Until recently I’ve never actually been dumped. There’s nothing quite like an unexpected ditching (by text no less, and for a reason so pathetic, it’s actually made me glad he gave me the heave-ho, as he was clearly a little bit of a plonker). It makes you reassess absolutely everything. When you’re with someone, there are things you don’t change about yourself image-wise, because you work under the assumption that your partner must be fond of the way you look (or why else would they be with you?).
When I broke up with my ex husband, and moved in with Princess, we spent half a day literally going through every item of clothing that I owned. Possessed by the spirit of a Roman Emperor, Princess sat on my bed as I modelled each garment, simply giving them either a thumbs up or thumbs down. Needless to say after about 8 years of not being particularly fussed about my appearance (it’s difficult to care about the clothes you wear when you’re modelling them in a size 22 carcass) most of my outfits were given the thumbs down.
Luckily the break-up diet had ensured that at this point I’d already dropped a couple of dress sizes, so we set to work on finding out what styles did suit me, and quickly established that I have good legs and great boobs, so it was all about making the most of those assets. We looked at finding ways to disguise my waist (which has no definition) and my arse (which quite frankly has the same surface area as most modestly sized English villages). Leggings and skinny jeans are now my best friends, and empire line tunic style tops which accentuate my boobs and leave my waist and bum as a bit of a mystery are common place in my wardrobe. I also discovered, that whilst I enjoy dressing up in conventional “going out” dresses for nights out at the weekend, I’m most comfortable in my day time attire, which I suppose has a casual, slightly safe “wannabe rock chick but too old to pull it off properly” feel to it, and this is certainly my happy place.
Following the demise of this most recent break up, it wasn’t exactly necessary to have a wardrobe overhaul to quite the same extent, but a couple of things have indeed spurred me on in terms of a slight image make-over. Firstly I was (and it’s sad to admit it), slightly inspired by the recent advert for Boots...you know the one, mental woman twirling around in a summer dress, hair two shades lighter than usual, and a lipstick a shade brighter? Yep, that made me realise it was time to go back to blonde. Also though, I read a great little blog entry (http://news.bravissimo.com/003970/work-smarter-not-harder/) which completely made me think about the power image can have on one’s self esteem and productivity!
So, for these reasons, last week I hit the bottle...the bottle of hair lightener that is... and I scheduled myself in with the hairdresser for a chop. It’s not often you walk out of the salon instantly loving your new do, but I can honestly say that as my hairdresser did the obligatory “show you the back of your head with a mirror” thing, I felt instantly revitalised. A graduated bob, and a few highlights have done wonders for making me feel as though I’ve regained control, and the diet has started again in earnest. I’m saving my pennies for a bit of a spending spree once I’ve shifted a few more lbs, and I’m ready to face summer head on.
I’m not a vain person, and I also don’t feel that you should ever judge a book by its cover, but it’s certainly true in my case, that a pretty frock and a set of killer heels makes me like myself that little bit more, and there’s nothing wrong with putting yourself first every now and then!
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
This Is Not The Time For A Hair Disaster
It’s 9pm on Tuesday evening. On Saturday I’m having my 30th birthday party, which I’ve decided to theme as “Black Tie” in order to add a touch of class to the occasion. I need to add a little class because trust me, after a few vino’s I’m anything but classy myself! I've bought a new frock, had a gorgeoys Minx treatment on my toenails and at the moment I’m dying my hair in an effort to look my absoloute best for my special little soiree. The description on the box says that it's “Dark French Roast”, but as we speak, my roots are turning a shade of golden blonde. I’m more than a little concerned that the wrong solution has been put into this particular box of L’Oréal hair colour, especially as given that the rest of my shoulder length hair is well...brunette, blonde roots could look a little stupid.
Shit. At six minutes into a thirty minute development time, I’m going to wing it for a little longer and hope it starts to darken.
Have you ever noticed that thirty minutes when dying your hair, is pretty comparable with thirty minutes sat in a traffic jam, or waiting for your dinner to cook when you’re starving, but is significantly longer that a thirty minute lunch break? Why is that? They say that time waits for no man, but I tell you what, it certainly dawdles when your don’t want it to.
Fuck...Eleven minutes in and it’s going ginger!
It’s not much to ask is it...that I have one thing in my life go off without a hitch? I’ve not had the best luck recently and I’ve got a nagging feeling that something is going to happen, something that will mean I remember my 30th birthday for all the wrong reasons, and to be honest, this run of bad luck is starting to really get on my wick. I have so few things in my life at the moment that bring me joy, and it just seems like no matter what I do I can’t seem to get back on track. How is it that some people always land on their feet, and yet people like me can’t even dye their hair successfully?
Oh for crying out loud, sixteen minutes and it’s actually gone orange now. Bollocks, have re-read instructions and it says apply to wet hair, not dry hair...could that be affecting it? Seriously? I haven’t bought a hair dye that couldn’t be applied to dry hair in years – I always buy L’Oréal but this was the glossier golden packet as opposed to the normal pastel coloured packet. Why the hell would L’Oréal have two different types of dye that need to be applied in completely different ways? A bit of consistency within a brand wouldn’t go a miss would it?
Hmm...I’m twenty-one minutes in now and think maybe I should go and wash it off.
Lather rinse repeat, lather rinse repeat, and now I’m so bloody desperate to get out of the shower to check what the damage is that I slice my leg open while attempting to shave my legs too quickly, great, blood. Ouch! Stinging! Remnants of hair dye not quite washed out has now trickled in gaping leg wound...why does water always make blood loss look more substantial? Of course it could also be the hair dye, but it looks like there’s been a massacre in my bath tub! Good job I’m not squeamish.
Get out of bath – find hair dye towel. All women have one of these. It’s the mankiest looking thing you’ll ever see, due to years of colour experimentation, but essential for home colouring. Stub toe in process of searching for towel because naturally you have to do all of this with your eyes squeezed tight shut. You just never know if a teeny bit of hair dye will have missed the rinse and dribble into your eye, and trust me, that stings like a bitch. Worry that I’ve just ruined my toenails. Bugger, will check in a minute.
Towel dry initially...decide after first mirror check that it might not be the disaster that I first feared. Notice however that most of the dye appears to have been applied to my forehead and neck. Spend five minutes trying to remove colour from my skin using make-up remover without success. Consider going straight to the Cilit Bang in a moment of sheer panic, but manage to get a hold of my senses just in time to remember that I have some left over Clinique Clarifying Tonic which is essentially Sticky Stuff Remover in a posher bottle. Using this allows me to burn off the first six layers of my skin, thus solving the problem of a stained forehead. Apply first aid to gaping leg wound in form of torn off corner of loo roll. This quick thinking saves me from an almost inevitible amputation or at the very least, gangrene. Phew, Minx seem to have survived (there is a God).
Dry hair fully...Hmm...
Well it's not a disaster exactly. My roots aren’t orange, or blonde. In fact L’Oréal’s "Dark French Roast" happens to be quite a fancy name for something that is essentially mousey brown. In fact, it’s the same mousey brown as my own hair colour...which means forty minutes down the line. I don’t actually look like I’ve dyed my hair at all.
Brilliant.
Shit. At six minutes into a thirty minute development time, I’m going to wing it for a little longer and hope it starts to darken.
Have you ever noticed that thirty minutes when dying your hair, is pretty comparable with thirty minutes sat in a traffic jam, or waiting for your dinner to cook when you’re starving, but is significantly longer that a thirty minute lunch break? Why is that? They say that time waits for no man, but I tell you what, it certainly dawdles when your don’t want it to.
Fuck...Eleven minutes in and it’s going ginger!
It’s not much to ask is it...that I have one thing in my life go off without a hitch? I’ve not had the best luck recently and I’ve got a nagging feeling that something is going to happen, something that will mean I remember my 30th birthday for all the wrong reasons, and to be honest, this run of bad luck is starting to really get on my wick. I have so few things in my life at the moment that bring me joy, and it just seems like no matter what I do I can’t seem to get back on track. How is it that some people always land on their feet, and yet people like me can’t even dye their hair successfully?
Oh for crying out loud, sixteen minutes and it’s actually gone orange now. Bollocks, have re-read instructions and it says apply to wet hair, not dry hair...could that be affecting it? Seriously? I haven’t bought a hair dye that couldn’t be applied to dry hair in years – I always buy L’Oréal but this was the glossier golden packet as opposed to the normal pastel coloured packet. Why the hell would L’Oréal have two different types of dye that need to be applied in completely different ways? A bit of consistency within a brand wouldn’t go a miss would it?
Hmm...I’m twenty-one minutes in now and think maybe I should go and wash it off.
Lather rinse repeat, lather rinse repeat, and now I’m so bloody desperate to get out of the shower to check what the damage is that I slice my leg open while attempting to shave my legs too quickly, great, blood. Ouch! Stinging! Remnants of hair dye not quite washed out has now trickled in gaping leg wound...why does water always make blood loss look more substantial? Of course it could also be the hair dye, but it looks like there’s been a massacre in my bath tub! Good job I’m not squeamish.
Get out of bath – find hair dye towel. All women have one of these. It’s the mankiest looking thing you’ll ever see, due to years of colour experimentation, but essential for home colouring. Stub toe in process of searching for towel because naturally you have to do all of this with your eyes squeezed tight shut. You just never know if a teeny bit of hair dye will have missed the rinse and dribble into your eye, and trust me, that stings like a bitch. Worry that I’ve just ruined my toenails. Bugger, will check in a minute.
Towel dry initially...decide after first mirror check that it might not be the disaster that I first feared. Notice however that most of the dye appears to have been applied to my forehead and neck. Spend five minutes trying to remove colour from my skin using make-up remover without success. Consider going straight to the Cilit Bang in a moment of sheer panic, but manage to get a hold of my senses just in time to remember that I have some left over Clinique Clarifying Tonic which is essentially Sticky Stuff Remover in a posher bottle. Using this allows me to burn off the first six layers of my skin, thus solving the problem of a stained forehead. Apply first aid to gaping leg wound in form of torn off corner of loo roll. This quick thinking saves me from an almost inevitible amputation or at the very least, gangrene. Phew, Minx seem to have survived (there is a God).
Dry hair fully...Hmm...
Well it's not a disaster exactly. My roots aren’t orange, or blonde. In fact L’Oréal’s "Dark French Roast" happens to be quite a fancy name for something that is essentially mousey brown. In fact, it’s the same mousey brown as my own hair colour...which means forty minutes down the line. I don’t actually look like I’ve dyed my hair at all.
Brilliant.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Real Life Thinspiration
I stood staring at my laptop, mouth wide open in awe as I stared at the facebook photo my friend H had just posted.
When I first started at Bra Towers, I worked in the Customer Services department. The company was relocating to the midlands, and a group of around fifteen girls (myself included) had all been recruited as the company’s new Customer Service “Dream Team” based at the shiny new head office in Leamington Spa.
We all started as consultants, but before long it was obvious that we needed some team supervisors, and H was recruited as such, along with another colleague Emma. As the company expanded the management took advantage of the human resources degree that Emma had, and she moved on to head up our HR department...which essentially was just made up of her! I was promoted into Emma’s CS supervisor role alongside H, and over the course of a few years we formed a strong friendship, based around our jobs, our twenty a day fag habit, and generally just the fact that we found we shared the same daft sense of humour.
H has always been one of the most beautiful women I know. Striking even. With soft kind eyes, and calming nature, lustrous auburn hair (that could literally dazzle you it was always so glossy) and a mutley-like giggle that you couldn’t help but laugh at, she is just a genuinely beautiful person. Like myself though, H wasn’t a size zero. You didn’t notice it to be fair because despite carrying a few extra pounds, her curves always went in and out in the right places, and when she walked, it wasn’t with the clumsy heavy footedness of someone who was carrying any weight...in fact I often felt she needed to wear a bell round her neck so that you could hear her approaching, so light on her feet she was! When she left Bra Towers and started a family, naturally she gained more weight, and I know she won’t mind me saying that that extra weight finally started to take its toll.
I had seen comments on facebook about runs that she’d been doing recently. I watched as her recorded distances grew steadily longer and longer, but having not seen her for a couple of years I had no idea she’d decided to lose her weight...Until I saw the photo on facebook. What was staring back at me was my beautiful friend holding up a pair of size 22 jeans in front of her now teeny size 8 body. 7½ stone lost in under one year! Now like I say, I have always though H was stunning, but the look on her face in that photo screamed to the world “Look at me! Look what I can do!” and it literally brought a tear to my eye.
She popped into the office today to say hello, which gave me a little time to catch up properly and very gingerly hug her teeny tiny skinny-minny self (I was a little concerned if I squished too hard I may crush her), and naturally I asked her secret. “Pure and simple” she told me; it was weight watchers, not going into her additional 49 points allowance and cutting out the carbs wherever possible. That combined with exercise and being a busy mum, meant that ten months later she was 7½ stone lighter, and positively beaming as a result.
Now don’t get me wrong, a massive weight loss like that is inspirational enough, but what I found more inspirational was the way H was so meek about her achievements. She was so concerned that she’d sound like a fanatical weight watchers devotee, standing on her soap box and telling us all how she did it, that she became shy as she told us about the road she’d taken to lose the weight. It just showed me that her journey was a personal one. She knew the plan worked for her, but she also wasn’t going to pretend it had been easy.
When H was bigger, she never really complained about her weight, she wasn’t like me, moaning that I wasn’t blessed with a thin gene, or hankering for the days when I could fit my ass into a pair of size 10 jeans. Her feelings about her weight were kept under her hat. H never let her shape or size define who she was then...and in the very same way, she won’t let her weight loss define who she is now. Today she reminded me, that who we are, and what we can achieve when we put our minds to it, comes from our core. It’s not from how we look on the outside, nor is it controlled by our environment, or our peers. It’s our very essence, our core and our hearts that make us who we are, and how successful we’ll be in life. The minute we stop caring about what life, people or society expects, is the minute we’ll truly start to achieve our potential. Thank you for the reminder H (you gorgeous beautiful lady) It was exactly what I needed to help me refocus xx
When I first started at Bra Towers, I worked in the Customer Services department. The company was relocating to the midlands, and a group of around fifteen girls (myself included) had all been recruited as the company’s new Customer Service “Dream Team” based at the shiny new head office in Leamington Spa.
We all started as consultants, but before long it was obvious that we needed some team supervisors, and H was recruited as such, along with another colleague Emma. As the company expanded the management took advantage of the human resources degree that Emma had, and she moved on to head up our HR department...which essentially was just made up of her! I was promoted into Emma’s CS supervisor role alongside H, and over the course of a few years we formed a strong friendship, based around our jobs, our twenty a day fag habit, and generally just the fact that we found we shared the same daft sense of humour.
H has always been one of the most beautiful women I know. Striking even. With soft kind eyes, and calming nature, lustrous auburn hair (that could literally dazzle you it was always so glossy) and a mutley-like giggle that you couldn’t help but laugh at, she is just a genuinely beautiful person. Like myself though, H wasn’t a size zero. You didn’t notice it to be fair because despite carrying a few extra pounds, her curves always went in and out in the right places, and when she walked, it wasn’t with the clumsy heavy footedness of someone who was carrying any weight...in fact I often felt she needed to wear a bell round her neck so that you could hear her approaching, so light on her feet she was! When she left Bra Towers and started a family, naturally she gained more weight, and I know she won’t mind me saying that that extra weight finally started to take its toll.
I had seen comments on facebook about runs that she’d been doing recently. I watched as her recorded distances grew steadily longer and longer, but having not seen her for a couple of years I had no idea she’d decided to lose her weight...Until I saw the photo on facebook. What was staring back at me was my beautiful friend holding up a pair of size 22 jeans in front of her now teeny size 8 body. 7½ stone lost in under one year! Now like I say, I have always though H was stunning, but the look on her face in that photo screamed to the world “Look at me! Look what I can do!” and it literally brought a tear to my eye.
She popped into the office today to say hello, which gave me a little time to catch up properly and very gingerly hug her teeny tiny skinny-minny self (I was a little concerned if I squished too hard I may crush her), and naturally I asked her secret. “Pure and simple” she told me; it was weight watchers, not going into her additional 49 points allowance and cutting out the carbs wherever possible. That combined with exercise and being a busy mum, meant that ten months later she was 7½ stone lighter, and positively beaming as a result.
Now don’t get me wrong, a massive weight loss like that is inspirational enough, but what I found more inspirational was the way H was so meek about her achievements. She was so concerned that she’d sound like a fanatical weight watchers devotee, standing on her soap box and telling us all how she did it, that she became shy as she told us about the road she’d taken to lose the weight. It just showed me that her journey was a personal one. She knew the plan worked for her, but she also wasn’t going to pretend it had been easy.
When H was bigger, she never really complained about her weight, she wasn’t like me, moaning that I wasn’t blessed with a thin gene, or hankering for the days when I could fit my ass into a pair of size 10 jeans. Her feelings about her weight were kept under her hat. H never let her shape or size define who she was then...and in the very same way, she won’t let her weight loss define who she is now. Today she reminded me, that who we are, and what we can achieve when we put our minds to it, comes from our core. It’s not from how we look on the outside, nor is it controlled by our environment, or our peers. It’s our very essence, our core and our hearts that make us who we are, and how successful we’ll be in life. The minute we stop caring about what life, people or society expects, is the minute we’ll truly start to achieve our potential. Thank you for the reminder H (you gorgeous beautiful lady) It was exactly what I needed to help me refocus xx
Monday, 5 December 2011
False Advertising
Dear Mr Right (you know who you are),
Ref: My feelings with regards to the ridiculous distance you have put between us.
I’m writing to make you aware of my feelings with regards to the way our relationship has developed over the last year and a bit, so that you can fully understand the predicament I find myself in now.
Firstly I feel that on our first encounter, you falsely advertised yourself as a potential “Prince Charming” by being utterly gorgeous and wholly available (i.e. living just thirty minutes from me), when in fact you were in the process of packing up your castle, and riding your steed three hundred miles away, to what felt like the other side of the world.
I could have accepted that I had made an error, and that you weren’t actually supposed to be in my life, however despite the ridiculous distance, you have been able to hold my attention and I can only assume this is because of the following:
1) You speak to me and text me so regularly, that it’s kind of like having a boyfriend, but without the “sexy time”.
2) You call me at work (granted this is usually to try and embarrass me in front of my colleagues by arguing with me on the phone) but again, it then feels as though I actually have a “significant other” on the end of the line, who cares enough to call me.
3) You laugh at me when I say stupid things, but never make me feel stupid...even when I accidentally send you a text telling you about my most recent bikini wax appointment, that was clearly not meant for you!
4) You do sweet things like send me 51 (at the last count) messages one after the other, each containing a single kiss: one because it’s sweet and two, because you know that my phone will be having a dickie fit with all the “pings” and vibrate alerts that it will make me giggle.
5) When I was actually seeing a real life person (as opposed to you, who’s so far away I sometimes wonder if I’ve made you up) you were decent enough to refrain from flirting with me, but you kept our friendship strong by not losing touch with me.
6) You have a funny accent, which I adore.
7) You wear Superman pants...I mean...what girl could resist that?
8) You are one of just two people who tell me off (the other is my mother) that I struggle to argue with.
9) You’re the first man in the world that I’ve ever let get away with calling me “woman”, and I’m still not sure why I don’t mind when you do it?!
10) You don’t take my crazy ramblings too seriously, even though I do a pretty good impression of a complete lunatic at times.
Given all of the above, I have come to the conclusion that actually, I have been left no option other than to let myself become smitten with you, and this, I feel, is where you have let me down, because clearly this is not an option whilst you live a gazillion miles away. I therefore respectfully request, that as a form of compensation to me, you re-locate back up to the midlands. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request under the circumstances.
Yours sincerely
Miss (Always) Right
Ref: My feelings with regards to the ridiculous distance you have put between us.
I’m writing to make you aware of my feelings with regards to the way our relationship has developed over the last year and a bit, so that you can fully understand the predicament I find myself in now.
Firstly I feel that on our first encounter, you falsely advertised yourself as a potential “Prince Charming” by being utterly gorgeous and wholly available (i.e. living just thirty minutes from me), when in fact you were in the process of packing up your castle, and riding your steed three hundred miles away, to what felt like the other side of the world.
I could have accepted that I had made an error, and that you weren’t actually supposed to be in my life, however despite the ridiculous distance, you have been able to hold my attention and I can only assume this is because of the following:
1) You speak to me and text me so regularly, that it’s kind of like having a boyfriend, but without the “sexy time”.
2) You call me at work (granted this is usually to try and embarrass me in front of my colleagues by arguing with me on the phone) but again, it then feels as though I actually have a “significant other” on the end of the line, who cares enough to call me.
3) You laugh at me when I say stupid things, but never make me feel stupid...even when I accidentally send you a text telling you about my most recent bikini wax appointment, that was clearly not meant for you!
4) You do sweet things like send me 51 (at the last count) messages one after the other, each containing a single kiss: one because it’s sweet and two, because you know that my phone will be having a dickie fit with all the “pings” and vibrate alerts that it will make me giggle.
5) When I was actually seeing a real life person (as opposed to you, who’s so far away I sometimes wonder if I’ve made you up) you were decent enough to refrain from flirting with me, but you kept our friendship strong by not losing touch with me.
6) You have a funny accent, which I adore.
7) You wear Superman pants...I mean...what girl could resist that?
8) You are one of just two people who tell me off (the other is my mother) that I struggle to argue with.
9) You’re the first man in the world that I’ve ever let get away with calling me “woman”, and I’m still not sure why I don’t mind when you do it?!
10) You don’t take my crazy ramblings too seriously, even though I do a pretty good impression of a complete lunatic at times.
Given all of the above, I have come to the conclusion that actually, I have been left no option other than to let myself become smitten with you, and this, I feel, is where you have let me down, because clearly this is not an option whilst you live a gazillion miles away. I therefore respectfully request, that as a form of compensation to me, you re-locate back up to the midlands. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request under the circumstances.
Yours sincerely
Miss (Always) Right
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Man Talk
The other night I was delighted to see that ITV2 were showing The Witches Of Eastwick as their late night film. I love this movie. The first time I watched it I was probably about sixteen, and as a big fan of Cher in her capacity as an actress (ever since I was introduced to the film Mermaids as a youngster) I remember thinking it was dark, funny and just a little bit wicked.
My first TV was an old black and white portable and I was allowed to have this in my bedroom. My parents were quite strict though with regards to what I watched on TV, so the rule was that I wasn’t allowed to watch anything in my room, past the 9pm watershed. Naturally I ignored this rule completely as soon as I got my first TV set, and would sit watching late night films, perched on the end of my bed. I should state that I had to perch on the end of my bed, with the volume on at practically NOTHING, because the ancient TV set didn’t have a remote control, and my parent’s had the very annoying habit of coming to “check on me” before they retired for the evening. I therefore had to be at the ready to switch it off and jump back into bed and offer an Oscar winning “sleepy performance” with some fake snoring noises, should I hear their footsteps on the stairs.
I mean seriously – why do parents have to check on you like that? Where exactly do they think you’ll be when they go to bed? This isn’t the States! We don’t live in one story houses where climbing out of windows is a relatively easy affair! I lived in an urban area, and there were no giant trees outside my window that I could have used to climb in and out of my bedroom...besides...I was a good girl and to be fair have always loved my bed, so the chances of me getting out of it for any reason other than for food, were relatively slim.
Given that I’m currently back at mums house, when I saw the TV listings, I was filled with nostalgia, and decided to settle in for the night for my Jack Nicholson fix. Whilst watching it (now as an adult) a certain line in the film struck a chord with me. The three main characters (played by Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Phieffer) are talking about what they want in a man...good looks, a kind heart, money, a big...e-hem (!)... After much deliberation they decide wishing for the perfect man is futile, and Cher’s character concludes that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy, at which point Susan’s character points out:
“Well why do we always end up talking about them?”
I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. My group of friends are a mixture of serial singletons, long term relationship-ee’s, and married women. All of them are strong and sometimes feisty women, good jobs, great social lives, outside interests and hobbies. All of them caring and compassionate women, who’s friends mean the world to them...and yet nine times out of ten, after half a bottle of White Zinfandel, the topic of conversation will have turned to men.
BLOODY MEN! And I’m one of the worst culprits. Do I feel like I need to be in a relationship? Nope. Do I rely on a man to do things for me or look after me? Nope. None of my friends do...and yet we always end up talking about them. My married friends complain about the lack of help they get in the home, or gush about the romantic things their husbands do for them, my friends in a relationship talk about whether they should be taking their relationship to the next level, or tell you excitedly about the surprise treat their boyfriend had for them when they got home yesterday. My single friends wonder when their Mr Right is going to walk through the door, or just entertain me with tales of their dating disasters, but despite this constant dialogue centred around the male of the species, we all maintain that we Do NOT Need A Man!
Clearly we all do, else they wouldn’t be our fall back conversation...surely??
I’ve recently stopped seeing CB, and have found myself back on the singles market (another one bites the dust). I know that when the time is right I shall revert back to my single mentality and continue the search for my Prince Charming, despite the fact that I’ve actually got far bigger and more important life ambitions to focus on at the moment. I’m not sure whether it’s coded into our genetic make-up that we should constantly be aware of the opposite sex, and always looking for the man that’s going to give us beautiful babies, and provide us with a safe environment within which to thrive. All I know is, that a group of women will always end up discussing what they don’t have, what they do have, and what they truly want, and it will always somehow come back to relationships. I guess it’s like they say – we’re all looking for true love, whether we realise it or not.
My first TV was an old black and white portable and I was allowed to have this in my bedroom. My parents were quite strict though with regards to what I watched on TV, so the rule was that I wasn’t allowed to watch anything in my room, past the 9pm watershed. Naturally I ignored this rule completely as soon as I got my first TV set, and would sit watching late night films, perched on the end of my bed. I should state that I had to perch on the end of my bed, with the volume on at practically NOTHING, because the ancient TV set didn’t have a remote control, and my parent’s had the very annoying habit of coming to “check on me” before they retired for the evening. I therefore had to be at the ready to switch it off and jump back into bed and offer an Oscar winning “sleepy performance” with some fake snoring noises, should I hear their footsteps on the stairs.
I mean seriously – why do parents have to check on you like that? Where exactly do they think you’ll be when they go to bed? This isn’t the States! We don’t live in one story houses where climbing out of windows is a relatively easy affair! I lived in an urban area, and there were no giant trees outside my window that I could have used to climb in and out of my bedroom...besides...I was a good girl and to be fair have always loved my bed, so the chances of me getting out of it for any reason other than for food, were relatively slim.
Given that I’m currently back at mums house, when I saw the TV listings, I was filled with nostalgia, and decided to settle in for the night for my Jack Nicholson fix. Whilst watching it (now as an adult) a certain line in the film struck a chord with me. The three main characters (played by Cher, Susan Sarandon and Michelle Phieffer) are talking about what they want in a man...good looks, a kind heart, money, a big...e-hem (!)... After much deliberation they decide wishing for the perfect man is futile, and Cher’s character concludes that she doesn’t need a man to make her happy, at which point Susan’s character points out:
“Well why do we always end up talking about them?”
I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. My group of friends are a mixture of serial singletons, long term relationship-ee’s, and married women. All of them are strong and sometimes feisty women, good jobs, great social lives, outside interests and hobbies. All of them caring and compassionate women, who’s friends mean the world to them...and yet nine times out of ten, after half a bottle of White Zinfandel, the topic of conversation will have turned to men.
BLOODY MEN! And I’m one of the worst culprits. Do I feel like I need to be in a relationship? Nope. Do I rely on a man to do things for me or look after me? Nope. None of my friends do...and yet we always end up talking about them. My married friends complain about the lack of help they get in the home, or gush about the romantic things their husbands do for them, my friends in a relationship talk about whether they should be taking their relationship to the next level, or tell you excitedly about the surprise treat their boyfriend had for them when they got home yesterday. My single friends wonder when their Mr Right is going to walk through the door, or just entertain me with tales of their dating disasters, but despite this constant dialogue centred around the male of the species, we all maintain that we Do NOT Need A Man!
Clearly we all do, else they wouldn’t be our fall back conversation...surely??
I’ve recently stopped seeing CB, and have found myself back on the singles market (another one bites the dust). I know that when the time is right I shall revert back to my single mentality and continue the search for my Prince Charming, despite the fact that I’ve actually got far bigger and more important life ambitions to focus on at the moment. I’m not sure whether it’s coded into our genetic make-up that we should constantly be aware of the opposite sex, and always looking for the man that’s going to give us beautiful babies, and provide us with a safe environment within which to thrive. All I know is, that a group of women will always end up discussing what they don’t have, what they do have, and what they truly want, and it will always somehow come back to relationships. I guess it’s like they say – we’re all looking for true love, whether we realise it or not.
Monday, 5 September 2011
The Dinner Date
I've been working for the same company for ten years now, and in recognition of mine and a number of other colleagues length of service, the MD is very kindly treating us to a black tie dinner, with a night stop in a hotel for ourselves and a guest.
Naturally the girls will be taking their husbands and boyfriends, but I was in a bit of a quandary as to who to take, as although I have a new man in my life ...let's call him "CB" (it's the initials of his nickname) we haven't exactly upgraded our relationship to boyfriend/girlfriend status.
I thought about taking my bezzie boy mate...he's more than capable of charming the pants of both men and women, he'd thrive on chatting to everyone, and as a squaddie would relish the opportunity to get fed and watered on someone else's dollar. The only problem is, he knows way too much about me, and after a couple of glasses of wine, would undoubtedly be regaling my colleagues with embarrassing stories of me as a teenager, or me now as a drunken idiot on nights out...and well quite frankly, I don't think him telling my MD about the time he and his girlfriend had to put me to bed after I passed out on their floor following drinking games, is going to do much for my career in the long term.
So I got to thinking about CB, and whether he'd like to come. I didn't expect him to in all honesty. As a plasterer, ninety percent of the time you'll find him in combat shorts and a dusty t-shirt, and the other ten percent of the time he'll be in Jeans and a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, so the idea of him doing the whole "black tie" DJ and dickie bow thing seemed a little off point for him.
He's a quiet man around people he doesn't know, but when he's warmed up with a beer he'll chat to anyone. He's also not at all serious...I mean not serious about anything...this is the man who high fived me after an energetic bedroom session because he wanted me to feel "appreciated"...I don't know what amused me more, the fact that he did it, or the fact that I instinctively returned the high five. (I have advised him that standard post coital procedures such as cuddling are to be followed in future and he seems to have learned his lesson)
Is it safe to take him? Actually I think it is, and not only is it safe, but at least I know we'll have a giggle together. Not least because when he get's his dancing shoes on he REALLY goes for it! I seriously haven't seen anyone else throw shapes on the dancefloor like CB does, so he'll keep all the girls happy just through his sheer entertainment value. Also, its more likely that at this early stage, my colleagues will be able to provide more embarrassing stories about me than he will, so no fear of having my P45 handed to me the following Monday!
Of course if he changes his mind and decides he doesn't want to get trussed up like a turkey at Christmas I'll just have to find another charismatic individual to join me. If you're interested in being put on the back-up list, please apply in writing to
Natz Needs A Date
PO BOX 123
Loserville
Right...well I suppose I better start internet shopping for a new cocktail dress. (Any excuse) so Ta-ta for now!
Naturally the girls will be taking their husbands and boyfriends, but I was in a bit of a quandary as to who to take, as although I have a new man in my life ...let's call him "CB" (it's the initials of his nickname) we haven't exactly upgraded our relationship to boyfriend/girlfriend status.
I thought about taking my bezzie boy mate...he's more than capable of charming the pants of both men and women, he'd thrive on chatting to everyone, and as a squaddie would relish the opportunity to get fed and watered on someone else's dollar. The only problem is, he knows way too much about me, and after a couple of glasses of wine, would undoubtedly be regaling my colleagues with embarrassing stories of me as a teenager, or me now as a drunken idiot on nights out...and well quite frankly, I don't think him telling my MD about the time he and his girlfriend had to put me to bed after I passed out on their floor following drinking games, is going to do much for my career in the long term.
So I got to thinking about CB, and whether he'd like to come. I didn't expect him to in all honesty. As a plasterer, ninety percent of the time you'll find him in combat shorts and a dusty t-shirt, and the other ten percent of the time he'll be in Jeans and a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, so the idea of him doing the whole "black tie" DJ and dickie bow thing seemed a little off point for him.
He's a quiet man around people he doesn't know, but when he's warmed up with a beer he'll chat to anyone. He's also not at all serious...I mean not serious about anything...this is the man who high fived me after an energetic bedroom session because he wanted me to feel "appreciated"...I don't know what amused me more, the fact that he did it, or the fact that I instinctively returned the high five. (I have advised him that standard post coital procedures such as cuddling are to be followed in future and he seems to have learned his lesson)
Is it safe to take him? Actually I think it is, and not only is it safe, but at least I know we'll have a giggle together. Not least because when he get's his dancing shoes on he REALLY goes for it! I seriously haven't seen anyone else throw shapes on the dancefloor like CB does, so he'll keep all the girls happy just through his sheer entertainment value. Also, its more likely that at this early stage, my colleagues will be able to provide more embarrassing stories about me than he will, so no fear of having my P45 handed to me the following Monday!
Of course if he changes his mind and decides he doesn't want to get trussed up like a turkey at Christmas I'll just have to find another charismatic individual to join me. If you're interested in being put on the back-up list, please apply in writing to
Natz Needs A Date
PO BOX 123
Loserville
Right...well I suppose I better start internet shopping for a new cocktail dress. (Any excuse) so Ta-ta for now!
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Inner "Zen"
People often speak about the benefits of a healthy body and a healthy mind. I have often listened to people rattle on about their “active” lifestyles (usually as I devour a Mars bar and a large glass of cabernet sauvignon) and whilst I have been curious about their ability to maintain such a lifestyle, I have never been drawn to it as such. This is something that strange “healthy” people do...not chubby girls addicted to wine and chocolate!
Recently however I have been pulled into this strange new world, and now find myself attending three fitness classes a week, and one gym session....more interesting however is the fact that I’ve now been doing this for about six weeks. (A record for me I’m sure).
My routine consists of a gym session, a full body work out session, a tums and bums session (I will have buns of steel God dammit) and a seventy five minute yoga session.
Now the cardio body workouts were always a concern to me, as they’re basically dance workouts with more squatting and more weights, and the fact is, that even though I’ve been doing shows since the tender age of 13, I literally have NO coordination. Ask any choreographer I’ve worked with, and they will tell you, that any kind of organised “routine” will leave me confused, and very often crumpled on the floor when my legs refuse to go in the direction my brain is telling them to go.
Trying to combine this fast paced choreography with a “Ministry Of Sound” inspired dance track will inevitably leave me looking like, well...let’s face it, a complete and utter twonk (Twonk...haven’t used that word in ages!!). It’s not graceful, elegant or particularly cool, so these kind of classes always make me feel a little uncomfortable to say the least!
I have however stuck with it, and I’m pleased to say that I am noticing that my fitness is improving! (Yay, go me!) The biggest surprise for me however has been Yoga. Years ago, a colleague (Lou Galland this is you) told me that Yoga was great, but that she had encountered the worst thing you could possibly imagine at her Yoga class....someone, whilst relaxing a little too much, had farted. I had (until this little revelation) quite liked the idea of Yoga. The fact of the matter is though, that I am too juvenile to be able to cope with someone farting in a class. I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have killed myself laughing, and that this would not really be appropriate in a class environment, not to mention the fact that my giggles would undoubtedly have made the culprit feel worse about their uncontrollable flatulence.
Many years down the line however, (older, wiser and more mature) I decided I wanted to give it a go. I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed these classes. It’s the one time of the week that I can genuinely let go of everything in my head, and have some real “Me” time. I am actively looking forward to my Monday night session (which after the stresses of Monday Trading in a retail work environment is actually crucial to help me maintain my sanity).
I walk away from those sessions with a feeling that I can only describe as similar to that light headed, fuzzy relaxed feeling you get after good sex...well usually I do anyway...this week however was a little different, as for the first time since my colleague’s warning, an old guy at the back of the class decided to drop his arse in the middle of the “Cat Pose”. His timing couldn’t have been better to be fair. It was deathly silent, even the whale music that the Yoga instructor plays on her iPod had paused while it moved to the next panpipes classic track. Obviously I haven’t matured as much as I would like to think over the years, as before I knew it, the chuckle was building in my throat. I thought I’d just about managed to control it as I repositioned myself into “Down Dog”, but with my head tucked under I was then confronted by the next weapon in his “arse”nal...which was the smell. God Damn! My chuckle turned into a choke, and there’s no doubt in my mind that everyone knew the reason behind my half giggle, half gag spluttering fit.
Embarrassing as this was I will continue with my classes...not just because they’re improving my flexibility, and not just because it’s funny watching myself and others try and bend themselves into completely unnatural positions, but because in spite of the flatulence, it’s the only time I get to connect with my inner Zen...and we all need a little Zen in our lives....stinky or not!
Recently however I have been pulled into this strange new world, and now find myself attending three fitness classes a week, and one gym session....more interesting however is the fact that I’ve now been doing this for about six weeks. (A record for me I’m sure).
My routine consists of a gym session, a full body work out session, a tums and bums session (I will have buns of steel God dammit) and a seventy five minute yoga session.
Now the cardio body workouts were always a concern to me, as they’re basically dance workouts with more squatting and more weights, and the fact is, that even though I’ve been doing shows since the tender age of 13, I literally have NO coordination. Ask any choreographer I’ve worked with, and they will tell you, that any kind of organised “routine” will leave me confused, and very often crumpled on the floor when my legs refuse to go in the direction my brain is telling them to go.
Trying to combine this fast paced choreography with a “Ministry Of Sound” inspired dance track will inevitably leave me looking like, well...let’s face it, a complete and utter twonk (Twonk...haven’t used that word in ages!!). It’s not graceful, elegant or particularly cool, so these kind of classes always make me feel a little uncomfortable to say the least!
I have however stuck with it, and I’m pleased to say that I am noticing that my fitness is improving! (Yay, go me!) The biggest surprise for me however has been Yoga. Years ago, a colleague (Lou Galland this is you) told me that Yoga was great, but that she had encountered the worst thing you could possibly imagine at her Yoga class....someone, whilst relaxing a little too much, had farted. I had (until this little revelation) quite liked the idea of Yoga. The fact of the matter is though, that I am too juvenile to be able to cope with someone farting in a class. I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have killed myself laughing, and that this would not really be appropriate in a class environment, not to mention the fact that my giggles would undoubtedly have made the culprit feel worse about their uncontrollable flatulence.
Many years down the line however, (older, wiser and more mature) I decided I wanted to give it a go. I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed these classes. It’s the one time of the week that I can genuinely let go of everything in my head, and have some real “Me” time. I am actively looking forward to my Monday night session (which after the stresses of Monday Trading in a retail work environment is actually crucial to help me maintain my sanity).
I walk away from those sessions with a feeling that I can only describe as similar to that light headed, fuzzy relaxed feeling you get after good sex...well usually I do anyway...this week however was a little different, as for the first time since my colleague’s warning, an old guy at the back of the class decided to drop his arse in the middle of the “Cat Pose”. His timing couldn’t have been better to be fair. It was deathly silent, even the whale music that the Yoga instructor plays on her iPod had paused while it moved to the next panpipes classic track. Obviously I haven’t matured as much as I would like to think over the years, as before I knew it, the chuckle was building in my throat. I thought I’d just about managed to control it as I repositioned myself into “Down Dog”, but with my head tucked under I was then confronted by the next weapon in his “arse”nal...which was the smell. God Damn! My chuckle turned into a choke, and there’s no doubt in my mind that everyone knew the reason behind my half giggle, half gag spluttering fit.
Embarrassing as this was I will continue with my classes...not just because they’re improving my flexibility, and not just because it’s funny watching myself and others try and bend themselves into completely unnatural positions, but because in spite of the flatulence, it’s the only time I get to connect with my inner Zen...and we all need a little Zen in our lives....stinky or not!
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