Well …. Unless you’ve been happily enjoying a very extended long weekend away from any form of media, you may have seen I popped up in the press a little bit this week.
According to reports I had a dalliance with a well-known former footy player. And before you know it I’m being reported as one of a “gaggle of wide-eyed admirers” who flanked him at a bar (um … I was seated at a table in a restaurant!), and I am known for having “made something of a side-career in media penning the trials and tribulations of bed-and-bar hopping as a single girl in the big smoke”.
Yep, bed-and-bar hopping. Well, the last time I looked, I work breakfast radio hours. Oh, how I wish that was the fabulously raunchy life I lead. However, having an alarm that goes off at 3.45am every weekday morning, does not go hand-in-hand with a whole heap of “bed and bar hopping”.
In fact, if I’m honest, the last time I hopped out of a bed that wasn’t mine was in August. I didn’t meet that guy in a bar, I had known him for quite a while and really fancied the pants off him!
So how fabulous to find out, that my life is indeed very different to what I thought it was.
The two things I learnt this week are:
1. I am a control freak. To have a story reported that you’re not yet ready to talk about is super freaky, and far outside the realms of my nice little controlled lifestyle.
2. A taste of fame is actually nowhere near as fun as it looks.
I like to think I’m fairly open when it comes to talking about my love life. Good lord, I’ve even shared the story about the time I broke into my ex’s house to delete a cheeky nude from his phone. However, it came at a time when I was ready to talk about it. From my point of view. I had years to reflect and see the funny side of it.
So, imagine you find yourself in a bar having a jolly good time, when you meet someone with the same ridiculous sense of humour, lively spirit and good banter. You have a great time and then go on your merry way.
Then imagine waking up the next morning to emails, and then phone calls that continue throughout the rest of the day from a stranger (aka reporter) begging to know what you got up to last night. You don’t respond, so then they start hitting up your social media.
This stranger is desperate to know whether you kissed the footy player, whether you went home with him, what your relationship with this person is, and are you planning on seeing them again.
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Now let me just remind you here, I met a bloke at a bar and had a great time. That is it. I should be waking up with a few butterflies and some fun memories from the night before.
Instead, I am being hounded by a complete stranger to know who, what, where, and how this came about!
Listen lady, I’m still trying to figure that out myself. Can you give the sisterhood a chance before you report some unflattering nonsense you’ve collated.
Then another phone call comes, one from a number I recognise so happily answer. It turns out that not only has someone reported some very ‘meh’ facts to the media, but there are photos to match.
Cue instant dread. Am I going to look all Lindsay Lohan circa 2003 stumbling out of a bar?! I don’t think I was drunk, but did they get me from an unflattering angle? I’ve been snapped with a six-foot five bloke, is my five-feet three inches existence going to look ridiculous.
And most importantly … why the heck did I choose to wear sneakers that night?! Fashion, Jana. Look it up. (For future reference kindly take the pics from up high, far more flattering, and be a doll and pop on a nice filter for me.)
So, I did what any normal person would do when faced with some upcoming public humiliation … I went into deep denial, took myself off to lunch with the girls and then popped half a sleeping pill before bed so I wouldn’t stay up tossing and turning over something that was out of my control.
The next morning I braced myself for what was to come and then had the biggest sigh of relief when I popped open the laptop and discovered the pictures actually weren’t that bad. And I quietly tapped myself a little on the back for flirting with a bloke who, according to these pictures, is pretty darn va va voom!
What followed was two days of coverage about my “hook up” because, as is my style, I decided to kiss a bloke with a track record that ain’t so squeaky clean. Hey, if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written, it does indeed seem on brand. No surprises there.
Either way, I found him delightful and for one brief moment it was the lovely attention I needed. (So stop spamming me with social media messages full of “advice” and opinions. His business is none of my business and nor should it be yours.)
So to the Jackie Os, Angie Kents, Sophie Monks and numerous other women who have had to venture out into the single scene so publicly, having to make sure there are no cameras around while you go for that exciting first kiss after a chardonnay or two, I salute you!
Because for one hot second I had a sense of what it would be like, and while it looks glamorous and fun, it sure isn’t a walk in the park.