Oh how we fool ourselves. How we con and how we kid. Fancying we are this and we are that. In my wildest imaginations there I go, leading the charge. A rebel, a renegade, a revolutionary. That's me, up the front, astride that horse, storming that garrison. Hear my drum. Heed my cry.
But, in truth, I am no rule-breaker. Not really. Sure, on occasion, I've disregarded the law. Regular readers may recall my admission of the theft of a block of cheese. I am guilty, too, of checking my emails when waiting at the lights. I confess to the odd late-night dumping of my excess recycling in the neighbour's bin.
Ultimately, though, no one will ever describe me as some kind of rabble-rouser. More scaredy cat than lion heart. As a teenager I invited my new friend over to my old friend's house, and, goaded on by my old friend's new boyfriend, they hatched a plan to take my old friend's mother's car out that night. I stayed behind, a hot mess of righteousness, terror and regret.
Reluctantly I have come to realise that although I might pace and mutter, rail quietly from a safe corner, when it comes down to it you can count on my obedience. But while one wants obedience in a dog, say, or, to a certain extent, a child or an employee, unless you're seeking a submissive to fulfill your BDSM fantasies, obedience isn't exactly sexy, is it?
Though I seek order and calm, strive to put systems in place, struggle to relax amid chaos, I am attracted to, impressed by, those who feel compelled, not to keep to the rules but to, instead, flout them. For my birthday a group of friends organised a private yoga lesson for us all. Attempting to adhere to the instructions as closely as possible, I breathed in deeply and twisted to my left, and was greeted by the lovely sight of my friends, all in a line, following suit.
