Another tangent

Women are bad at telling stories.

They're really, really bad - there's no sugarcoating it.

I'm not saying all women struggle with the skill, that may be a little sexist and ignorant. What I'm saying is that between 99-100% of women have almost no idea what they're doing.

Girls, please don't get me wrong - we love you.

We love how you magically make our apartments smell like the fancy parts of a shopping centre we know nothing about.

We love what you've done with yoga pants.

Healthy food? We would never have figured out that was a thing.

We love having fun with you. We love making fun of you. We love a good, passionate, meaningless argument that we're never a chance of winning.

You're smarter than us, you're more mature than us. You're stunning. You're beautiful.

We can't believe you're still willing to be seen with us in public. Even after that whole Tony Abbott thing.

You challenge us to be better and get the best out of ourselves. We need you more than we'll ever let on. We're almost nothing without you.

But...

I can't begin to describe how hard it is to sit through your stories.

They're almost always bad.

The problem is simple - it lies in the tangent. The simple and painful inability to stay on topic.

One minute you're telling us about your day and a story about your friend, then you drift off to a world where we can't follow.

"So then I caught up with Judy. No, the other Judy. We met her at the restaurant where Bill had his birthday. It was the same restaurant where Carol and Steve broke up. Do you know what happened to Steve? I think he sold his business and got into personal training after the divorce. You know who else is a PT? My friend's room-mate, Joe. I wonder if he'd give us a discount on a few sessions. I could stand to lose the five kilos I put on during the Bali trip, but I know if I start getting into fitness I'll lose the time I put into reading. I'm loving that new book I'm on - it's from the same woman who wrote the ancient mystery series I went through last month. I hear the movie rights have been sold already and Tom Cruise is playing the lead - I always liked him in that movie. What was it? No, the other one in space. Oh! you know who really loves Tom Cruise? Judy! No, the other Judy."

We men stand there, ask you about your day, look you in the eye and do our very best to follow.

But it's hard - it's just too hard.

For a long time, I thought these stories were a test.

Surely, no one could tell stories like that on purpose? It must be a ploy to see if we're paying attention, right?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Now, again, I can't cast assumptions on all women, but I think they talk like this because they really, really enjoy it.

Bless them, they get really excited over a good gossip and after holding in so many random thoughts throughout the day they need to get them ALL out at once - absolutely no holding anything back.

There's no filter. No real care factor for the male listener. No planned-out delivery. No thought to how they sound.

I've met some fine exponents of the tangent, but none of them come close to the Queen - the "Tangentator" - my dear old mum.

When I'm back at the homestead or I'm chatting to Mum on the phone, I want to listen to her stories. I convince myself I'm locked in and ready for the ride.

Then, like every other time, I can't make it to the end - I fall short. I'm just not strong enough.

Every story branches out to another. The plot lines become impossibly-long.

I start out optimistically, but my mind finishes up in turmoil:

Ok, this sounds interesting and it relates to that thing we were just talking about.

Denise, who's Denise? STOP! Don't ask her. Nod and laugh.

The back story of some random needed to be explained. I hope this is relevant later. Don't say anything yet.

CODE BLUE! She's broken story ranks!

Ok, I think she's back to the original story.

No, wait, she's gone again.

How did we get to New York? What possible connection does it have?

Who is Bill?

Go back to the story.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Go back to the story!

Why are we talking about Dad's back hair? HOW DID WE GET TO DAD'S BACK HAIR?

Then, I'm gone. It's all over. The rest is white noise.

There's been one exception to this trait. One call I won't forget.

In October of 2014 I had a call from Dad's phone at 4pm.

I should have known it was going to be serious, because 4pm is prime Facebook game time for my old man.

It was Mum - she was on the way back from the hospital with Dad after getting results from a test.

"The news isn't good, I've been diagnosed with breast cancer," she said.

No tangent. Nothing. Just the cold shock that accompanies the C-word.

Everything since that day has been a blur.

Mum is one of the very lucky ones. Early detection. Early surgery. Fantastic care from medical staff who are the best at what they do.

The old duck has been knocked from pillar to post for the last six months and stayed strong through it all - in time, with some luck, she'll be healthier than when this all started.

We all have family and friends who have gone through it. There's always someone fighting a battle tougher than our own.

When those battles come, when the support floods in, it's the making of you.

I've never been a big fan of labeling people who are sick as 'brave'.

Being sick doesn't make you brave - nor does having your sickness treated.

What makes you brave is how you choose to battle the illness, how you choose to accept the support and help thrown your way, how you lead your family, how you maintain who you are and how you keep finding reasons to laugh all the way through.

Mum has been brave - she's been fantastic.

I've seen how needy she gets when she has the sniffles, so I was a touch concerned for Dad when she was first diagnosed, but I'm incredibly proud of her.

One thing I've noticed with Mum while she's been through her treatments is that her stories aren't quite as long and painful as they once were.

At first, I thought the chemotherapy was doing miracles and the Tangentator was cured, but that's not quite the case.

For the longest time, she lost a bit of her spark. As she's been forced to take a break from work and her life, she's also been looked at differently by her husband, her children, her family and friends. She's had to lead a different life.

Today is a big day for her - she goes through her final chemotherapy treatment. That life is almost over and with some more luck she can return to the one she left behind.

The rest of us will wait as the last six months becomes nothing but a footnote to the big picture.

When she's ready and those painful, never-ending tangents return, this whole saga will be just another story.

A story she'll tell really, really badly.

The Time Machine

It's a funny thing traffic.

Thousands of people, starting and finishing their day, coming together in shared frustration for a brief moment in time.

Or, if you're on Punt Road in Melbourne, not so brief.

Last fortnight I was stuck on the iconic traffic magnet at its worst. This happened because I never learn from my mistakes and I continue to believe I can beat this thing.

There was no movement ahead and I had resigned to being in my car for some time.

After waiting five minutes, there was a blissful period in which I got to take the foot off the brakes for 15 seconds. 

Yes. Almost home now.

As I made it under a passing bridge, I looked to my left and, like I usually do, studied the dozens of torn, faded, graffiti-covered posters promoting gigs around town.

Among the group was what looked more like street art than a poster. A lone white board painted on crudely with the question:

Why do you listen to music?

It piqued my interest. There wasn't much else going on in my mind – I had just enjoyed the sweet, sweet bliss of another five metres of car movement.

Apart from the obvious things – the shared experiences, the magic of live performance and the universal joy it brings – I've always thought about music as a time machine – each song unearthing a different memory from any time and place in your life and taking you right there.

With every listen, the memory can change. Some memories, featuring family, travel and women – can be more powerful and longer-lasting than others.

So, with that in mind, I threw my phone on random play and hoped to go somewhere else. 

Somewhere away from Punt Road.

Frou Frou – Let Go

I was sitting at my desk, working up the courage to quit my job. 

I hadn't typed a thing for hours. I was doing my best to look busy while reading the news and arguing with my sister on Facebook over whether or not I'd stolen her phone charger.

I definitely did take it without telling her – but that wasn't the point. The point was, I was angry that she accused me (of the thing I'd clearly done). Where was the misplaced sibling trust?

I couldn't bring myself to do anything constructive. I couldn't concentrate on anything any more – I hadn't done good work for weeks. My mind was elsewhere and nothing motivated me.

My life had stalled. I was 25 and had made some of the worst mistakes of my life.

This song started and by the time it ended, I'd made a decision. I got off my chair, walked towards my manager's office and changed things up.

Eddie Vedder – Rise 

I'm lying under a tree in Central Park by myself. It was a stinking hot day – the kind that seems to give fatter, older, awkward European men the opportunity to walk around topless. Pot bellies, grey hair and sagging man-breasts were just glistening in the sun.

Among the crowds I spotted what looked like a Buddhist monk just sitting quietly and completely still for hours. The whole world moved around him and he didn't budge.

I wondered what it would be like to shut out the world – to not notice the families, the fun and the pot bellies going on around him.

I wondered what was going through his mind.

Season four of Game of Thrones, surely.

Bon Iver - Holocene

I'm at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl.

It's a stunning autumn afternoon and a huge, beautiful crowd has assembled to see Bon Iver.

Beards and drugs are everywhere. The vibe is so peaceful, so happy. 

There's not a hint of anything but absolute love for what's happening on stage.

This song starts and you can feel the breath being taken away from the crowd.

This is one of the best shows of my life.

People are hanging on every word. Everyone is smiling. They're in the moment.

They're making a new memory.

Surprisingly, there are not that many people with a phone in front of their face. Good sign.

Half way through the song, just when you think you've reached a high point, the guy on the saxophone goes on an incredible two-minute solo. He refuses to take a breath throughout the whole thing and somehow doesn't faint. How the hell did he just do that?

When it's over, the crowd goes wild. 

I never want this night to end.

This could have been cheesy, but it wasn't - it felt like I was at a campfire.

A simple, intimate, perfect, 10,000-person campfire.

Noah and the Whale - Blue Skies

I'm on a beach in Vancouver, struggling to breathe because of the power of an intense hangover. The previous night was the stuff of legend. Sweet baby Jesus. Ouch. 

I'm slowly getting burnt as I underestimate the bite of a Canadian sun, taking in the beautiful surroundings in a world that doesn't seem real, even though I'm seeing it with my own eyes.

I'm fighting my stomach, aching for water with every fibre of my being, wondering if I'm going to make it back to the hostel. 

This song came on and lifted me out of the mire. It made me feel better. The best songs have a way of doing that – a way of making you happy, in any situation.

Frank Sinatra - Moon River

It's the beginning of a long weekend and my family is on the way to my grandparent's place in country town Wonthaggi.

Because everyone in Victoria has the same plan to escape to the coast for a mini-holiday, the traffic is absolute hell. 

It's a little like Punt Road. A little.

We're in Dad's new car - the first car the family had with a CD player - a magical wizard tool that we were fascinated with.  I still remember thinking we must have made it as a family. We were CD-player rich.

As owner and operator of the CD player mobile, Dad had control over what we listened to. 95 per cent of the time, it was the greatest hits of Frank Sinatra. Moon River always stuck with me.

I'm fighting with my brother. He's moving too much and touching my side of the chair. A criminal act on a long drive.

I complain to dad, but he's not paying attention to me at all. He can't even hear me.

We're moving 10 metres at a time and we've been on the road for two hours, but the traffic isn't bothering him. His kids aren't bothering him. There's a smile on his face. 

He's happy.

He's gone to another place.

The Holiday Strut

The sun is slowly setting on a beautiful summer day in Melbourne.

This sunset is different than most. It’s transformed the blue sky into a fiery shade of red – illuminating a city in its prime, sending a message;

This is a day to get outside and do something with your short, ridiculous life while you still can. Listen, idiot, you're here for a second, then it's all over. Your couch, no matter how comfortable, understanding and forgiving, can wait till tomorrow. Run as fast as your legs will take you. Give the next person you see a cheeky smile and high five. Don't forget to put some oil and water in your car. Start thinking about another overseas holiday. Call your dad for no reason. Make sure you download that episode of New Girl I told you about, I love that show. Now GO!

The stupid sunset was right. I got off the comfortable couch, I downloaded the episode, I rang my dad – but with a reason – he had to remember to put oil and water in my car the next time I visited.

Son of the year. I know, I know.

When you remove all of the obvious benefits, advantages and blinding hatred-causing repercussions of running, I think the thing I like most is that it's time away from everything but the little voice in my head. It's just me, my childish thoughts and the city.

As I started my run, realising that numerous muscles on my legs no longer work the way they used to, I passed by a high school – one of the most beautiful and expensive schools in the country.

Students were finishing for the last time in 2013, walking over to their parent's incredibly-expensive cars and leaving for home – the summer holidays had begun.

No matter how old I get, I think summer will always be defined by that same walk to my parent's car.

I loved that walk, dressed in my ill-fitting school uniform, lugging my school bag that was bigger than me. I had worked hard all year for a break. The holidays had begun, filled with freedom, promise, backyard cricket and parties – much like they still are today, two decades later.

That walk – or what I like to call the holiday strut – is the most exciting time of year.

Whether it's finishing school for the year, stepping out of your office for annual leave or driving home in the sun with the window down and music blaring – it's a time when you truly believe that the days will soon belong to no one but yourself.

As I passed the students, reminiscing on those days, the first thing that came to mind was that giving the next person I saw a cheeky smile and high five was probably out of the question. On a scale of 1-10 on the creep scale, a stranger trying to give high five to kids outside of a school is a solid six. It's not as bad as people I've seen walking their cats on a leash (7.8) and certainly not in the realm of people who walk their children on a leash (a solid, unwavering 10), but it's still not cool.

People, if you're so hung up on having something to walk, stop living in denial and get a dog.

The second thing that came to mind was the magic behind the holiday strut.

Characterised by an improved posture, arched back, high knees, raised chin and enthusiastic arm swinging, the holiday strut is a thing of true beauty. Designed to inspire your fellow man and be the beacon of happiness.

I saw it all the time when I holidayed overseas. I loved watching it in airports when people were minutes away from boarding a plane. I remember my Dad used to break it out before a long family road trip. When I walked through Disneyland many moons ago, I didn't see one non-strutting person. Not one.

My Nonno has that same strut in summer, not because he's on holiday, but because it's tomato season – much more important.

Just as happiness cannot be defined without sadness, the holiday strut is nothing without the rat race crawl. Those suffering the rat race crawl will often feature blank, vacant eyes, stooped shoulders, dragging feet and a beaten, sullen overall look.

We put ourselves through the crawl to reach the heights of the strut. Those heights are nothing if you don't earn them and when you have earned them, hold onto them for as long as you can.

With that thought, I ran a little faster, a little harder – exaggerating the 'injured penguin' style that has become my hallmark. If the path to happiness – that feeling as I strut back to my parent's car at the end of a school year – was found through hard work, I was going to run until I couldn't feel my own legs – which won't be too long, as they were struggling to begin with.

Strut proudly friends. The days now belong to no one but us.

Push the envelope

When I was younger and filled with enthusiasm, optimism and Tiny Teddy biscuits, I used to love getting mail.

Mail represented hope. It represented fun, excitement and a connection to the outside world. 

There was something amazing about the potential in every envelope. One piece of paper could change your life in an instant.

Maybe I had won that cool prize-pack on Cheez TV. Maybe Luke Skywalker finally got my letters. Maybe the girl I had a crush on tracked down my address and was about to confess her love. Maybe, just maybe, Nintendo were going to hire me as their chief game-tester.

But, the dream that held a special place above the others was that one day, the Collingwood Football Club would write to my parents, asking if I could play for the Magpies.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ciconte, we’ve seen incredible potential in your son Dominic’s backyard kick-to-kick sessions and we’d like him to train with us and be a Collingwood footballer."

Fast forward 20 years and last week, filled with scepticism, bitterness and Tiny Teddy biscuits, I checked the mail

The mail now represents despair. It delivers bills, fines and bizarre religious pamphlets that offer to save my ‘eternal soul’. The fun and hope has been stripped away with the burdens and responsibilities of being an adult. 

Worst of all, there’s still no letter from Collingwood.

With every year that passes by, the chance of receiving that letter becomes less and less likely.

I'm starting to get old, my knees are not what they used to be, I haven't played football competitively for almost a decade and I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be coming in and easily taking a spot from professional athletes that have been training their whole lives for that opportunity – it would be selfish of me.

The dilemma made me think about the other things that may have passed me by. 

• Yesterday robbed me of the chance to drink the now-expired milk in my fridge.
• Last week saw me cross the vortex when non-contact for 12 months turns a friend into an ‘old friend’.
• In my working life, I’ve had seven opportunities to legitimately use the excuse “it’s my first day” and I’ve wasted them all.
• Last week I heard a sound bite of myself singing – I’ve since cancelled my plans for a world tour.
• Almost a decade ago, I lost the opportunity to speak to the man I was named after ever again.

Every day provides an opportunity to do something great, something amazing, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life. But, for each opportunity you gain, one slips away.

 
The trick is to make sure that you are taking more from each day than it’s taking from you. 

For many of us, most of our (realistic) dreams will be achievable until the day we die, but, there are some dreams that will slip away well before we’re ready to let them ago.
 

I guess knowing the right time to let go is a skill you gain while growing up – somewhere in that time period between being excited by the mail and being disappointed by it.

There are some dreams I’m willing to let go of, but, it’s going to be a long time before I give up on that letter from Collingwood.

Say goodbye

In between the monotony of our lives in the rat race, every now and then we have a day that passes by like a dream.

Be it an incredible day that feels more like fantasy than reality, or a nightmare you’ve taught yourself to forget, these days provide an overload to the senses and experiences that we register differently to the rest.

The trick is to have as many of the good dreams as possible before the bad ones catch up.

The bad ones will always catch up.

Quit the job you hate, spend a day at the beach doing nothing, take your wife out and make her laugh until her stomach hurts, go on an adventure around the world and take as many stupid, exciting risks as possible.

Because, when the bad days come, you need to be content with your lot.

Last week I watched on as someone’s bad dreams caught up.

Relatives and friends from around the country had come together on a beautiful spring day. Everyone was dressed immaculately. People that hadn’t seen each other for years embraced, old stories were re-told and, as is custom with my relatives, the appropriate levels of guilt were sent my way because of my inability to visit everyone in the room on a weekly basis.

“Is there something wrong with your car Dominic?” asked my Uncle Cosmo, filled with genuine concern.

“No uncle, it runs fine,” I responded, like a sucker.

“Ah, so you just don’t visit me because you can’t be bothered!”

“No uncle! It’s not like that… I… ummm… I’m actually very busy and important at work!”

“Bah!”

I’m convinced that this older Italian generation was born with a special talent to create guilt. It’s a tool of oppression that works way too well.

It was a picture-perfect day. The perfect atmosphere for drinking, laughs, games and photos.

But, you can’t do those things at a funeral.

A much-loved and respected member of the family had passed away, leaving behind a great legacy and a loving family.

Throughout the day at the church, cemetery and wake, I took in all of the old traditions and thought to myself:

I wonder what Clarinda would say if she could have looked forward in time 60 years ago and seen all of this. 

I wonder how I’ll be sent off when it’s my time to go.
 
Wait a second… Why is there a statue over there of an adult Jesus holding baby Jesus?

What would a 26-year-old Italian girl, fresh off the boat in Australia, think of all this?

There was a packed church filled with people who loved her, four sons with great families of their own and a husband who was completely lost, looking into the distance, longingly, without the love of his life for the first time in 60 years.

What would she say if she could look forward and see this?

All of this is for me? What could I have possibly done during my life to deserve all of this fanfare?
 
What the hell are those metal flashy things people keep checking in their pockets? What’s with all the tattoos?
 
Wait a second… Why is there a statue over there of adult Jesus holding baby Jesus?

What would anyone say if they had a chance to say a few words at their own funeral?

This train of thought lead to my idea of the future funeral video – a film shot today for my future funeral, whenever that may be.

Here’s the script I’m working on:

Welcome to my funeral!

Firstly, I don't like the word funeral, so, let's call it Dom’s Deadsie Party.

I’m going to operate on the assumption that I survived to be old and grey – old enough to have my pants comfortably sit around my belly button and to have an opinion on the pension.

I’m also going to assume I managed to keep a few friends and family around– people who put up with my bad jokes and shit along the way. 

A few quick messages;

Any Collingwood supporters throw your hands up.  Can I get a high five for the 10-15 premierships we’ve clearly won by now!? Woo!

To my future, mythical wife:
If you exist and I didn’t die alone like the kid at McDonald's prophesised last week… you married me? Seriously? Wow, did I not warn you about my phobia of spiders or how easily I can get lost? Did you see me dance sober before the wedding? What was it that got you over the line? My awkward charm?
Thanks for coming on this ride with me, I’m sorry about my general cluelessness on most things in life – I can only assume that got worse than it is now.

If you exist, I'm sure the guy in the coffin over there would say you were the best thing to ever happen to him. I'm sure he would say that some of the best moments of his life featured sitting on a couch, doing nothing with you. I'm sure he would say that you're beautiful – that you’re a star. I'm sure he would say that he loved you... Or... he could have been a jerk and complained about your cooking. No one likes their eggs overdone, so if you’re keen on re-marrying, clean up your bloody act.

To my future, mythical kid/s:
I'll tell you what the guy in the coffin may have kept to himself:  there is a great chance you were 'pleasant surprises' – a drunken accident between your mum and I. Don't worry, we loved you anyway, except when you cried at 3am – I genuinely thought about donating you to scientific research during some of those nights.

Some of my happiest days in life were spent watching you play that sport/activity/hobby you love.

If I won the argument with your mum, you should be named Wheels, lightning or Flash – no need to thank me.

Just in case the old me left you nothing cool in his will, I have a backup plan for you. When I was 9 years old, your uncle Anthony and I buried 50 cents in our backyard. If my calculations from 1995 are correct, it should now be worth thousands of dollars. Break into the backyard in the house we grew up in, start digging behind the tool shed and buy yourselves something nice. You're welcome.

To my siblings, parents, cousins, uncles, aunties and any other family and friends that stuck by me throughout this whole life – especially that mid-life crisis I plan on having in my 40s – I always prided myself on surrounding myself with great people and you guys… were pretty great.

Have a drink tonight, take photos, play games and please, no one mention the story of how I walked into a streetlight pole in Rome.

Thanks chaps - my happiest days were spent having fun with the people in this room, when the days passed by like dreams.

The Lost Art of Confrontation

It’s said that every person we meet in life has at least one important lesson to impart, whether they mean to or not.

Your grandparents will teach you what it is to love unconditionally. Your Mum will teach you what it takes to raise a family. Your Dad will teach you how to be a man. The people you meet while traveling the world will teach you to make the most of life. A string of beautiful women will teach you all about dealing with disappointment and rejection – the special girls may even help you realise just how big of an idiot you really are.

There are some lessons you’ll learn all by yourself too; like the repercussions of mixing vodka with scotch… and beer… and sambucca… on the same night. Oh boy.

Now, I didn’t expect it when I first saw him, but a young lad who jumped on my train last week had a lesson of his own to deliver.

It was early in the morning on a classic Melbourne winter’s day. As per strict Metro guidelines, I was listening to music on my iPhone with a blank expression on my face, looking out the window, pondering the big questions in life:  

Why do British people never sound British when they sing? 
Who decided the freezer wasn’t worthy of a door light?

My train stopped at Oakleigh and on jumped my new teacher, who sat himself directly opposite me.

Twenty years of age at the most, he was wearing a thick black hoodie, wrap-around sunglasses at 7.42am and sporting one of those looks that said; “My flaming neck tattoo will teach society that I’m my own man and I could totes take anyone in a fight.”

Oh captain, my captain.

When he sat down, he took out his phone and threw on his headphones.

That’s when it began.

This guy was playing music so loudly that I could hear it over my own tunes. He had some cheap earphones that worked more like two concert speakers attached to his skull.

I took my own earphones off to make sure and yep, it was him, listening to what can only be described as a mix between speed metal and cat-torture (I’m more of a Bon Iver man myself, but each to his own I guess).

I turned my own music up and attempted to tune him out. As I sat back, I was wondering; how could he think it’s ok to subject everyone to this? How could the people around him, without their own music to listen to, sit there and put up with the horrible white noise?

Two women and another man sitting around me were clearly upset, shooting a number of quick, angry looks, but, they refused to say anything to this guy – no one thought to quietly ask him to turn it down. This went on for another 30 minutes and the music just got louder and more torturous. Every person in the carriage was exposed.

Why weren’t they saying anything? What was wrong with calmly letting this guy know he was making you uncomfortable? What were they afraid he would do on a packed, peak-hour train?

That’s when it dawned on me – the art of confrontation is dying, right here, right now on this very train.

Society has bred a population that avoids these things like the plague. We are a people filled with repressed anger. Why face a problem? It’s much easier to suffer in silence, then Facebook or Tweet your disgust and frustration right? That will solve everything!

When did we stop standing up for ourselves?

On the spot, while I was having this epiphany, I came up with a new law of physics – I called it Dom’s theory of confrontation.

If left unresolved, confrontation will gain momentum and mass the same way a rolling snow ball does. Confrontation will always grow or multiply into harder, more awkward, confronting moments – it’s science.

The thing you’re all avoiding, that you’re all so scared of – the confrontation – will become worse every time you shy away from it.

• Don’t confront your girlfriend about her crazy, awkward dancing? You’ll end up having to explain to your parents why your date accidentally broke your grandma’s leg at your brother’s wedding.
• Don’t confront your boyfriend about your relationship doubts? End up with an affair and a messy break up two years later.
• Don’t confront your friend about his iced coffee addiction? In 8 months time he’s unemployed on the streets, looking for his next hit.

In every case, if you don’t confront the problem at the first opportunity, it grows into something bigger for not just you, but also those you love.

So, with all of this in mind, I braced myself to face everything these people around me feared: An assault of anger, denial, rejection, ridicule and the chance of violence.

I was ready – my hands were already in secret karate mode. I had positioned my body so my vital organs were pointing away from a potential knife or concealed baseball bat.

I readied my fragile self esteem, waved and grabbed his attention. He took his earphones out and I sat there, ready to confront my fears…

Bravest man in the world: “Hey buddy, not sure if you’re aware, but your earphones are ridiculously loud. By the way, the guitar solo on that last track was missing a D-minor. Do you mind turning it down a bit?”

My fate was now in God’s hands…

Noise terrorist: “Shit, really? I’m so sorry mate, I’ve only had them for a little while and I had no idea. Guess that’s what I get for buying a $5 pair!”

I relaxed my hidden fists of fury, checked my body for stab wounds and I was clean! I’d done it!

Could it be that simple? Did I survive the dreaded confrontation?

Apparently so.

So, the next time you’re thinking about ways to avoid confrontation, remember my theory and the important lesson this guy passed on to me - Don’t buy the new cat torture album – it’s horrible.

Till life do us part

You’re standing at the altar of a church.

Flanked by your groomsmen and surrounded by beaming family and friends, you look down the aisle and see her – the dream girl.

Everyone gasps as she begins walking towards you. A beam of light from the glass roof hits her at the perfect moment and she lights up the whole room – just like she’s been doing since you met her.

She’s wearing a flowing white dress, has a nervous tear rolling down her cheek and may or may not have gone overboard on the fake tan for her big day.

She’s arm-in-arm with her proud father – the angry, scary man you nervously asked for permission 16 months earlier.

As she reaches the altar and looks you in the eye, all of life’s little worries disappear.

She is still that fun, beautiful girl you met four years earlier while arguing about football on the train. This is the girl you’ve never had a dull moment with, the girl who inspires you, the girl who makes every conversation interesting, the girl everyone wants to be around.

And, for some unknown, idiotic, crazy, ridiculous reason, she wants to be with you - even after the whole forgotten birthday debacle of 2009, even after meeting your family, even after seeing you dance while sober.

You would do anything for this girl. You’d quit smoking, you’d give away your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle collectable toys – you’d even sit through an entire episode of The View.

You can’t hear the priest talk as you look into her eyes.

Apart from Collingwood winning the flag and that day you found $100 in your jeans, this is the best moment of your life.

Nothing will ever tear you apart – this is the girl you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. The girl you’re going to start a family with. You’re happy. You’re certain.

Then… you wake up.

Five years has gone by and you’re living in a unit alone. There’s nothing in your fridge but expired milk and your car keys. Your dream girl or,‘she who shall not be named’, got the house, the car, the dog and your dignity.

Things turned ugly after you promised you would stay friends, but you did manage to keep your collection of basketball cards and Scrubs DVDs.

You still sit down every day and ask yourself – what the hell happened?

This is the tale of the unlucky 50-odd% of people who tie the knot in the modern age.

As a single, immature man looking in, it’s very easy for me to sit back and judge... so, I will.

We live in an age where we are taught to avoid long-term commitments and contracts like the plague. Phone contracts, personal loans, mortgages - as a community, we've woken up to how evil these things are. I think that realisation has subconsciously affected how people are looking at marriage.

Don’t like where your commitment is heading? It's never too late to cut the cord and find a better deal right?

Reading some football news last week had me thinking: Would performance-based contracts used in the sporting world work in a marriage?

“For better or worse, in sickness or health, till the summer of 2017 when we’ve agreed to sit down and re-evaluate where we are as people.”

Could the short-term marriage contract re-ignite passion and lower divorce numbers? Struggling couples get a taste of marriage and can peacefully part ways and test the free agent market. Couples still going strong get an extension and ‘bonuses’ in their next deal.

I can already imagine hiring a wedding agent to broker your new deal.

"Listen, she's really close to signing on the dotted line, but we need you to include soiled nappies to the list of new chores for 2013."

It’s not just marriages that could be improved with this system. Imagine what it could do to parenthood.

“Timmy, your mother and I are not satisfied with how you are gelling with the rest of the family. We warned you about the clothes on your floor and stealing cookies from the pantry. I’m sorry son, but we’ve decided to go in another direction. Go pack your things.”

We could be on to something here.

Personally, I still believe in the ‘till death do us part’ bit.

50 years down the road, I want to be sitting on a park bench with my wife, discussing my last reverse parking job, not caring about the noises my body makes. I really do.

I bet that when I’m there with this theoretical wife, she’ll be sitting down, watching me yell at young park hooligans, wishing she signed that 5-year deal.