You know those songs that once you get them in your head, they go on and on and on? And no, I’m not going to say the titles of them, because I’m not a sadistic bastard. But I’ve had something like that going on in my head this week, except it’s not been a song, but the steps of an actual dance.

And, full disclosure here, as someone who has never had any inclination whatsoever to be a dancer, I seem to have spent a surprising amount of time in life learning to dance.

As kids back in the old country, we learned Scottish ceilidh dancing. Not voluntarily. From early years at school, right through to the end of high school, every Christmas dance was a part ceilidh. This meant that the months running up to December, Physical Education was all about practicing dancing with some poor spotty oik who looked as demoralized by the whole process as you were. We learned all the dances: The Military Two Step, the Dashing White Sergeant, and of course, the Gay Gordons - a name that caused much hilarity for all of us - apart from obviously any kids called Gordon.

And then, later at drama school we dabbled with a bit of tap, and maybe the occasional minuette. And there was a nightmarish time when they seemed to want to educate us in something called contemporary dance, which seemed to be mostly just prancing around with a “meaningful’ look on your face, trying to ignore the unpleasant fact that you were wearing a unitard.

But I really can't tell you where along the way I learned to cha cha, but it's definitely rattling around inside the giant hoover bag of my head, filed under the category of “Stuff I probably don’t ever need to know about, but still seem to have a rudimentary understanding of.”

The cha cha is all about the rhythm you see: One. Two. Three. Four-and. One. Two. Three. Four and…. I remember you have to put your weight on the balls of your feet and I have a vague recollection that wiggling your ass is a major crime. Mostly though, I just remember that very specific rhythm.

And it came into my head this week when I met up with a friend I haven't seen for ages. Not because we were going dancing, but because we were meeting for coffee and I got a bit distracted.

My friend is undoubtedly lovely, but as soon as we sat for what was supposed to be a casual catch-up, words poured out of him rapid fire. In fact, once he started talking, he barely came up for air. He clearly had something going on, because the topics of conversation were going all over the place and sometimes changed mid-sentence: About places he could go, and big ideas he had had - about diets, and television, and the fastest way to become a billionaire. It was quite difficult to follow because there were a lot of ands in what he said, and not a lot of thoughts coming to a conclusion.

So maybe it was something to do with the rhythm of how he spoke, or maybe it was just that I am completely losing my marbles, but the rhythm for the cha cha came into my head: One. Two. Three. Four and..

I figured he had stuff to get off his chest, and reckoned the best thing I could do was chill out and let him burn it off. So I sipped at my tea and nodded occasionally, periodically offering up an encouraging “oh?” or an agreeable “uh huh,” happy just to sit with him companionably, while the inside of my head was doing the cha cha.

It was very annoying. And I wanted it to stop. But the more I want to unthink something, the more I find myself thinking it. Like if I say right now, do not think of the color green, what color are you thinking of?

Exactly.

I’m guessing these wee obsessive blips happen to everybody, but it’s very annoying when they do.

Like years and years ago I was at a party, and a guy came up and introduced himself and told me he was a psychic. And as soon as he said that, I tried to get it out of my head how the first thing I’d noticed about him was that he had a really bad dye job on his hair, because if he was a psychic he would know I was thinking that. But the more I tried to unthink it, the more I noticed the line of black dye on his hairline. And the more I was convinced that he would know I was thinking it. Honestly, he had to have been the most tolerant guy alive, because he didn’t seem to be affected by my obsessive thoughts about his hair in the slightest. Or maybe he just wasn’t that brand of psychic.

Anyway, so I was sitting at the table trying to unthink all things cha cha when I realized my friend had stopped talking and was observing me with the look of a wounded puppy.

“Is everything ok?’ I said, guiltily.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his face full of shame, “I probably shouldn't have had coffee before we met. I’m just going on and on and… What must you be thinking? I sound crazy. I know I sound crazy. I'm so sorry.”

That was completely not what I expected him to say, and I answered, “Actually, if I tell you what I was thinking, you'll figure I'm the one who's crazy.”

He looked worried. Really worried. So then, like an idiot, I told him about how I had the cha cha in my head, and I don't know how I know it. And I am beyond certain that having a wiggley ass is a major crime, but I don’t know how I know that either.

“Because having a wiggly ass is pretty much always a major crime,” he laughed, “and I say that as someone proudly in possession of one.”

And I laughed too. And then, though everything felt a lot easier, I could sense he was still kind of vulnerable.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, “Or would you prefer if I told you the story about the psychic with the bad hair?”

And obviously he went for the story of the psychic with the bad hair, and nearly choked on his coffee because of it. And then, finally, he told me what has been going on in his life.

It was hard. Hard to hear and hard to speak and much, much harder to live. And I would tell you what his story is, but it belongs to him and not to me, so I really have no right.

And after we talked, he said he thought he was losing his mind. He felt he’d forgotten how to talk to people. He said that when he opened his mouth, he didn’t feel in control of what he might say. He said that sometimes he felt like he was outside himself looking in. He said that even though he knew it was anxiety, it didn’t make it any easier to contain. He said he was sorry for dumping that on me.

And I sat with him in silence, and I thought about the right thing to say.

And then another piece of random chaff filed under the category of “Stuff I probably don’t ever need to know about, but still seem to have a rudimentary understanding of” appeared in my head.

“You’re like a zebra,” I said.

He looked at me, surprised. “A what?” he said.

“A zebra,” I answered. “You know, the horse with the black and white pajamas on. There’s this thing about zebras I know, but I don’t know how I know. But I picked it up somewhere. Anyway, if you get a herd of zebras and they get chased by a lion, right, and they run. And then they escape. But then even though they’ve escaped and they’re in a safe space, they just keep running around and around. Because they still have the energy of what just happened. They’re still filled with the adrenaline, and they won’t be able to settle until they burn it off. That’s why you feel a little outside yourself. You’re like a zebra, and you’re just burning it off.”

“I like that,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, “ I replied.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, “Somewhere in the dark distant past. There’s every possibility though I just made it up.”

He laughed. “Like knowing how to cha cha,” he said.

“No,” I said, “I definitely know how to cha cha. Otherwise how would I know about having a wiggly ass being a major crime?”

And time moved on, and we agreed that we would catch up soon. And we agreed that the mind is a crazy place filled with great ideas and obsessive thoughts and blank walls and random brilliance. And that is useful because life is an experience of wonder and devastation and everything in between.

And sometimes it’s just hard to catch the rhythm right.

One. Two. Three. Four and

Lynn

Xo

PS: If you can find your way to click the wee heart on this post to say you like it, somewhere a zebra will do the cha cha cha. I’m lying of course. Zebras don’t prefer raves.

To support the continuing publication of this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or buy Lynn a cup of tea.

Volume 3 of Notes From The Valley is available in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and eBook: US, UK, Can, Aus

If you do buy anything, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Cha Cha Slide - Audio

As proverbs go, “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen,” might be my least favorite. Especially right now when everyone round these parts is roasting their ass off, even when they're nowhere near a kitchen. Frankly, it's so frickin’ hot here in The Valley these days, that if we went into a sauna it would be to cool down.

As proverbs go, it's as useless as the idiom, “when pigs fly,” meaning something is impossible. Because I don’t mean to burst your bubble here, but Mark’s friend Matthew moved to France with his two pet pigs. And how did they get there? On an actual airplane. So, you see, pigs totally can fly, provided they have the right documentation. And besides, you only have to take a wee sniff into what's been happening politically these past ten years to recognize that anything that supposedly could never ever happen, appears to be happening all the time.

But the worst of them all is the proverbial idiom - check me with my swanky grammar terms - “You've made your bed. Now lie in it.”

Because in terms of advice, what does that even mean? Like how long are you meant to lie in your bed for? A couple of hours? Forever? Surely that's not good for your health. Aside from the fact that all your friends would call you a lazy bastard, like how would you get your laundry done?

And yes, I know, it's some cute way to say you have to live with your choices. But, I mean, do you? Like, all your choices? Because isn't the actual process of learning based on your capacity to change your mind?

I mean, I get it. If you choose to cut your arm off, that's a choice you're going to have to live with. But say you order a burger, and the guy says, “Do you want fries?” and you say yes. You don't have to eat the fries. And you’re not committed to carrying the fries around with you for the rest of your natural life.

So surely the correct Proverbial Idiom should be, “You've made your bed, and you can lie in it. Or you can get off your arse and remake the bed. Your choice.”

I say that, because aiming to be a decent human is an ongoing business. There’s a continual set of challenges, and therefore a corresponding matter of choices. Sometimes you choose the correct direction, and sometimes spectacularly incorrect. But if you make the wrong choice, then take it on the chin and aim to right yourself again. None of us are perfect. We get it right, and we get it wrong. But when we get it wrong, it’s not compulsory to retreat to bed forever as punishment for going a bit awry.

Anyway, the reason I’m mostly thinking about the rubbishness of that proverbial idiom is because this week Mr Tweddle and I bought a new mattress - And yes, I actually did totally just forgo the discussion of profound matters to talk about housewares. Sue me.

You see, about a decade ago (which I am mildly ashamed to admit), we spent a shit ton of money on a brand-new mattress for our bed. The mattress salesman, in the way mattress salesmen do, told us how marvelous it was and pointed out all the swanky features it had, and that it was an investment that would supposedly change our lives. We were a bit flush at the time so we bought it, and I don’t know that it changed our lives particularly, but we slept pretty well. We literally made our bed, so we lay in it. But probably for a bit too long.

You see the thing about mattresses is that over time they deteriorate. Very, very gradually, they get a big saggy and jaggy, and you don’t even notice how bad they’re getting till one day, you turn over, and the thought crosses your mind that a bed of nails might be more comfortable.

That’s where we were at. Of course, both Mark and I tried to ignore it, as we’d spent so much money on the investment mattress we, 1. Didn’t want to spend the same amount of money again, and 2. wanted to get every possible cent out of our ‘investment.’ So we each concluded independently that the problem with the bed was that we were getting old, rather than the mattress.

Finally though, we went away for a couple of days and when we came back home…well, you know that thing when you can’t wait to get to sleep in your own bed?… yeah, it definitely wasn’t that. Looking at our bed with fresh eyes, it was clear that our memory foam mattress had not forgotten us because there were two big indents where we generally lay.

Something had to be done, but I dislike mattress stores more than I dislike bad proverbs, and I dislike splashing out a ridiculous amount of money on something permanently hidden under a sheet even more than that. So then Practical McTweddle pointed out that we could get a new one online for a couple of hundred bucks and even if it only lasted a year or so, it would still be better than our super swanky, old shit one.

And so we did. And now we have. And though outside it’s currently still a couple of degrees hotter than Dante’s Inferno, I have found myself sleeping rather soundly through the night.

So we have re-made our bed. And we are lying on it. And we are both pretty pleased with the way things are. For now. But frankly, when that bed starts to feel a bit rough, we’ll make another bed to lie on.

Because none of us are eternally cursed by the choices we once made. It’s just that when it comes to choices, sometimes it takes a while to work out whether they were the right ones or not. And other times, it’s because it takes a beat or two to recover from a bad one. But mostly, the issue seems to be that it’s too easy to forget that we are allowed to continue making choices at all.

It comes from the French, you know, that proverbial idiom. In the 1500s, you had to stuff your mattress with straw or linens, and if you made a bad job of it, you’d suffer during the night, so they’d say, “As one makes one’s bed, so one finds it” - though they’d say it in French obviously.

They don’t do that anymore; the French. Now they have the same old mattress issues as we have over here. Just as they have roughly the same proverbs. Really, when it comes down to it, people all over the world are pretty much the same.

I expect that’s why Matthew and his pigs were happy to move there. That, and they knew that if it wasn’t the right choice for them, they could just fly somewhere else.

Lynn

Xo

PS: If you can find your way to click the wee heart on this post to say you like it, I would be as cheerful as a mattress salesman is when he sells ‘an investment’

To support the continuing publication of this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or buy Lynn a cup of tea.

Volume 3 of Notes From The Valley is available in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and eBook: US, UK, Can, Aus

If you do buy anything, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Proverbial Choice - Audio

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