This week we spoke highly about sweeping the dirt underneath the rug. Or the pile of shit underneath a doily as it may be. Whether you’re hiding a mountain of clothes behind your bedroom door or a mountain of problems behind your best friends back, we’re given the impression that as long as there’s a mowed lawn and a white picket fence on the outside, all’s good.
The same goes for relationships, as long as there’s someone else’s filthy underwear under your bed, it’s not going to work. Eventually somebody will find that burnt out measuring cup you left in Edie Brit’s house and you will be caught out.
I’d been talking to a guy recently for a few weeks, something I thought had a lot of potential behind it… then suddenly all contact was cut off. PIED. Who knows if he found my Facebook account and ergo found the photos of me strutting around in six and half inch sparkly stilettos, or if he found out that I wrote the internet’s hottest sex blog and followed through at the thought, who knows? Maybe he met someone else, someone just as hot, intelligent and funny, (AS IF). I realise I’m totes big headed right now and probably fairly dilusional but we all have our own coping methods. Least I’m not downing cosmos sobbing about him, over-analysing every last message we exchanged.
My point is, there’s two approaches to be taken here. Hide who you are (so to speak) or what you do until that person is too involved to back out, or just be straight about it (no pun intended) from day dot. It ain’t about you falling for this weeks hottest model and him suffering an epileptic fit because you’ve had seventeen grams of coke and ended up with an illuminous wig on your head. Or him becoming a victim to traumatic stress because you’ve got a better scousebrow than a scousewife. So, although housewives may be ‘in’ this season, no more sweeping boys. Harbouring professions, lifestyles, even fetishes is officially out. For relationships that is.