The G.R

Apparently I have a new pet name. I call it a “pet”name in a last-ditch attempt to glean even the tiniest scrap of cuddly, candy-floss cuteness from it’s damn-right pettiness. Today and only today, I am willing to call it a “pet” name, in the spirit of February 14th (AKA Valentine’s Day), on which day surely everyone is entitled to a bit of petting. However, on every other day, it’s a nick name at best, an insult at worst.

I’ve adopted many names over the years. In the good old days, one could go as far as to say that He was actually clever in his choice of words to describe me. In the predatory stages, I was Gorgeous. Please note, Gorgeous, not just pretty or cute. Call a woman gorgeous, even just in The Moment, and she’s quite simply putty in your hands. When the Gorgeousness mysteriously wore off (the morning after the night before), I became a Babe. I was quite pleased with that. As was he, for if I was a Babe, then logic would argue that he was a Babe Magnet. Win win. But after some time, all Babes inevitably become boring and so I became Honey. Sweet sticky Honey, expensive Honey nevertheless, of the Manuka kind, a little bit exotic and medicinal at the same time. An excellent addition to any kitchen, the perfect sweetener to any after-dinner drink. I was clearly for keeps.

However, more recently and let’s face it, since the birth of our three children and my totally un-glamorous transition to FTM, it seems I’ve been demoted to an all time low. Forget Gorgeous, let alone pretty or cute. Forget Babe, Honey or even Yes-Dear/No-Dear (which surfaces from time to time when in pacifying mode). No. Now I’m known as G.R. That’s G.R, not Grrrrrrrr (which could be mistaken for Foxy or of the larger, scarier Feline family). There’s no Gorgeous or Randy or Glamorous or Racy in this G.R. This G.R stands for the one and only Grim Reaper. How didn’t you guess?

Apparently, The Grim Reaper is the personification of Death itself. A delightful-looking tall and pale skeletal figure, cloaked in black, holding a scythe poised to cut into people’s lives, as though harvesting crop. A Psychopomp, an Angel of Death, a Harvester of Souls. Now I’m quite partial to the “tall….skeletal” bit, but always “cloaked in black, holding a scythe…”? That’s just not my look. How could he get me so wrong?

It is no joke that by 9.00 pm, the will to live has slowly and tediously been drawn out of my veins and I represent a mere corpse, shrivelled, shrunken and in a heap on the couch. It is no lie that my sense of humour died and died and then died again when I woke up at 6am sharp, for 8 years on the trot without a single lie-in, courtesy of my ever-trusty maternal body clock. Finally, it is no wonder that my once “Gorgeous” face is now showing lines, my once “Babe-like” bod is now bowing over and my once sweet as “Honey” smile is now curled into a permanent frown. But instead of simply blaming all my misdemeanours on hormones, as most men do, irrespective of the time of month, what my Other Half is clearly trying to allude to here is someone who sucks the life out of everyone and everything in a Grim Reaperish way. More commonly known as a “Miserable Cow”. (Charming).

In short, to my Dear Valentine, whilst G.R may indeed be a pretty realistic interpretation of the hand that you have been dealt, remember – you reap what you sow. Happy Valentine’s day you Old Fart.