there are 2,013 other things I could say

At this time of year it's customary for a social commentator (I'm just borrowing the title for this post) to come up with a best-of list, summarising the past year's good, bad, wins and woes relative to their area of interest.

As I haven't yet chosen an area of interest for this blog it may be a little ambitious to cherry pick the best of 2013 relevant to the universe. And I don't wish to alienate my readership by detailing only personal highlights...although Mariah Carey's Fly Like a Bird performance in Melbourne would top anybody's best-of list - I'll take no arguments on that!

New year's resolutions? Michelle Bridges and I agreed that she would cover weight loss and positive thinking. Instead, I've been tasked with gathering just three observations of 2013, in no order of importance, to set the foundation for the ideal 2014.

1. Let go, Ley-Ley
It's not really Lleyton Hewitt's fault that he's still our flag-bearer on court; Stosur's too afraid the flag will fall on her head, and Tomic can't fit the flag in the back of his M3. But c'mon! Entering his 80th year on the tour, Ley-Ley deserves a break. And I deserve to watch one tennis match without interruption from the little Aussie battler and his sycophantic sensei John Newcombe.

2. The vile-high club
I've been fortunate this year to have travelled frequently interstate and overseas. I've been unfortunate to have always travelled in economy. Cattle-class? Ha! I wish I was surrounded by leather. No, the jet set are well and truly bed-set now. The airways are open to every flea-bitten 20 year-old who can locate the $39 in the hollow of his track pants. Smarten up: there's no excuse for such dishevelment - you haven't all flown in from Mackay.

3. A return to family values
Kim Kardashian is about to be married, again, this time to the father of her child North West. A husband and wife in rural South Australia have just welcomed a ninth child to their ever-growing brood, giving him a name with more consecutive consonants than the English language allows. Yet marriage is their right. Take note my gay friends: since nothing else has worked thus far, perhaps attach a promise of cruelty-free child-naming to your next petition for marriage equality.

Farewell to the eventful 2013. As always, I'm aiming to be the best looking I can be in 2014, and wish my readers the resolve they pledge themselves when the clock strikes 12.

Til next year!

Justin

a low interest rate isn't always a plus

I've often thought a relationship, like any significant investment, is subject to approval.

Whether that's approval from third parties or the investors themselves, no relationship can grow without the appropriate checks and balances.

Even 'applying' for a relationship is a complex matter, because it's a two-part process. It starts with Part A: The checklist.

This can be as long as your arm, depending on your fastidiousness. Is she intelligent? Check. Does he like rock climbing? Check. Is she into cars? Does he have a car?

The less discerning may complete Part A quite quickly: Is he available? Check. And for the downright desperate: Is she breathing? Ultimately, you determine the pass rate.

So far, so good. But then there's Part B. And Part B has only one checkbox: Do you have chemistry?

Sometimes the application process can take months, with approval pending. But if the interest rate is low, and you can't complete Part B – application denied.

I verified my theory quite recently. Keen to invest, I ticked away at Part A with Lisa Simpson-like enthusiasm. With the first form filled out and ready to post, I sat with pen poised to complete Part B.

But the box remains unchecked; the form, a little smudged, is back on the fridge. 

I know that investing in the long term involves riding out the bumps and sticking to the plan. In the end my big return may never arrive...but my life balance is healthy, so it's worth the risk.

someone has to row the boat ashore

The hippy-led sexual revolution of the 1960s sent many a wayward wanderer in search of themselves. 

It stands to reason then that half a century on we've found not only ourselves but several alternative versions. So who truly represents me, myself and I?

There's my physical self, all stick legs and mild paranoia. My Facebook self, with its grinny selfies and bake-off boasting. And, on and off for the past 10 years, my dating website self.

Anyone who's experienced the trepidation, validation, indignation and (hopefully) vindication of online dating knows that the online me and the physical me are rarely one in the same. Yet, I dare say it's a case of same script, different cast.

"I can be shy and outgoing, I like nights out as well as nights on the couch, I like to keep an open mind..." and the clincher: "I'm really down to earth."

Down to earth. Why is that so important? Because men come from Mars, women from Venus and incredibly we found our way here? After such a torrid journey it's not surprising that we prefer to "go with the flow" rather than beat our own path. 

But here we are, and we can grab the oars and row anywhere we want to go. Once again, we're spoilt for choice. With all our selves in the boat, where do we go from here? We need to make a decision...

Instead we celebrate spontaneity, otherwise known as an inability to plan or commit, as a salve for the war wounds of our working lives. In an age of multi-tasking, isn't this plain laziness? Or did we simply forget which of our selves we assigned to the task? 

It seems we've spread ourselves too thin. Bits of us are stuck on walls, our brains sufficiently scattered across our endeavours. So who's going to start us on a journey of self-recovery?

not everyone likes oysters

29, 31, 32, 32, 34, 40...

My waist sizes over 10 years? Not quite. And let's hope that last one never features again!

No, they're the ages of a mere handful of nearest and dearest to me, who find themselves single in the prime of their lives.

Not that singledom is a curse. If that were so I'd seldom leave my tomb. But few of them are single by choice, and it sucks.

These aren't flighty or frivolous men and women, lacking the ability to connect with another. 

They're attractive, educated, socially responsible and culturally savvy. Indulging in achievement and opportunity in equal measure, they reach for the stars with every lateral stretch.

They have it all. The world is their oyster! But not everyone likes oysters.

Increasingly, it seems, the plat du jour wins favour over the piece de resistance. The primped and polished keep coughing up hairballs in the wake of every contemporary caveman. (I tried to avoid reference to the bearded hipster, but I drink too much quality coffee so he was bound to pop up).

Is their success intimidating? Is their richness of life too heavy for our low-fat leanings? Or maybe the problem is choice. 

Me Tarzan. You Jane. Yes, it was so much simpler then! And I might be Tarzan but you're Jane, Jayne, Jainne and, of course, John.

There are just so many options now on the shelf. And maybe the top shelf is just too high up. 

the saddle is very comfortable on my high horse

And so it begins. The memoirs musings malaise? of a soon-to-be-32 year old single male. In Melbourne. In marketing. In search of...

...well, nothing in particular. A new avenue of creativity perhaps? 

Because I'm in 'no-junk July' phase, and my usual Saturday afternoon outlet of baking is off-limits given that it's been five days since my last piece of chocolate. Five days, 11 hours, 46 M&Minutes and hundreds and thousands of seconds since happiness deserted me...

Desertion. Dessert. Stop it!

Why no junk? Well, it was my sister's initiative and we're tired of the stranglehold sugar has on our lives. An exhaustion that will no doubt have worn off come August 1 when sugar and I become reacquainted : )

But this isn't supposed to be a diary. Bleah! Because no-one's interested in the minutiae of anyone's day, and if they are there's this thing called 'Twitter' that might appeal to them.

I don't know about Twitter. I've a disinterest in Pinterest. And if it were up to me Facebook would be spiral bound. In the digital realm I'm an old man who's set in his ways.

And I like my ways. It's very comfortable up here on my high horse. I have a bird's eye view of tan tote-toting Toorak twenty-somethings, and I can easily reach down to swipe the orange Oakleys off Kayden on day-release from Bendigo.

I have a fabulash life, and I make no apologies for it. Actually I apologise several times a week during Catholic guilt pangs. But no one takes those protests seriously. In fact, very few take me seriously.

And I like it like that.