Honesty isn't the best policy?

Funny little things known as "feelings" have taken hold of me recently. They're a particular bitch, however, when met with none of the intensity with which they were projected. So when such niggling thoughts such as 'why hasn't he... yet' start boiling over the brim of your mind, making you want to pull out hair to starve the little buggers, what can one do to soothe the soul? Yoga, meditation, or scream-therapy?!?

A friend at work recently introduced me to the book "Why Men Love Bitches". It highlights the broadly "unattractive" traits women tend to exhibit in dating and urges its readers to act in opposition to what you really want to do. The theory is that women's natural inclinations are likely to drive men sprinting down the nearest alley rather than the aisle.

After being gripped by its analysis of the male psyche, exemplified by simple explanations of why men exhibit specific behaviour, I began to see sense.  I had always believed that male stereotypes only applied to a subset of emotionally unavailable, stubborn, arrogant, self-righteous guys who I had no pleasure of knowing, but the book strongly advocates the power of suppression and the forgery of emotions as conducive to making you irresistible to the man of your dreams.

So the next time wriggly head-worms were disrupting my zen, I tried to suppress them by practising the book's techniques with vigour. It started out promisingly, and I blitzed the life out of ebbing insecurities with like a dictator taking out dissidence. Splat, went my need for a man to validate my self-worth.

Unfortunately, this mighty stronghold crumbled within days – my exasperation outstripped the patience of my calm conviction, and I was once again out of control. I found myself teetering, on the brink of heated emotional outburst that was a sure springboard to an icy pool of rejection.

So now what? I've not managed to learn how to be a bitch and so no one will love me?

Well no, the right thing to have done, I suspect, was to persevere until I became a potty-trained super-bitch and cultivate an innate rebel of romance. But I have no time to wait at the finish line, arms held out in anticipation for a meaner me – stood in a sort of chair pose squat, I tend to envisage.

My new life philosophy was instead to live life 'in-the-moment' and ignore how painful undesired consequence can be. The idea came to me while listening to the radio – the Exciters (a 60s American pop group)  advocate a form of straightforwardness called 'honesty' in their classic "Tell Him", which quickly became my relationship anthem. To be fair, it worked for Ally McBeal (yes the 90s TV character), and she's my idol.

So off I went, humming my song with the full chorus of imaginary harmonies behind me and texting the man I'd been casually seeing to tell him that, in fact, I missed him when he was away. I even admitted to knowing that I shouldn't have, yet I still missed him. Honest. To the point. Heart on sleeve, like the girl in the song. 

I sat back and waited, I did. Until I thought was close to making out the shape of a tortoise edging into my eye-line. 

Buzz, my Blackberry messenger, jolts me out of the Mirage: "I fell asleep, let's talk tomorrow".

Huh, I thought. That's what I've been waiting for? A tortoise would have been better. Even so,  I persevered, adamant I would be able to squeeze blood out of stone.

"OK, call me when you're free?" I added.

And call, he did. One week later, and in response to a text I that said "[complaints]... you d*ck"; followed by another which apologised and explained that what I really meant to write: "you f*cking d*ck".

A d*ck he was. But I should've known better. Or maybe If I had learnt to be a super duper bitch, the way of the best selling dating bible, he may have long gotten down on one knee and begged for my forgiveness. Fat chance; but oh, conjecture, how you tease me.

Feel the fear and do it anyway? Not when there is hell to pay

Part of the challenge to becoming the "girl in the song" is to do more of that which I normally fear, or just outrightly reject. While my better judgement remains sufficiently anchored, yours truly has decided to take on a "yes" attitude in the new year.

As long as it doesn't result in a stretcher scenario, a bit of a yes goes a long way. While the physical manifestation of this mentality could simply be taking off my clothes and posing naked, or skinny dipping in the Thames under the watchful eye of MI5 HQ, I don't feel sufficiently ambitious or even certain that I would want to be that girl who become but of her own jokes. Therefore, rather than actively pursuing dare-devilish stunts or obscene acts for the sake of doing them, I'm adopting a greater willingness to rise to every day challenges, being more spontaneous and generally overcoming my inner struggles of courage and fear.

Which is where London's highlight attraction Winter Wonderland comes in. Last week was the first time I visited without just browsing around and chasing after a hog-roast sandwich, Jamie Oliver style. While I like the idea of watching fast, exhilarating rides and people screaming and kicking in the air with joy and torture, I would normally prefer to indulge in the quieter pleasures of life- a more cerebral enjoyment based on interest and curiosity rather than the primal and no-more-than-adrenalin-induced modern fight or flight response masked as an easy thrill. My intention this year was to sample a variety of "fun rides": House of Fun, the Ghost Train Ride, as well as the more interesting parts unique to Christmas: Santa's Grotto, the Bavarian food market and arts and crafts stalls. Which is why it is crucial to agree beforehand with your companions which attractions they are likely to want to visit and will try and convince you to visit too.

It is particularly a problem when the companion you are visiting with has not an inkling of what the word "vertigo" means and the type of irrational fears it evokes. "I have vertigo" was dismissed with a quick following of "go and get some tokens so we can get on the Ski Jump". The Ski Jump is a ride where you are strapped into one seat in a circular array of seats attached to an arm-like structure which raises you slowly to an angled height and then drops, spins or flings you (in some instances the combination of all three motions) in a multitude of directions, until you are topsy-turvying through air and becomes as confused as a bat.

The first drop immediately roused a forceful regret in me for undertaking the unnecessary torture of this gratuitous process, as I was hit by the helpless panic of being hurled towards the ground by the contraption which held me. The sensation of my constricting chest and my suspended heart caused my body to physically repel against the downward motion as my back arched acutely into my seat. The worst parts were the split seconds during which you've almost been flung to the height at which you will eventually be dropped, you start to lose momentum and you hover and suspend in space while your brain quick-fires the impending danger, until suddenly gravity grabs hold and you are once more accelerating towards your fateful destination.

After three iterations of the same sequence, the ride finally came to a stop and we were lowered back onto the ground. A faint nausea was present but I felt quite proud and victorious in having endured the five minutes without permanent damage or any sign of having to throw up. I even felt confident enough to agree to testing out the Power Tower later, the ride that pulls you up vertically to the top of the tower and then just drops you to free-fall to the bottom. What was I thinking - a few minutes after walking away from the Ski Jump, my previously clear minded straight walking self became a swaying and slanting advancement requiring not only one but two persons to support me. And the worst part was that while this was briefly alleviated by munching on Jamie Oliver's free-range hog roast sandwich which was made with the freshest and tastiest whole meal bread I've had for a long time, the discomfort and suppression of hints of regurgitation stayed with me beyond Hyde Park Corner and only dispersed the next morning, some 12 hours after had I made my bed to lie in.

What did I learn from the experience? I'm not sure. Perhaps that my body is too set in its old rickety ways to take such shocks to the system and that as someone with fear of heights, it might just serve me better to be content with visiting Santa's Grotto next time, like a 5 year old child. The experience gave me ample indication that I should surrender to accepting that there are just some challenges I cannot endure, and that it is sometimes OK to admit to not liking to or being able to do something. So while I am still open minded about what I'd like to try next, I might give it more than the five second thought I invested this time round when someone inevitably, at some point in the future, puts the option of extreme sports on my table.