough drinks for that) to have a look at some of the girls getting their groove on with their girlfriends.

You recognize one of them and she comes over for the “hello hug” before you offer to buy her a drink. She places her order and like a good boy you run over to the bar and wait in line at the now overcrowded counter. You get the drink and deliver it to said recognized hottie who is now handing out “hello hugs” to the rest of the single guys who also recognized her.

In short. You end up going home alone, a little too drunk to text the girl who gave you her number after the seventh drink you bought her in the hopes of scoring. But you didn’t score. But you have added another number to your phonebook.

She, on the other hand, had a blast with all the free drinks, the attention from at least a handful of guys, good music, great party with her girlfriends and another funny story of “omg did you see how drunk that guy was who kept buying me drinks? Shame, I gave him my domestic worker’s number because he was trying so hard – poor dude. Hahaha.”

When was the last time you went out and had a group of girls buy you drinks the whole night? When was the last time a girl you didn’t know came up to you in a club and said “hey wanna dance?” or “hey my name’s Sally, you have such pretty eyes, can I buy you a drink?”

Exactly.

Why being a married guy kicks ass

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Instead of writing a long and complicated introduction as to why being a married dude rocks, I’ve broken it down into an easily understandable list below:

  1. Boobs. Yip, married guys get to see boobs EVERY day. And we get to see boobs in real life, not just on a mobile phone screen.
  2. Underwear. Married guys have a woman’s underwear in their bedroom every day without even trying.
  3. Hugs and kisses. To a married guy, hugs are not just for “hello” and kisses are not just pecks on the cheek. Oh no. We get those really-tight-up-against-you bear hugs that usually accompany a kiss on the lips. With tongue action.
  4. Exclusivity. Not only do we get to see boobs and underwear and whole bunch of nakedness every day for the rest of our lives….but we are the only ones who will ever see those particular pair of boobies, that sexy underwear set and all that nakedness again. And that, my friend, is a resounding win.
  5. Couples discounts. Many restuarants and spa’s have them. In fact, even retreats and resorts have special couple’s rates which you wouldn’t understand the benefits of if you’re not a couple.
  6. Inside Jokes. I could tell you but….
  7. Permanent conversation. Us married guys get to have conversations about literally anything. All the time. And you wouldn’t believe it, but we get to have discussions about other women that would literally blow your mind!
  8. Next round’s on me. Unlike my single friends, I don’t have to do all the pouring of drinks at a party, and when my wife and I go out to a club or restaurant, I’m not the one who always has to pay for the next round either.
  9. Driving roulette. Married guys don’t have to drive everywhere anymore. Long road trips are way more fun now that I have a driving buddy.
  10. Touch. Us married guys get to touch a woman’s hand, hip, bum, neck, back, hair and even her nose whenever we stretch out our arms. It’s really quite amazing to think that when you’re married just a few months, you’ve already had more physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, than most of your single male friends have had in the past two years.
  11. Showers. I would bet my month’s salary that my shower time beats that of any single guy hands down, every day.
  12. Sexting. Yip, we have that too. Except it’s way more rewarding than when you’re single because guess what? Me, I’m definitely gonna score.
  13. Gym Partners. Not only do I get to go to walk into the gym with a hot woman every day…I get to leave with one wearing yoga pants every day too. And then later…I get to shower with that hot yogi.
  14. A way out. Sorry guys I can’t go to the club to get pissed with the rest of you tonight because my hot, yoga pants-wearing wife and I are doing a Harry Potter marathon with wine and snacks.
  15. Knowledge. Since being married I have gained a lot of inside info on the world of the female which my single buddies will possibly never be privi to. Like for example what girls actually think about the guys in clubs who buy them drinks. 🙂
  16. A girl is wearing my shirt. And it looks so damned sexy when she brings us coffee in the morning wearing my shirt with her hair all frizzy and her makeup faded. Mostly because she is wearing JUST my shirt.

I have about a hundred more reasons that would fill up this list, but I don’t want to completely ruin the rest of your single life all in one foul sweep – afterall you have to figure out the rest of it yourself before your favourite barman resigns.

I’m going to leave you with one last thought. Being married is not a sentence, it is in many ways, the end of one.

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Eighteen Minutes Passed the Hour

If a day had only eighteen hours I would gladly spend the first sixteen musing over the thought of her. A more amorous day I find hard to imagine, and were I to be proven wrong, that day too would become only if she insisted.

I am completely and utterly bemused. Reason tugs at me – It cannot, must not – should never be. It’s not reality, it’s all just an orchestrated play. But yes it is – as real to me as the shadow that follows as each footstep takes me further from away.

Drunk in awe I am of her. A fact I wish I knew of ways to adequately say.

I blink and she is gone too long, her touch I have so long evaded for fear of what I wish to never say. I really should just come out and say it, I mean really. But what if I ruin it? What if I make this beautiful place disappear – or even worse still, what if I make her disappear? I couldn’t bare that thought. As much as I long for just a moment to hold her – just a moment – not to speak or breathe or think, just a moment to be, I cannot risk it. She means so much more to me than superficial bits and pieces.

Why exactly I don’t think I will ever be sure. But then, I don’t think everything in life needs to be validated by proof or facts or even reason. Sometimes some times are just there. And they exist as do we…the trick however is to find harmony between them. The joy lies in experiencing them for what they are, precious.

Each time that I am near I sway to the pulse of her smile and have to stop myself from saying that “gods dammit I am so swept away by you”.

And I know that even as she reads this, the sweetest grin across her face is just appearing, a giggle, a chuckle or a smile perhaps?

I know she knows, because we both know.

You inspire me. I am captivated.

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Everything forever a mystery.

What a wonderful thing adding to a colour – something to mean.

A brush upon pearlescent.

Surface so pure.

An aesthetic to please none but the weary pools of lost endeavour.

 

Coy it becomes.

The glimmer of her smile across a place

that captivates so

this humble servant of written word.

Another stroke of nine to go as one is left so perfectly to cure.

 

Moments not even left for gone had determined this colour upon

a place where I long for mine to ever clearly be.

Touch.

The bristles sway as she controls its wash.

Moving with grace a lifetime may see never perfected, this artist does.

 

Eight to go and time stands still.

Again she looks and sees it right

enough to shift her gaze and with a slight adjust

the brush to colour another must.

 

Trivial a thought this pattern be.

For one as amazing and careful as she,

the artist drops to seven as bristles they seem just never quite right to be.

Colour this darkness true

as black and things for her it just

doesn’t seem to rightfully do.

 

A beige, a natural more reflective face

she opts for them to have.

Subtle she decides to be.

They sway slowly from side to side, this artist and her five.

 

A lover’s choir in the auditorium

of brush and subtle colour.

Just to dry and then to bed, she looked across to him and said.

Just to dry and then to bed.

Smile again my name to me

A colour none as sweet as when

pale green eyes reflect in hazel brown.

Upon vanilla breeze a jasmine petal had came to rest,

beside the window of a Smith’s desire.

 

Amazed inspired,

relentless in her joys, he found to be.

Once again

drawn.

 

From days of greys and paler blues.

Her giggles, her laughter her smile her tears.

Her smell, her ways.

He feels.

Her touch.

She.

 

Merely mortal he was and then.

Again.

Devouring a darkness that threatened to envelop him,

but then away with her he threw it all.

Up and up and upper still a kiss, a touch, a moment’s will.

Denies it.

Defies it.

 

This gravity which pulls it.

A mind, his mind, her mind their souls.

With longing his days they have been filled.

To see her feel her warmth alone.

Just sit.

 

And stare and talk some moments shared.

Not even time a welcome reprieve here will find as around them…

none but they exist.

Her arms around him and it falls.

Away.

 

The anger, hurt, defeat and pain.

Her lips so soft a gentleness.

As kindness from the space between

the corners of her smile does ease.

His untamed restless over thoughtful mind.

 

Just a kiss.

Just one more time.

And then perhaps away.

But then when past her he must walk

the steps become too arduous

for with her he longs to talk and sit and speak and touch and kiss and hold and

be just be just be just be some more.

 

Her voice a song so sweet does sing

when upon her breath it’s him she speaks.

A single fleeting whisper

he against her neck released.

And with a sigh, a smile a kiss an angel just replied.

A moment longer just a moment longer just another little moment longer.

 

Just smile again

my name to me.

 

Winter’s lesson lies hidden in Spring

Spring is in the air as we ready ourselves for flowing floral dresses, knee high pants and our favourite pair of strapless sandals. Soon, the trees will start to blossom as they do each year and swarms of bees, chirping birds and sunny rays will bring our gardens exploding back to life. But it wasn’t always like this. Not a week ago we still experienced the last lashes of a delayed winter and one would have been hard tasked to pinpoint exactly when summer said it’s goodbyes. Three months into winter and we can hardly imagine what it felt like to walk outside without a jacket or leggings. People complain about the cold and the stuffy noses and miserable moods that winter brings, forgetting that without winter there could never be sunshine, for along with all the ailments, weight gain and apparent moodiness, Winter brings us the gift of spring – or rather the appreciation of it.

There is a lesson that winter brings

We prepare for winter by stocking up on jackets, scarves and woolly hats and bid it farewell by discarding them. In life too, we continuously discard and replenish as we wade through our personal seasons. And it is personal, as each of us experience change in a different way. Change is scary for all of us no matter whether it be good or bad, in fact there is no bad change only a negative perception of something unknown – change therefore, is relative. To illustrate this point, one could look at a rose bush and be sad that it has thorns, or be happy that the thorns have roses. The trick is to ready yourself always for an approaching winter, knowing that everything is fleeting and that if good exists then so too there must exist the opposite in order to restore balance. Manic depressive sufferers struggle to see the rays that their Spring brings, because they refuse to look outside the window. So there they stay, stuck inside the circumstances they have created around themselves. Most of the time those circumstances are related to financial stress and the instant they come into some money, they feel empowered once more – until the next winter hits. In the summer months we don’t sell our jackets and winter wear, because we know that the season will change and we will need them again. The same outlook should be adopted when we look at our personal lives.

It is not about the money

The greatest lesson winter teaches us is that we need to learn to let go of our routines and hold onto change. Let go of the things and people in our lives that keep us locked up inside, unable to experience the joy of Spring, the freedom of change. Learn to take chances, dance in the rain, phone your loved ones, kiss your children as often as you can, roll on the grass, walk to the store, if you like green apples, buy red ones, ride a bike to work, smell the pages of a book, switch off your phone, turn on the radio and play it loudly – smile. Forget about the confines that social media and corporate marketing forced around you. Surround yourself with good people instead of good things, because in the end it is the things you own that end up owning you. Wear your heart on your sleeve, you never know, somewhere there might be someone who needs to see it. In all things never forget that winter will come, and it will pass, but when it comes be prepared with memories that warm more than just your hands.

That illusive corner piece

Sobering. That’s what it is really. The moment when you find that corner piece of the massive puzzle you’re trying to piece together. Most of the time it was staring you in the face but the rest of the pieces laying all muddled up around it, had hidden it from your sight. So you take that corner piece and put in place to start building the frame work. Suddenly, as the pieces start sliding into place you notice that the picture on the box looks a little different to the one you’re trying to put together.

“Why is that,” you ask as another piece locks effortlessly in. “Why is it that the pictures on the boxes of things differ so dramatically from the one you spend so many days working on creating?”

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Is it not maybe in that where the problem lies? Maybe we should stop trying to build a picture and instead, take a step back, look at the box and ask yourself if you really have the time to build that 1500 piece. And once you’ve pieced it together you face another conundrum – where to find a space for it in your home. Do you break it up, put it back in the packaging and trade it at the local pawn shop or do you throw it into the cupboard next to the rest of the puzzles you only half finished?

Or you could try and mount it on a cardboard, frame it and hang it on a wall somewhere to show off to everyone. And this will be fine too, until someone comes along, looks at the picture and explains how he also pieced that same one together, and he did it in half the time. Your first instinct is to retort with “what? This same puzzle? But how could you have done it in half the time it took me to get this far? I’ve spent so much time meticulously piecing it together and loving every moment spent on it.” And then it hits you. It’s only a puzzle, just like every other puzzle. And this one has a price on it, like every other one. And a puzzle doesn’t care who wants to build it, it only cares that it is being built.

So why then does it feel so profoundly shit knowing that your puzzle, that one you really wanted to complete and display proudly in your home, also hangs on the mantelpiece in some other home? Is it because the puzzle itself is not the art you thought it was, because before you bought it you believed that it was unique and now, you realize it actually isn’t. And is this really the case with all art? Or is the only truly unique piece, the one that goes to the highest bidder to ensure its authenticity.

Like I said, sobering. And hangovers hurt like a caning on a wet bottom. But hangovers, like your desire to build puzzles, pass. And then we feel better. And then we decide to build another puzzle…maybe this time one that we created ourselves. And maybe this time one that will be a perfect fit on that empty space above your bed.

Love is jealous….oh wait, no it’s blind.

Let’s talk cliche for a minute. But, let’s not waste your time with the insignificant ones shall we? You guys don’t like reading anyway so I’m going to start with the biggest of the bunch – “love is blind”.

The Black Sheep

Made famous in classic literature way back by the revered novelist, George Bernard Shaw in his masterpiece An Unsocial Socialist. The problem is we have gone and misquoted the guy, as it seems we like doing with any literature from our past. The full sentence reads “You can hardly blame me for that: I was in love myself; and love is blind and jealous.”

But we left out jealous. Because jealous is not cool, and it certainly is not in line with what another famous writer said when he wrote “love is patient, love is kind… love is never jealous…”  In contradiction to this, the very author of the book containing this statement said “God is love” and later also that “God is a jealous God”. But love is not jealous, so that means that either God is not love or that there is a god called love and another called jealous. (No blasphemy intended here by the way, just taking a neutral and objective look at all the angles).

Anyway.

So now we have a problem. If jealousy is the opposite to love does that mean there can be not one without the other? Like a twisted Yin-Yang. That would mean that if you aren’t jealous you are not in love. Or am I completely missing the point here?

A little closer to home

Now, for a very long time I was the flag-bearer of the notion that love is a choice not an emotion. But, as of late I have given that some thought. If love is not an emotion that means you can chose and that means you can control it, right? So why then can jealousy not be controlled? Why is jealousy an emotion then? And after thinking for a minute I realized that jealousy is blind, not love. And jealousy can be controlled – by love. According to the Word Smith in the now-popular-and-soon-to-be-completed (uhum) novel, Dial Earth For Operator, “Love is the pair of spectacles you place on the weary eyes of jealousy to make it see the obvious.”

I like that. In fact I believe we’ve made a bit of a breakthrough here really. Two people see one another for the first time and they fall in love over time as they get to know one another. Obviously there is the physical attraction too…which is noticed through the use of….your eyes. That alone cancels out the blind part. But I think what the cliche intends to say is that when you truly love someone, you notice their faults and slight imperfections, but chose to look past them because the feeling you get from being around them is just too amazing to risk. And I agree in some way. But when a guy starts beating his partner, or she starts cheating on him, don’t you think “love is blind” is just a way for you to hide the fact that you actually like that kind of attention?

Surely there has to be a limit set somewhere, because I’m sorry but even a person who is really, physically blind would realize that when someone continuously inflicts harm upon you, they really don’t like you too much.

So the point is?

Okay, so back to the cliche. I think we can lay this one to rest. It has become clear after investigating the crime scene that love is not the perpetrator, but that it was jealousy…in the ballroom with a candle stick…

Tell us what you think, because your opinion matters to us…no really, it does…so do your shares and likes and participation in the poll at the bottom of this blog. Also, we know we’ve touched on some sensitive stuff here and that you all want a chance to have your say. So here ya go…here’s a soapbox.

 

Bird Watching Mystic steals credit for coffee discovery

So why is it that everything we don’t understand or everything we don’t really know much about was always either discovered by, or perfected by, or handed to some mystic medicine man or tribal healer somewhere in some later part of some earlier century? Case in point… Coffee.

Some Bird Watching Dude

And I quote the omnipotent Wikipedia “there are several legendary accounts of the origin of the drink itself. One account involves the Yemenite Sufi mystic Ghothul Akbar Nooruddin Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili.[5] When traveling in Ethiopia, the legend goes, he observed birds of unusual vitality, and, upon trying the berries that the birds had been eating, experienced the same vitality.”

Okay so the guy saw birds. But these birds looked younger than their buddies (which were obviously all the same age judging by whatever one judges avian ages by) and so it occurred to him that it must be the berries they were eating. It couldn’t have been that they were just younger birds. Oh no. It HAD to be the berries. So I wonder what happened then? Because I KNOW this guy would’ve hurled those magic berries right out had he just picked a handful and shoveled them into his mystic Yemenite mouth. The other, dare I say more believable story attributes the discovery to this guy’s disciple… or appy.

Okay so maybe it was the appy

And I consult the oracle once again on this.

“According to the ancient chronicle (preserved in the Abd-Al-Kadir manuscript), Omar, who was known for his ability to cure the sick through prayer, was once exiled from Mocha to a desert cave near Ousab. Starving, Omar chewed berries from nearby shrubbery, but found them to be bitter. He tried roasting the beans to improve the flavor, but they became hard. He then tried boiling them to soften the bean, which resulted in a fragrant brown liquid. Upon drinking the liquid Omar was revitalized and sustained for days. As stories of this “miracle drug” reached Mocha, Omar was asked to return and was made a saint.”

Believe it dammit

Sounds a lot more believable doesn’t it? But the real problem here is the fact that we all just accept whatever is written on wikipedia as gospel. On that note we all just accept that whatever has been written in a gospel is also truth, but that has nothing to do with coffee, or historical truth, so let’s stay focused for a second.

What if the most believable origin of coffee was actually a lot less believable? What if coffee was actually only invented in the time of our grandparents. And that we are only told lies like these “origin tales” to keep us from seeing that the world is only as old as what we are. If you think about it, everything that exists around you really is only as old as what you are and that when you die, everything else dies as well. How would know if this weren’t the case?

In fact, how would you know that when you die you actually immediately start living your current life again and that you don’t remember it because of the whole dying and being reborn thing? If this were true you could argue that there really aren’t 7 billion people in the world. What happens if you are just a repeat of you? That would explain why some people experience deja vu, or why some people are better at math than others.

This could explain a lot of things, but what it won’t do is provide us with a distinct answer to the coffee conundrum. All it does is enforce the belief that there can never be too much coffee. And there can never be too much time.