A Day in the Life of Lois Lane

My other-half, Dave, is one of those extremely irritating anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better-types. Before we met I thought I was a rather accomplished individual with my writing, my singing, some sports and academia. However, his accomplishments soon came to light and not only were they many and extremely admirable, they were better than mine. No longer was my Grade 8 distinction singing as admirable in comparison to his teaching himself guitar to a Grade 8 level. No longer did my plastic gold medals for my club-level tennis-playing gleam when next to his genuine gold medals won for his nation. It almost split us up - apparently I have a competitive nature. I remember talking to a very old friend of mine who went to school with Dave and his knowledge boiled down to, "You're dating Dave?! That guy is Superman!"

As it turns out, he was. I remember being almost gleeful when I discovered his dyslexia and that I could read and write much better than he could. However, his dyslexia also gave him a natural affinity for art, mechanics, graphics, computers.... Talk about a double-edged sword.

Now that we're plodding along in almost-wedded bliss two and a half years on I thought I had pretty much gotten over the one-sided competition between us and accepted my multi-talented Superman for the blessing he was.

But, a mere four days ago, disaster struck.

I was made aware of an ice rink in Aberdeen and was absolutely desperate to have a 'funny, romantic' date on the ice. I was getting very excited about it, filled with images of the two of us falling over each other, throwing our heads back in laughter, clutching onto each other in a desperate attempt to stay upright whilst looking deeply into each other's eyes...in a nutshell, embodying the couple that everyone loves to hate. But my euphoria was stopped short when my flatmate asked us both if we could actually skate and Dave...well, Dave said, "Yes."

I took it as a personal insult, "You can what?!" 

Any shred of rationality I once possessed fled in fear of my rage, which quickly turned to contempt:
"Well that just makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Of course you can skate! Because there's nothing you can't do! And of course I can't skate because I'm so bloody useless in comparison to you!"

Thankfully, due to the dyslexia, he found it funny, reminded me of a time when he had helped coach ice-hockey players (cue higher-pitched rant), and told me he was just happy he could catch me if I fell.

The next day we did indeed go for our romantic date. It started in good humour, I had decided to be proud of his arrogantly enormous skillset, but, after receiving our skates, he humphed and said, "Eurgh, I prefer hockey skates" quite literally seconds I had asked for "the easiest and widest skates available" and gotten the same kind as him. Well, the irrationality started to flare but I managed to keep my rant purely mental and try and put it behind us. He was oblivious, as most men are.

When we got on the ice I clutched onto the rail and tentatively stepped down whilst looking in fear at the oncoming traffic. He followed me clutch-less, skated in front of me, and turned backwards to smile at me. I rolled my eyes to the point they almost left their sockets. We proceeded to start skating, me taking it slowly and carefully, him by my side watching and performing little tricks. As you can imagine, my anger began to increase. After ten minutes of awkward silence on my part and showing off on his I turned to him and said, "You promised you'd fall over! You're just showing off! I'm clearly holding you back so bugger off and go have some high speed pirouette fun!"
Yes, the poor boy had agreed the night before to fall over to make me feel better but hadn't thought I was being serious. I hadn't thought he wouldn't think I was serious. Ironically enough, about 30 seconds later he did proceed to deck it, however, I think it was a slightly dramatised fall. Which I love him dearly, for. He actually proceeded to deck it four times, and it turns out that I can skate pretty well. He even tried to say I was a natural and much better than him after such little time on the ice. The pandering worked, I asked him to show off for me and he did a little lap of the rink to which I turned to those near by with a smug smile on my face and said, "That's my fiancee."

After about 40 minutes on the ice he asked if I wanted to keep going or leave and I said, "You're going to laugh, but I really want to leave before I fall, just so I can say I didn't fall, even though I'm having a good time." He did laugh but he took me home anyway, and I got to tell people I didn't fall over.
You may think it a false victory, but he still looked at me with very proud eyes.

I guess love really is blind.

Switzerland looms..

I am fortunate enough to be jetting off to Switzerland in just over a week to study for a term there, and let me tell you, the break from Aberdeen could not come any sooner. Of course I'm going to miss my friends - my flatmate who simultaneously embodies hyper-masculinity and deliriously camp tendencies, such as hours of internet shopping with me and my posh ex-pat classmate who can drink most men under the table, to name a few. But, as much as I can't wait for them all to visit, the hell am I going to miss Aberdeen itself with its grey tendencies, 3 annual days of sunshine and more assholes than I care to mention. I think Switzerland will be a wonderful experience, and I may even come back with a tan.

However, the question that always seems to be on the tips of everyone's tongue is "What about Dave?"

This question completely bemuses me. Number one, if I didn't think we could cope, do you really think I'd be jeopardising my engagement? Numero two, don't you think he completely supports me in this? Number three, do it not cross your mind that he might actually come and visit me?

Ultimately, it's people taking the rare opportunity to pry into the intimate workings of my relationship. "What about Dave?" can be translated to "How will you cope?" "Do you think he'll be okay?" "Do you think you'll split up?" "Is this really your best decision?" "Do you not care for your relationship?".

It bugs the living hell out of me. Firstly, it's none of your business, and secondly, it's none of your business. I actually remember speaking to a friend about it when I had my first meeting about going away and her friend (who openly disliked me) piped up "But, what about Dave?". The audacity not only of someone I didn't know, but someone that hadn't ever treated me with respect, to ask me a personal question about my relationship purely because of the negative connotations? Bit rude. I swear this Facebook culture is making people think they deserve to know the innermost goings on in everyone's life.

Anyway, I managed to muster up a condescending smile and a "If we can't manage six months apart we should probably rethink the relationship" but walked away totally pissed off.   Since when did going abroad become about the relationship you are leaving behind and not the amazing experience in front of you? My potential time in Switzerland felt completely trivialised and undermined. 

It's probably important to mention, however, that just after I bumped into my friend, and her friend, that I was on the phone to Dave, having a moment of weakness, talking about how I wasn't sure that I wanted to go because I'd miss him so much. 

And he said to me: "Don't be such a daft bitch, I'll miss you too but if you give up this experience for me, I will not be impressed. Run with it! We'll be fine! I'm sure I could cope with some holidays in the alps."

I couldn't get over how lucky I was to have someone as supportive as him, even just last night he talked about how excited he was for me going away to have an incredible time. So now, when people ask, "What about Dave?" I say, "He says we'll be fine."

In-Flight Entertainment

I have thought of one story to tell you...

To get the cheapest flights I had to do three stopovers over 36 hours which, I can assure you, is not fun. On my middle flight I had my aisle seat ready and waiting for me like I'd planned (aisle is always best, you don't have to move people and it's quite rare that people move you. Also, there's extra leg room although I have been known to get run over by a trolley on a few occasions) but a French couple were sitting seperately and asked me to move so they could sit together yadda yadda yadda no problem. Except I then had a middle seat between an Irishman and an Arab guy. Provisionally this was fine except the Arab guy spoke minimal English, was clearly sexist as he ignored the female air hostesses but not the men, and held up the plane because he wouldn't put his seat up or put his seatbelt on. Very comforting, eh. He slept for the first half of the flight lounging extravagantly  - and let me tell you I had to utilise some sneaky moves to get my armrest - but then woke up after the food and took to just staring at me. It wasn't all the time but it was frequent and held for long enough to make me feel very uncomfortable. He then started to put his hands down his trousers to 'adjust' himself from time to time. I simply decided to ignore him thinking he would pass out again but I was very wrong. When the Irish guy fell asleep he pulled his blanket over his lap, stuck his hands down his trousers and started massaging his prominent erection. Well, my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline and are yet to come back down. I woke up the Irish guy and called a flight attendant who said "I'm sorry, all the seats are full and it's not like anyone is going to want to swap."

....

Yes, I get that, but I'm a nineteen year old girl next to a middle aged pervert, cut me some slack here! Silly Emirates, I will be using that woman's cavalier attitude to get me some First Class seats all the way home!

Thankfully the Irishman found it hilarious and was more than happy to sit next to the Arab guy anyway. But still, it was only one more seat between me and some scarring emotional trauma, so when I got off the flight in Bangkok I did the one thing I know how.

I got drunk.