The forbidden word

The French don't talk about money, as a rule. I remember when I lived in America, being shocked at how easy it was to casually refer to your salary, or talk about money problems. Jokes about mortgages. Paying for the kids' education.

I haven't been brought up that way. We always laughed at my sister who was inquisitive as a child, wondering what job would get you what kind of wages. In retrospect, I don't understand why we discouraged her. It's certainly rude to ask people point-blank what kind of money they make, but is it wrong to be curious about it?

Money. Cash. Moolah.

My parents are pretty bad with money, but then they don't really care. My father is certainly the worst person with money I know. Unfortunately I'm a close second.

My short stint in the Catholic Church could be to blame; or maybe chalk it up to bad parental example, (though my sister disproves both theories): I tend to ascribe my unthrifty ways to lazyness and fear of being selfish. I've had such an enchanted, easy life, that it seems churlish not to give money to charities, buy drinks for students who have a hard time ending the month, and of course there are all the silly purchases that add up. My book habit. My obsession with asos.com. Shoes.

I've decided that it's time to care about money. It won't be fun to keep track of everything I spend, but it's necessary. I'm tired of being irresponsible about money, because there's nothing carefree about being stupid financially. I'm not a kid anymore. So I'm making a budget and sticking to it.

Any tips for this financially clueless girl? Are you money-savvy? Do you give to charities?

Bruises

I'm often covered in bruises. Running cross-country when you fall a lot can create a devilish amount of scratches and blue blotches. Currently I am sporting attractive yellowing marks all over my legs and even my shoulders (damn tree branches).

I still wear skirts. I don't care that people can see my training injuries.

But I feel shy about those other bruises.

It's almost been a year since I started writing here. It's almost been a year since X broke up with me. The bruises are fading, but they are still visible.

The fear that no one will ever love me for who I really am.
The feeling that I'll never be enough.

Recently I was on Facebook and I saw a notification that one of X's closest pals had become FB friends with the Rebound Fuck. My heart stopped. It all came back.

What would help me get over this last hurdle? I wish X would tell me he felt sorry for the way we broke up. I wish he could call me and tell me that part of the end of our relationship was that HE has issues, problems and the like.

I wish he could give me closure.

And he won't.

I've been trying to cover up the bruises. But when it all comes back, with the smell of spring, my face pinker because of the sun, the taste of strawberries, it still hurts.

You can stop loving someone and they still have the power to hurt you.

I am happy. I'm in another relationship. Things are going well for me.

And yet, some of my worst fears have his fingerprints on them.

Overwhelmed

I'm feeling a bit weird. I'm allergic to pollen, so this season is a bit trying to me. I'm depressed, for reasons that I can't really get into, because there are no real reasons.

Sometimes I feel like such a burden to the people around me. Help me. Listen to me. How often can you hear that without feeling overwhelmed? After all, it's my life, not theirs. I'm the one meant to figure stuff out.

In a perfect world, everyone would be honest. Or at least a bit. They would tell you that they are busy when they just can't take your drama anymore. So you could always be sure of when you are annoying them or not. You wouldn't have to guess all the time. I'm not afraid of rejection as much as I am afraid of mute boredom and annoyance.

I hate bothering people but I'm convinced I do it all the time.

Jealous

I come from jealous stock. Some people in my family, most notably my mother, are intensely jealous. It's not an emotion I feel very often. As a child, I was jealous of the attention my sister got, like many children, I suppose. As a teenager, I felt jealous of people who had friends. Now I sometimes feel a twinge of envy when people go on awesome vacations. But it's not much to write home about.

Both of my ex-boyfriends were/still are flirtatious, attractive men who were surrounded by women a lot of the time. Some of whom were trying to go out with them. This never made me particularly jealous. And then X actually did more than flirting with one of his groupies.

And I felt so jealous. I suddenly realized what jealous meant. And I hated it!

Jealousy is one of the most pointless emotions I can think of. It brings you nothing but pain. Sometimes I remember in a flash of horror just how bad I felt. How eaten up. How wrecked.

And you never know when it may come again.

talking about sex

Do you talk about sex with your family? With your friends? With your colleagues?

If you look at my sidebar, you will see I read blogs that occasionally talk about sex, and not in an abstract way, in a this-was-last-night way. I don't read them because of the content, per se, I read them because of the voice of the person writing. Because they are not judging me. Or themselves. Or anyone. Just enjoying their life.

I don't think sex is a very intimate subject to write about. It can be, of course. Any topic, skillfully explored, can lead to honest, revealing words. But the topic itself doesn't strike me as more intimate than talking about work problems, or how your children are coping with changing schools, or how much you hate your cousin.

I wonder why, then, is sex considered so taboo, so "dangerous" to write about on a public or anonymous platform. Why people will judge others according to their tastes. Food writers complain that when they criticize some species of asparagus they get endless hate mail, so the Internet is probably full of insane, angry people, regardless of the topic.

But then I don't consider sex "naughty". Or "nice". Or "vanilla". Or "non-vanilla". I don't even understand such distinctions, and why people enjoy the labelling Maybe they like to be thought liberated and edgy. I would go with Oscar Wilde here, who so aptly said that "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all."
I think the same of sex.

I don't like talking about sex with people because of the labelling. Because sometimes people who tell me about their sexual practices expect me to react in some way: shocked maybe, because I am very conventional outwardly, or perhaps jealous.

I'm sure there is a better way of talking about it.