To Commit or Not Commit


I am commitment phobic… There folks I said it. This psycho-analytical revelation wasn’t something I wasn’t hitherto unwary of. Of the plethora of phobic paraphernalia I suffer from, fear of commitment is the only one I never actually admitted to myself or to anyone else interested in such folly.

It wasn’t until a recent conversation with a friend in which I became somewhat epiphanic. It was then, amidst a gentle grilling from my friend where he questioned why I fail to attend the gym that it dawned on me that maybe I suffer from commitment phobia.

Of course I didn’t admit that to my friend. I saved him the heart break, the realisation that his friend prefers a life of sedentary solitude where the only commitment required is with the couch as opposed to being his gym partner-come-protégé. Though I might need to explain to him in 6 weeks’ time why his fitness plan isn’t working for my pot belly.  I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

I have an aversion to anything that requires an undertaking that lasts any longer than an hour. I lose concentration and generally fall out of love with anything humanly or otherwise after 60 minutes. That’s why at 27 I don’t have a phone contract, I am semi-vegetarian, I have a gym membership that I never use and more or less freak out every time someone mentions the word marriage.

Though at 27 escaping the word marriage (and sales advisors with lucrative phone contracts) is almost inescapable. I am the Jennifer Aniston of my world minus the blonde tresses; though I am working on that. Everyone wants to know when you’ll get married. For a commitment phobic like me that’s on par with asking a vegetarian (which I also happen to be, albeit semi) let’s dive into a bit of a bone marrow stew… Someone pass me the sick bucket…

Puking aside… The marriage references, innuendos, offerings, insults; whatever the narrative, has been on the rise. For many self-appointed worriers, I am close to surpassing my sell by date and destined to a life of putrefaction; only exasperated by not having an equally elusive phone contract with the latest 4G technology. I need saving, I am told with great assiduousness.

Commitment is what turns a promise into a reality. I don’t like making promises I can’t keep and I am relatively happy with my current stream of reality. The rebel in me doesn’t want to be confined into the linear narration of a commitment. I can’t commit to commitments, I really just can’t.

I like the excitement of what nonconformist ideals may bring me…According to Warren Farren “when women hold off from marrying men, we call it independence. When men hold off from marrying women, we call it fear of commitment.” As I am often told, I was probably a man in my previous life that is now incarnated as a woman. I am an independent person (note my intentional use of an abstract noun here) who has commitment issues.

Do I love you? Maybe I do maybe I don’t…

Or if we consider my 6 year old nephew’s pertinent question “am I your favourite?” to which I reply to with unabashed uncertainty “maybe you are maybe you are not”…after all there is a tribe of nieces and nephews all competing for that coveted position.

There is something in the ‘maybe’ that appeals to me. Its tentative nature is all but too comforting. For now all I can commit myself to is a mere maybe…

The uncommitted life is one truly worth living, or at the very least worth exploring!! That in itself my friend,s is an unconditional commitment.

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A Nation of Poets and Bards


Poets and Bards

It has taken me an awfully long time to finally make a blog. Three years if memory serves me right. I never quite understood what it all entailed other than of course doing the obvious- blogging. Therefore, I have been doing a bit of scouring in the hope of understanding how to utilise this site and after a fair bit of searching and stumbling on few illustrious blogs, it dawned on me that I needed to ‘introduce myself to potential readers’. Thanks Daily Post for pointing that out to me, YAY!

Now how can I encapsulate what this blog is about in a nutshell …? Hmmm let’s give it a go.

So legend has it that I come from a nation with avid oral traditions – not in the kinky sense but rather in storytelling. So detailed and rich it is that a mere narration of trivia could give an acclaimed Steven Spielberg movie a run for its money and that isn’t hyperbole.

Growing up I often had the (dis) pleasure of receiving handwritten or tape recorded messages (yes folks I’m from the Walkman era and I have just given away my age bracket, shoot) from distant relatives to family friends and characters I have never met; where a simple hello turned into a poetical portent in itself. Sometimes it even made me wonder if these people were competing in a bardic poetry competition. Clearly their poetastery was lost on me then and naturally it took me a while to understand that this was a little more than an emotive grunting. More often than not these messages started with something along the lines of:

I give thou sincerest of greetings

One that stems out of the

Hollowest of thy muscular organs

Transported to thou through the air waves

That distance us

*Side note: if you are unfamiliar with the culture and such traditions you might be stunned when you find a long lost relative showering you in person with such elaborate romanticised, elongated passages, always accompanied by the continental and arduous four kisses on either cheeks. Perhaps even uncalled for if you are lacking a bit on the emotional side of things. Alas, the times I miss-calculated the number of kisses required or rather their timing and landed myself in the awkwardness that is kissing someone’s lips…YIKES… I know!! Oh the utter embarrassment. I better move along because that warrants mortifying memories to come forth.

So by not following this long line of traditions I feel as if though I’m betraying my ancestors and denying my heritage. I am not an oral person (again not in the kinky sense, so please do refrain from such connotations). I am more of a writer. I could never relay a diatribe, a discourse orally. I was never blessed with the “gift of the gab”. But I do have a way with words, or so I am told (hmmmm pauses to think this through. Really now isn’t the time to be doubting oneself).

I feel as if though I’m harbouring a defect gene, some kind of gremlin in my makeup for not having such gift/burden (depending on what angle you are looking at it from). I come from a family of talkers, a nation of story tellers. We weren’t dubbed “a nation of poets and bards” for no reason. I think Margaret Laurence was onto something when she gave us that title.

But in my defence poetry (or rather prose) doesn’t have to be limited to the spoken format. Hence, why I created this blog after much debate that is because I am a highly indecisive individual; as you will come to know throughout the course of this blog. And whilst we are on the subject of my inherent indecisiveness, I guess now is a good time (as any) to confess that due to this little idiosyncrasy of mine I wasn’t able to categorise this blog into one specific genre.  I mean why pigeon hole yourself..?! The possibilities are endless so why not explore whatever topic or put forward whatever idea/problem/ vituperation/ personal opines and otherwise, eh..?!

I am very aware that I have just given a long winded diatribe of an explanation to the question posed at the beginning of this blog post. I am not good at explaining things so I like to think that I have done a pretty darn good job at answering: what is this blog about..? Having said that, if you still feel that you are none the wiser then hey, stick around and maybe we will figure it out together, one day, fingers crossed.

And on that note…

Happy reading folks!