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Are you hard work?

I'm high maintenance and proud of it - Holly White

During one of those very drunken encounters with an ex after many vodka, lime and sodas, the subject of 'us' came up.

"My dad thinks it's a good idea we broke up," he said, getting stuck into his pint of Guinness.

"Why?" I asked, shocked that I hadn't charmed the family.

"Dad said you're high maintenance," he answered.

The bar started to go a little dizzy and suddenly I didn't want to finish my drink.

I put on my coat and told the ex that drinks were obviously a very bad idea and left. Walking home, I got to thinking about what he said. Initially it sounded like a bad thing. In fact, it seemed like justification for our relationship ending as far as his dad was concerned. But am I really 'high maintenance', and is it really such a bad thing?

Needy

The Urban Dictionary has two definitions of what high maintenance means: "Requiring a lot of attention. When describing a person, high maintenance usually means that the individual is emotionally needy or prone to over-dramatising a situation to gain attention". The other definition reads: "A person who has expensive taste (regarding clothing, restaurants, etc.). This person is never comfortable because he/she is constantly concerned about his/her appearance. This person feels they are better than most people and usually judge others based on outward appearances."

I wouldn't like to think the latter applies to me, but after a bit of thought, I reckon that I definitely fall into the first category. In that regard, I'm a high-maintenance woman and I don't really give a damn about it.

For a start, I am not one of those girls who can calmly wait in a queue. In the bank, I am always looking for cheeky ways to flirt my way to the front. While waiting at a bar, regardless of whether the person beside me has been patiently waiting for about two years, I want to be served first.

It doesn't end there. In restaurants, I am one of those people who likes to order my food exactly how I want it served -- sauces on the side; steamed or grilled but definitely not fried, no croutons, no cheese and no butter. Oh, and I always ask if the eggs and chicken on the menu are free-range; is the beef organic and fully traceable?

Curse

Yes, I'm that girl that waiters and chefs curse. Naturally enough, high-maintenance ladies extend our standards to fashion.

When I am shopping I have been known to burn off the calories pounding the tarmac from Henry Street to St Stephen's Green and back again, just to make sure I leave no stone unturned in search of a perfect dress.

When I go to a bar, I want fresh juice in my drink -- not cordial -- and I will stare at a barman while he prepares it to make sure.

As the night goes on I'm not always good in heels, and even though I am not exactly light, I have asked (rough translation: demanded) that men carry me home once or twice so painful were my little feet.

At home, I wince at the thought of crumbs in my bed so toast will never pass the bedroom threshold. In the kitchen, I wipe my counter-tops until they shine and have an obsession with cleaning all the pots before sitting down to eat my dinner.

The thought of the grease congealing on them would take away my appetite.

My ex-boyfriend's dad may have a point, but am I not allowed to get what I want?

Why you might ask? Because like the ad says: "I'm worth it".


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