What's in a name?

CAST OF THIS POST

So I’ve made a return to blogging after a multiple year hiatus… I think that the best place to start up again is where it all began, the original inspiration for the blog.

I’ve had more than a couple of people ask me about the name of my blog. I told myself that I wouldn’t tell people where the name Shelley comes from because I wanted to protect the parties involved. Having said that, I know the excruciating pain of being in a situation when someone tells says “Oh I really shouldn’t tell you.” It makes you want to know what is going on so badly that you cease to be able to function properly. You’re sitting at your desk at work or in a class at uni and all you can think is “WHAT IS IT?!”. Then you start to roll through a thousand hypothetical situations of what it could be. None of them seem quite right though so you slowly descend into total madness.

So here is it, the Shelley origin story.

I started dating a friend of Anche’s. It was one of those situations where you fall recklessly head of heels for someone for no reason. All the things they do are amazing. Left-handed? Oh my god that’s so awesome I cannot function. Grew up in the 90s? ME TOO! We have so much in common. We’re meant to be!

This guy wasn’t that great honestly, it wasn’t like it was out of my league or anything but I thought he was the bees knees. I wish I could explain my reaction away by saying something like “I fell in love with him because he was a passionate artist who would read poetry to the elderly on weekends”. He wasn’t though – he was just a normal guy who had a normal life.

So yes I was smitten. To save time I’ve summarised what happened next in the sequence below:

Part of the problem was that this remarkably unremarkable person whom I had decided to adore for no reason was still hung up on an equally unremarkable person he dated before me. Her name was, you guessed it, Shelley.

Now I had nothing against Shelley personally. She was very rude to me the one time I met her but she may be rude to everyone so it’s unclear if I received any special treatment or if she just goes through life that way. She did however commit the terrible crime of consistently not remembering Cat Lady each time they met. You know how it goes:

At a rooftop bar:

"Hi, I'm Cat Lady."  "Shelley"
"Nice to meet you." "And you."

At a friend's place:

"Hi, I'm Shelley." "I know."

At a picnic:

"Hi Shelley."  "I'm sorry have we met?"

"Yes that's how I know your name. I'm not some crazy stalker. I'm the Cat Lady."

At a gallery opening:

"Sorry who are you? Darren said we've met but are you sure we've met before?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? I am positive we've met. Can you not see the positivity running through my enlarged and protruding veins? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

ANYWAY after being brutally dumped I was sad.

Cat Lady and I are perfectly happy to admit that between the two of us, we’d dated most of the dickheads of Melbourne but this time it was different. This was the kind of heartbreak that sends to running back into their arms when they say that they’ll have you back only to watch them hurt you again. This was the kind of heartbreak that wakes you up in the morning, follows around like a black cloud all day and then tucks you in at night before starting all over again.

Cat Lady had been witness to the whole thing (all the while suffering the injustice of being forgotten by Shelley). She invited me over for the mandatory de-brief that follows all heartbreaks.

She started trying to cheer me up. Enter wine.

  

So what do you do when love throws you a curve ball (or a flying ninja kick to the face)? You tease out every aspect of the relationship and try to establish what had happened.

So Cat Lady pontificated.

I listened.

She said all the things you are supposed to say to your weeping friend. “You’ll find someone else, you can do better.” “I think you were taller than him in heels weren’t you? Yeah, you were.” “At least you can remember peoples' names!” “He’s just a boy and as we know a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”

Despite all this I was still sad.

All Cat Lady had successfully done was exhaust herself and get us both a bit tipsy.

I was still sad. I was sad because I had no idea why this was happening to me. This girl, who wasn’t even that nice, had the guy I loved. And Shelley didn’t even want him. I told Cat Lady that it wasn’t fair, that I worked hard and I tried to be a good person. And yet someone out there game themselves permission to hurt me over a girl who wasn’t even a nice person. He’s also majorly pissed of Anche who had introduced us. Anche was also a nice person. He wasn’t happy, Anche wasn’t happy, I wasn’t happy and Cat Lady was tired and had to get up early in the morning.

And then Cat Lady said something that changed everything.

“At least Shelley’s OK.”

So it was in this way that the name of the blog came about. Sometimes the best thing to do when something shit happens is to brush it off and find the strength to know that things will work out for you. It’s like, well shit happens but it’s OK because somewhere out there Shelley is OK. Cat Lady and I began discussing getting T-­shirts made.

I was further inspired to make the blog when a friend told me a story about how she had been attending a yoga class one night. As she was making the way to the yoga rooms, a young employee of the gym directed her towards the class for pregnant people. She was so embarrassed that she went into the room. The woman walking behind her obviously knew that she wasn’t pregnant because she began frantically waving her arms saying “I’M NOT PREGNANT!” before the employee could make the same mistake again.

As my friend told our group of girlfriends this story, we all began cooing “Oh you have a lovely figure, he probably got the rooms mixed up.”

She interrupted us and said. “No, it wasn’t that. Someone thought I was pregnant and there is no explaining it, it was just extremely shit. But also a bit funny.”

It was the ultimate Shelley’s OK moment.

So we laughed together at the misfortune of it all. We also laughed at the poor woman who had cried “I’m not pregnant, I’m not pregnant!” obviously to pre-empt the accusation. It was clear she was thinking “Oh if he thinks she’s pregnant, I’m done for!”

When the employee wasn’t looking my friend snuck back into the correct class for non-pregnant people. I love the image of this helpful man thinking he was helping the gym run more efficiently all the while women were either sneaking behind his back or openly begging him not to assert his opinion as to whether or not he reckoned they were expecting a child.

So yes, Shelley’s OK means it’s best not to take yourself too seriously and let’s all share these terrible stories because we’ve all had a day that we’d rather not have lived through and it’s better to know that we aren’t alone. Don’t panic guys, Shelley’s OK.

Elle