The ‘C’ word.

When the wind of travel hit my sails I learned to, as my darling brother would say, “chill the fuck out”  and just as I thought that I was managing to continue being a zen-er more go-with-the-flow type of person, I encountered another problem in my ever-deepening psyche. I am a Commitment-phobe.

Before I went to France I was Miss Commitment – I could be relied on to be where I had to be, to do what I had to do. I had my weeks, months, years (some facets, anyway), pretty well planned.

I’m not playing indoor netball this year because I can’t bear the thought of having people to rely on me to actually exude physical prowess, my flatmate wants to lock in a date for a drinks night and I’ve had to tell her that the end of May is too far away for me to confirm the date (she has, kindly, given me a next weekend deadline) and I no longer have a gym routine that is set in concrete like that of yesteryear. The things that I do do regularly, are only a text message away from being rescheduled. I am simply unable to agree to be at the same place at the same time frequently, with the exception of my classes and my job because I’m paying for one and being paid for the other.

In a world where the common complaint of women is that their man just ‘won’t commit’ I can finally sympathise with those poor bitched-about blokes. Yeah, commitment means stability, regularity, dependence. But at this age there is a feeling of impending doom associated with the fact that by commiting, you are not free to do what you want, you are not free to stay at home and watch TV and you certainly are not free to run away with the circus should it come to town and realise your innate talent for being a ringmaster.


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