New Year Resolutions- the Id manifesto

New Years Resolutions are a little like the Santa wish lists only more self flagellatory (Freudian scholars and also scholars of Freud could think of them as a manifesto for the Id). In keeping with the theme of denial, most new years resolutions tend to be negative rather than positive (the majority tend to be of the ilk: stop X, cut down on Y, reduce Z), with the words weight, cigarettes/smoking, spending, alcohol all fairly interchangeable. Positive affirmations could be the way to go, by this I don't mean: take up smoking, increase alcohol intake. Thus making New Years Resolutions seems as easy as XYZ, it's non-conformity that's the issue. But then other XX bearing XX lovers know that already.

I came across some recent research in a reputable newspaper which recommended that the best way in which to keep to New Years resolutions is to make them at times other than New Year. I wish to nitpick their terminology here: may I suggest that these slices of wishful thinking are not then still deserving of the title "New Year" resolution if done at other times. Of course, for the sake of argument, one could be referring to dating systems other than the Gregorian calendar but then a "New Year Resolution" which could feature should this be the case may well be "try and be less pedantic".

I prefer to think of such resolutions as promises to self. Plenty of articles focus on the types of resolutions and one's likelihood to stick with them, rather than, say, their feasibility. I have observed over time that resolution-levels are themselves intrinsically proportional to my self esteem at the time of making. Allow me to demonstrate. If they circulate around things such as:
- Find cure for cancer
- Successfully lobby governments to eradicate Third World Debt
- Advance equality of the sexes
Then paradoxically, my self esteem is running low, these are aiming quite high and any success on a personal level highly doubtful. While I do tend to "build castles in the sky" and see idealism as a positive character trait (a Libran affliction I feel), I successfully resist the temptation to move into said cloud castles (Care Bear style) and accordingly am not delusional.

Another illuminating list would be the underachiever one whereby one's expectations of self are sufficiently low to prefix each resolution with "try to" or "if possible", thereby neatly negating the definition of resolution and exchanging resolve for "would quite like to... I think". This is otherwise known as the "get out clause" variety.

My New Year resolution is to be more decisive and proactive. This is ironically indicative of me being so indecisive about my New Year Resolutions that I was unable to come up with anything more concrete. I have a plan B sublist of course should plan A fail, with even more realistic goals along the lines of "think about Angelina Jolie more often," although in the same vein my sublist features "write fewer and shorter lists" and "set more manageable goals". I rest my case.

Sapphic slaves to surveys

Tiptoeing through the mire of chauvinism and sex stereotypes is a sticky dirty business. Even when it comes to issues as seemingly innocuous as favourite colour. This is often reflected in the plethora of online questionnaires that profess to reveal my inner self, via my favourite colour, taste in coffee, sandwich choice (it seems like they ask about every appetite rather than sexuality). While not wanting to burst my own shiny bubble, I can at the same time acknowledge that perfection is not to be found in these little pop quizzes. First off, they assume straightness. (I am so gay that when I came out in my teens, people invariably assumed I had something ELSE big to tell them and that was just the premise, so you're a lesbian, yes, AND... that being all I had to say, they then wandered off to do something else far more revelationary).

I digress, another snag is that these do not take mood fluctuations into account, nor do they allow for the faint possibility that the "respondent" may not have an overwhelming, overarching preference (not solely the same-sex one, but also maybe I swing between latte and cappuccino, perhaps this could be allowed for somehow.)

I cannot help but inspect my own navel, or shove my head up another orifice to adopt a colloquial casual yogic stance. If these questionnaires are to be believed then I must have a phenomenally unstable personality. These tools are not reliable (and dependable tools are important.) The same survey on three different days paints three very different individuals. I know this because I sometimes redo the same survey at different times...just to check (this in itself speaks volumes). It ie. the answers, ie. "me" changes every little pop quiz. There are two explanations here that I can find: either they're randomly jumbling up the answers- a kind of shock therapy for obsessive compulsives like moi. That, or someone is sat there trying to convince all recipients that they have a multiple personality disorder. Jung I may not be, and my Sapphic personality may not be mapped out (but if my psyche were Google-Earthed I reckon it'd be somewhere on isle of Lesbos), but said self is definitely in the singular. Of that much, me, myself and I are sure.

If there is one criteria- it could be quite simply this...Are you answering this quiz, mulling over how you would react to meeting a gorilla on the underground or what your name would be if you were a dog? You are therefore a survey slave. As I am, are you also struck by how the 5 personality types in the answer don't quite cover all of the variations in life of people? You are right, the sixth one is always missed off the list- this sixth type isn't listed as they surfed off to watch Angelina Jolie on youtube awhile ago, otherwise living their vicarious virtual life. Of course, I myself am free from such dependence upon surveys to find the real me, I am not addicted to self-labeling and self scrutiny, I know I this for a fact because I just did this excellent survey that reassured me I'm just fine the way I am (oh, and if I was a day of the week I'd be a Friday- good to know.)

Sapphic sauna etiquette

My lover and I enjoyed a steamy sauna, the other day. Whilst sat in the buff (that always sounds so wrong post-Vampire slayer), with my other half, I pondered on nude sauna etiquette. Body language suddenly became so much more important when there was suddenly so much, well, body. My favourite poses suddenly felt vaguely inappropriate. Sitting forward leaning on my knees sans Levis became so very wrong. I can say with confidence that crossing one leg over the other- ankle over knee- was a big no no, as it's no longer just denim that meets the eye.

I became beset with uncertainty about each of my limbs and what would be a natural pose (this became four different questions for all four limbs, such was my lack of my mental or physical coordination). Suddenly legs akimbo implied puerperal position: ie. childbirth pose. Onlookers could subconsciously be gripped with the urge to yell Push. A faint gynaecological hue coloured the room and the minimalistic Scandinavian (ie. Ikea) environment acquired an obstetric sheen. Too much tension, and the wrong type. I sat forward on my haunches, another pose that looks wrong on me while naked- I had aimed for Rodin's thinker pose and instead looked like I was caught mid-action on my way out and didn't want people to hold the door open for me and usher me out, alternatively, I resembled a nude philosopher and one should perhaps achieve a state of emptiness in such settings: deep thought seems incongruent. I tried to banish such clinical thoughts and stopped inspecting my own navel and its surrounding area and gazed about me.

The old adage of not making intense eye contact is reversed in saunas. Eye contact is the only thing to do, and indeed probably the only contact that would not traverse decency laws. I tried surreptitiously mirroring my girlfriend's body language, this only served to make me look odder. I stress that I have no problem being naked, it is more how to be naked.

I sweated (literally) over these questions for some time. Never the sharpest tool in the box (or shiniest as I misquoted for years). Incidentally, how many tools are sharp in a tool box: not hammers, wrenches, spanners or...-erm that's all the tools I know). Both accordingly and incidentally, when my role is passive passer of tools, my girlfriend describes the items rather than names them, eg. "Pass me the red thing that looks like a hammer-head shark darling," is more likely to bring forth a hammer than a simple request by name, personification helps somehow. Occasionally I flirt with the butcher side of me (not meat carving but butch-er) and spend half a day sawing a piece of wood in half, and the next half wondering what to do with it (short shelf anyone?). In fact, once when I "made" a rat cage, I was so proud of that my ego took over on its own pink trip and I started wondering if I should put my design and little steps of construction online. Then, others too could convert a chest of drawers to rat cage in 27 easy steps (once steps 3 to 9 were repeated several times it really added up), maybe even a practical one that listed all tools needed, eg. plaster, antiseptic and half an onion (no I'm NOT crying, be logical, it's the onion).

I digress, sauna etiquette, one feels the need for some kind of adornment on a body so naked. I am one to never strip off fully without leaving on some kind of jewelry or other, I prefer that somehow. On one memorable occasion I entered a sauna wearing an antique silver bracelet my lover had given me. I mention it was antique, a) as I love things with a history so I was especially attached and rarely removed it, b) it had a Ye Olde Worldé Fiddlé Clasp which demanded near immortal dexterity to remove. This was OK, until fateful sauna day, as I rarely had cause to do so. Said bracelet was fastened onto my wrist with a tenacity that makes handcuffs seem easy to shed. As ever, in these situations in life, there was an audience (refer to clause B of Sod's Law), a naked one, but an audience nevertheless. In this setting, my lucky charm became a red hot poker on my wrist- it snuck up on me in my delirious semi-dehydrated, hypotensive state (that enlightened state that feels so good could indeed be consciousness ebbing away, like with alcohol). Cue much manic flapping at wrist and me flapping around like I was evading a swarm of hornets and yelping.

After the panic, I then remained there a little while longer, alternating my facial expressions between grimacing gamely and neutral nonchalance, just to prove that neither my person nor my feelings were hurt, the roomful of women had assumed the passive spectator expression en masse- and had settled down as if Will and Grace were on, if potato chips and popcorn weren't so very dehydrating they'd have been munching them. By way of explanation, "Silver's a very good conductor of heat," I said to one and all, grateful for the impromptu physics lesson, they murmured assent we were united, could have happened to any one of us. The logic of putting a fiddly bracelet on my right wrist when I am so very right handed, did occur to me at that time too. Somehow all of us bonded through my ridicule that day, in a metaphorical way. (On a literal note, never try handcuffs in a sauna either, unless they're the furry kind I'd guess, imagine the woe that could occur).

This brings me seamlessly onto sauna facial expression- itself another key indicator in body language. A verbose individual (as evidenced by length of blogs, why use one word when ten will do is my motto) when stripped of both words and clothes at the simultaneously, I find myself becoming somewhat of a mime artist, like Marcel Marceau only with breasts. The only other alternative to scaling an invisible wall in the sauna or wiping off sweat with exaggerated hand sweeps in a Chaplinesque fashion, as a Libran, is the exact opposite. I assume a expression so neutral and a pose so fixed that if I were painted silver (which I wouldn't be owing to painful sauna associations there), then it is likely people would be putting money in my hat. Obviously not coins, as these would be too hot, it would have to be notes, but then would that make me more lap dancer than street artist, more lady of the street than urban statue?

To appear comfortable I groped about (cerebrally that is), and settled upon a Caravaggio pose. Classic has to be classical, and those models must have felt exposed to a gaze for long periods of time and so made themselves at home, resplendent in their nudity. I promptly lounged (if anyone can lounge promptly, sauna nerves changed the pace) myself across the top bunk. My lover, who has the ability to always appear comfortable in any pose whatsoever and is blessed with an abundance of natural ease, regarded me critically and asked, "Are you comfortable? You don't look it". Of course, I was, for all intent and purposes, a seventeenth century painting. Unable to explain this as to do so would further shatter the illusion (when was the last time you heard a painting talk?) I decided two things, firstly now I dwell on it, I bet they didn't choose how to sit and the artist simply go along with it-this is why you never see anyone else sit like that, secondly, I rearranged myself.

Ergo, reclining gracefully in a public sauna does not come naturally to me. Stripped of non-verbal communication along with my clothes, I try verbal mode. I have no idea how to make small talk in a sauna. One cannot say whatever crosses one's mind, as that would be the equivalent of me trying to have a civil conversation with Angelina Jolie while my innermost thoughts were screamed out via megaphone. Like a form of social Torrets, "Take me, for example.." would become just "Take me!" Despite having lounged/sat primly/sprawled in saunas before, I cannot recall any dialogue. A woman once engaged me in conversation for a long while but I cannot recall the gist of what passed between us as she had very distracting breasts. And maybe that's the point (or those are the points), sotospeak, and other women are themselves busy rearranging their own legs or trying hard not to stare at the fidgety woman's thighs- a thought I find makes me oddly comfortable.

Dip me in chocolate and put me in the sales

There are two types of lesbian- shopping ones, like me, and non-shopping ones and we tend to pair up with the opposite- apropos the laws of attraction and then sheer practical feasibility.

My other half has to be virtually abducted and taken to changing rooms against her will. January sales for her are akin perhaps to unblocking a sink- practical and good once done maybe, but unpleasant. For me, an empty changing room and a pile of affordable bargains is like winning one of Willy Wonka's Golden tickets and then discovering that Angelina Jolie likes to bathe naked in the chocolate river.

I literally salivate, with the conditioning of a Pavlovian dog at the sight of those red tickets. Nurture rather than nature, by extrapolation, would be the origins of my desire for marked down goods and my faulty logic, whereby I save when I spend. My subconscious is multilingual: as well as Sale, it responds to Salg and Solde (sale means dirty in French, maybe my partner has a point, but then salé means salty and therefore sexy: Ms Jolie swims back into view). I know I'm mixing my nature and my nurture here, but oestrogen and adrenalin is a heady mix.

Now here's the gender-bending crux of it: for me, finding a reduced T-shirt, dragging it to the changing room, with all the frenzied stripping that ensues and carrying it home has a faint Neanderthal resonance somehow: I want to parade around with my trophy yelping "mine all mine". This is a primeval throwback and explains the wild look some women can get at the end of a season. After all, what is shopping if not hunter-gathering?