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Friday, February 01, 2008

The Power of Love

I'm a firm believer in the power of an Eighties montage. The blissful moment three-quarters through a Judge Reinhold vehicle where, powered by some track by 'Hewie Lewis and the News', the ugly duckling gets her makeover, the team finally gel, and the someone finally gets to Flashdance. Even 'Pretty Woman', an eighties film at heart beget from 'Mannequin', gets a delicious shopping montage that even has straight men clutching their pearls and wondering who they can blow to get a night out on Rodeo Drive.

Why I bring it up is this: ever since my break-up, I've been living my life like these montages. I've thrown myself into work like Britney at the pharmacist's counter the day they announce 'deep fried tranquilizers'. At the moment, jump-cut, I wake at 6.15am, go to the gym, get to work, toil til 6pm, go home, work til 10.30pm. I then read til 11pm and go to bed. Repeat the following day, with a variable of the weekend, where I just don't go to the gym and maybe have a coffee.

As I've not really dealt with the relationship fall-out as a result. The only time it comes out is when I'm sleeping; the dreams are vivid, accusatory and unpleasant. And - oddly - there's always a lot of polyester on show, so clearly I can class them as nightmares.

"It's like a boil that needs lancing" said my fabulous friend, the flame-haired Anne-Marie. She's like the X-Men's Phoenix if she were Northern and drunk bitter, and thus was straight to the point while I looked downtrodden into my gyoza last night. Cutting out any romanticized imagery and going to the idea that ended relationships are some pus-filled item that needs bursting, that's our Anne-Marie. And she's probably right. I just don't know how to do it. Hitting the gym so hard, as well as all this extraneous stuff going on, I think I'm the most physically and mentally broken I've been in a very long time. The only remaining thing is to create some sort of Stockholm Syndrome with my counselor and I've got the full set.

No, no pity. Forgive me if I'm acting like some faded starlet - someone sent me a copy of 'Bette and Joan - The Divine Feud' to read, and it kinda rubs off on you. Probably not the best read at this point: when you see someone's life compressed down into 400 pages, you can't help but sympathize with the end where their fabulous life unravels. Even greatly-loved stars die alone. So what hope the rest of us?

I've also discovered that I've clearly discovered the flare for the dramatic too, after reading all that back. Ah, to hell, I'm going to put the 'Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?' make-up on now and be done with it. Someone put on Hewey Lewis's Greatest Hits while I do it, please.

4 comments:

nifedipine said...

There is an "ouch" in there, and out here somewhere.

Kathleen Bradean said...

Well there's you problem right there. A montage shows the passage of time. Unless you can skip forward throuhg the next three months like scenes on a DVD, I'm afraid you're going to have to live through it in real time. Just be grateful you're not stuck in the Miss Congeniality montage.

KB

ATG said...

The good thing is that you're working out, so the next time you see him you will look great. Which is awfully shallow, but it really does feel good...

Qenny said...

Breakups can be very good for the physique, if nothing else. By the time you get through the pain, you'll be in such good shape it will almost be indecent, I'm sure. And in time for the good weather, too.