Death by Umbrella…

Am I the only person who thinks they’ll experience death by umbrella?

This irrational fear is a new one brought about by one to many near death experiences while climbing the stairs of Highbury and Islington station. Not a day goes by without some idiot waving about their umbrella (pointy side aimed at my eye). I’ve gotten to a point where I’m skittish like a young wounded wildebeest.

Just today I nearly caused a human traffic jam avoiding being poked in the eye by an older gentleman’s umbrella. That’s not to say ‘oblivious umbrellious’ as I like to call it is a older person disease, no this disease can strike anyone down in the peak of their life, suddenly they feel the need to carry an extremely large umbrella and then swing their arms like a continental soldier, forgetting that people behind them like both their eyes just where they are.

I’ve taken to making weird sounds in response to nearly losing an eye , gentle MEWS of fear and the occasional Arghhhhh. I figure these people with their large umbrellas and no respect for human life, live in a world devoid of logic but perhaps in this world they react to sounds of fear.

I just don’t want to die by umbrella. How humiliating!

Here lies Anna-Lisa struck down in her peak by an umbrella to the eye.

Oh the shame!

People would wear umbrella broaches and a whole sensible umbrella walking campaign would be started. Though at least something good would come from my demise.

Enough of my random musings I’ll leave you with this thought…

It’s all fun and games til someone loses an eye… then it’s fun and games noone can see

Things I regret…

I’m entering the land of the quarter life crisis and while trying not to cry about how old I suddenly appear to be, I’m also trying not to cry over the mistakes I made in the 90’s . I thank my lucky stars there are few photographs to document my fashion disasters but alas all in the name of honesty I will this very night reveal the details of the biggest fashion mistake/ all around disaster night of my life.

The night in question: My matric dance… what North Americans would refer to as Prom and British people ‘I’ve never had one of those ‘.

I was so nerdy and obsessed with films I didn’t know any boys so a friend of a friend set me up with my date. He seemed okay and I met him at the Milky Lane (American equivalent Dairy Queen, British equivalent  Ben and Jerry’s) for our first meeting pre dance …we shook hands and tried to find something in common, I was all Nirvana and had just discovered Nick Drake and he was all Black Eyed Peas (pre Fergie) but he agreed to be my date so I didn’t care.

My mother drove us to the dance and all seemed okay until he refused to dance with me – fair enough for once you see this picture I’m about to reveal you’ll understand him wanting to avoid me – but later I couldn’t find him only to stumble across him tongue deep in another girls mouth. Slightly depressing but I rallied above the situation and ended up slow dancing with my friend Beverly confirming the school years suspicions I was lesbian while letting me take to the dance floor like a scene from Angus, like I’d always imagined my final school dance would be.

The night was horrible but taught me a valuable lesson, never trust your date with a slutty friend and don’t think you’re dancing to the beat of your own drum when you’re clearly drowning in a sea of individuality.

Case in point the reason why it all went tits up:

Yes I’m wearing braids and yes I’m blushing (it’s all I seemed to do in high school) and yes I was not under the influence of narcotics or alcohol …so I have no excuse but I was a bullied teen and took a page out of Madonna’s book and decided to express myself not repress myself  only I was channeling the ethnic version of myself, which alarmed not only my parents but my ethnic friends. It’s embarassing to admit this but from 16 to 18 I had braids and wore corn rows because I thought I was cool.  No amount of pleading from my friends could convince me to abandon my braids.

I’m still mortified when I think back but luckily age has brought with it a sense of humour and perhaps photographic proof for any mini-Anna-Lisa I might create in the way distant future why they should not  express themselves and definitely repress themselves.

Damn these photos will come back to haunt me but I must admit they make me laugh because I really didn’t care what other people thought.

I wonder when I started to care and how sad that I’m 20 something and still do

What is the 20-something version of a Cougar?

It’s been brought to my attention that recently all my boyfriends/boy crushes have been quite literally…boys.

I’m not talking illegal, obviously, but definitely two or three years younger than me. I’m hoping it’s a phase since I seem to be aging and they are not, as a case in point, I found out last weekend that a manchild I dated last year had lied about his age and is only now 21.

Does it make me a bad person that what upset me the most was the fact he’s stayed the same age while I have gotten a year older and a year closer to needing plastic surgery?

I shouldn’t whine since it’s a two way street and these young-ins are attracted to me but I worry I’m going to become addicted to how complimentary young men are and how refreshing it is to meet a man who isn’t hung up on his ex-girlfriend.

I did try and date a 30 year old guy but he was way too serious and made me feel like at any moment he’d drop down on one knee. I had a panic attack when I went to his house and he’d bought wine that cost over 10 quid. I broke up with him pretty soon after that.

I’m definately a commitment phobe

All this typing has made me ponder my future love life – can you be a commitment phobe while looking for love or is that like being a marine biologist and afraid of the ocean.

I likeem new. Not like you’