Life's Too Short

Recently I've been reflecting on the things that really make me happy. I've been consciously attempting to make my life as pleasurable as possible and the phrase 'Life's Too Short' comes up again and again.

1. Life is too short to spend all day at work
2. Life is too short to run after unavailable men
3. Life is too short to set ourselves unrealistic, unattainable targets.

No, I haven't suddenly turned into the Dalai Lama. It's just that this week I've been on half term holiday and had time to think, which is always dangerous. I also had two friends staying and one of them (who works at my old school) has had the same realisation that I had six months ago. School is making her, and many of her colleagues, miserable. The pressure is just too much and she is feeling anxious all the time. This anxiety is manifesting itself in many different ways, but the upshot of it is that she doesn't feel that she can enjoy anything. She commented on how happy I seemed and I think it was perhaps a bit of a wake up call for her – that she could also change her situation if she chooses. But seeing her unhappiness suddenly brought everything into sharp focus and made me realise that actually, I am so much happier here and that moving here to Bucharest was the right decision for me. It was as if she was the reflection of the way I used to be – exhausted and burnt out. Of course, it's been hard adjusting and things still aren't perfect. But at the end of the day, I wasn't enjoying the stresses of the job I was in and so I changed it. Life is too short to be miserable. It's common sense really, isn't it?

Talking of misery, I also realised this week that I had to let Hot FB Guy go. At last minute, he started back-peddling on his offer to come over and visit this week and asked if he could come at Christmas instead. Something inside me just snapped. I realised that the Skype sessions and all contact with him had to stop. Torturing myself over a man who doesn't feel the same way about me as I do about him was just making me feel wretched. He was the last tie I had to cut with the UK, the last thing holding me back. He was actually making me enjoy my time here less. So, last night, I wrote him an email in which I said that he couldn't come and see me because I am seeing someone else. And it wasn't a lie. I am seeing someone else, a very nice Romanian man with a wicked sense of humour who really makes me laugh. This guy likes me. He calls and texts all the time. He brings me flowers and tells me I'm beautiful. Hot FB Guy being in my head is not an option right now – he would only mess things up for me. It's definitely time to move on. Life is too short to run after unavailable men. It's common sense really, isn't it?

Unattainable goals are the last thing that I needed to get rid of in my life. The main manifestation of my new positive attitude is the fact that I've given up my diet and I'm back on the bread. Yes, I was skinnier last year. But I was also really unhappy. And when I first moved here, after a summer of eating big dinners with friends and having little time to exercise there were a few moments where, desperately trying to squeeze into my clothes from last year, I would vow to cut back on what I was eating and swear off bread, desserts, wine and pasta. In essence, all the things that make me happy. I stuck to this regime for a couple of weeks but I still felt rubbish about myself. The turning point, however was on a weekend up in Transylvania. Our mountain guide, saying that we would get us lunch, took us to a bakery and returned from the counter with a large piece of what can only be described as a savoury doughnut topped with sour cream, garlic and cheese. The old, on-a-diet Siani hesitated. But only for a second. Unsurprisingly, considering the ingredients, it was one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten.

From that moment on, my viewpoint on food changed. Unfortunately, or fortunately, however you look at it, I'm living in a country where the local dishes consist of polenta, doughnuts, stew and sausages. I figure if I try to slim down to a size six, I'm fighting a losing battle. So I packed the diet in and relegated my old clothes to the back of the wardrobe. I'm swimming three times a week (something I now have time to do and which I really enjoy) and walking to the Metro every day so the weight should come off soon. But if it doesn't, so what? Being a bit curvier is no bad thing. People on FB have even complimented me on my new figure (including the size of my boobs, bizarrely) and said that I look nicer now I look like I've eaten a few pies. Off course, I'm not advocating binge eating, merely not starving yourself as I was doing last year. Yes, I was thin. But I also had really bad skin, caused, I'm sure by the no dairy, no wheat diet I was on. And probably the stress of my job. The way I see it, there is too much delicious food in the world to deny yourself. Living on no-cheese omelettes and steamed vegetables was no fun at all. Now that's definitely something I should have realised before.

I'm sorry if all this sounds trite and happy-clappy. It's just that this week I've had time to think, get some sleep and figure stuff out. I'm sure my next post will be less upbeat. My new found serenity, I'm sure, will soon disappear. It might all go tits-up with the Romanian after all, and I'll be back to square one. I'm sure I'll soon be binge eating doughnuts with jam and sour cream and crying into my glass of local wine.

But maybe, just maybe, I'm finally learning to walk in heels...

The History Boy

I've met an amazing man. We spend pretty much all day every day together, and we laugh and laugh. He takes me out for dinner and we have long conversations about the meaning of life. I adore him. He adores me. The other night he stayed over. But he's just a friend. For the purposes of this blog I will call him The History Boy.

The History Boy is my perfect match. He's a history teacher (hence the name) at my school and we share a passion for historical literature. We have mutual nerd-gasms poking around the old city together, exclaiming at the architecture and discussing what it must have been like in it's belle-epoque hey day. He's smart, funny and considerate and makes me laugh. We have the exact sense of humour. Unfortunately, I just don't fancy him. Well, sometimes after a few glasses of wine I have the overwhelming urge to cuddle him, but I often feel this same emotion with my girlfriends.

There's a really big problem, however, with this chaste, quasi-marriage style relationship. We are inadvertently blocking each other when it comes to meeting members of the opposite sex. Take last Saturday. At the gym, I had gone for a swim and he had gone running. He met me at the Jacuzzi and as we got in, I noticed there was a very cute guy in there already. Tanned and dark with a gorgeous muscular body. Well, nice shoulders anyway. It would have been the perfect time to strike up a conversation – we were sitting exactly opposite each other – but the The History Boy's presence effectively made it impossible. To an outsider, we must have appeared, to all intents and purposes, like boyfriend and girlfriend. After a couple of non too gentle kicks from me, THB departed sheepishly, leaving me in the tub with the handsome dark stranger, who it turned out, was called Lucian, worked as a trainer at one of the local banks and was Romanian. We chatted for a good twenty minutes, but unfortunately I couldn't work out how to drop the information that THB was not my boyfriend into the conversation without seeming desperate. I doubt, however, that anything would have happened. I know this because I was wearing my black BHS swimsuit with the saggy arse where the elastic has gone and had trails of mascara smeared down my cheeks. I didn't realise about the mascara until afterwards.

The History Boy went to London for a couple of days last week. I missed him acutely, almost as one might miss a boyfriend or girlfriend. As we stood on the escalator in the Metro on the night he returned, he spontaneously put his arms around me and laid his cheek on top of my head.

“You and me,” he said contemplatively, “Could never go out with each other. We get on too well.”

And that's it. There's no tension, no sexual tension, come to think of it. The History Boy has seen me running around my house in a skirt and strapless bra, trying to work out what top to wear before a night out. He's seen me in my glasses and pyjamas with morning breath and a deathly grey pallor caused by one too many drinks the night before. He's heard me utter the most un-sexy sentence in the history of man: “ I'd leave it a couple of minutes before going in there if I were you,” as I emerge sheepishly from the bathroom. And he still wants to hang out with me.

Yesterday we had a long, lazy lunch at the Italian down the road and then browsed the English language bookshop, recommending books for each other. He came away with 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin', I came away with 'Disgrace' by JJ Coetzee. In the evening, we went to see 'One Day' and I stole all his nachos before laying my head on his shoulder and weeping throughout the last third of the film. Textbook girlfriend behaviour with a boy friend who is definitely not my boyfriend.

Sometimes I do feel a bit like I'm using him for cuddles when I'm lonely. Or when am feeling rubbish about Hot FB Guy who is, as ever, elusive, unreliable and still on my mind pretty much every minute of every day. But spending time with THB makes me happy. It means that so far, I haven't had the dreaded moment that I was worried about before coming here. You know, the moment when you're on your own and you feel that nobody loves you and that you made a HUGE mistake by moving overseas. When we do have those, THB and I are always together and one of us will manage to diffuse the melancholy with a well-timed fanny fart joke or something equally as high-brow. At these times of melancholy (usually when we're both tired and hungover) we remember the promise we made to each other walking home after a night out a few weeks ago. The promise is: if we get to fifty and still there's no sniff of a spouse for either of us, we will get married.

I could see myself growing old with The History Boy. In fact, I'm thinking that this might turn into one of the most enduring and rewarding relationships I've ever had...

It's just a pity that I don't fancy him.