Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Pretty much all the boys and men I spend any time with are great right-on sorts who are essentially feminists, even if they don't identify as such. That much said, I sometimes think that only a woman can know how exhausting, how relentless and how really tiring being a woman can be sometimes.

Evidence I am not as young as perhaps I once was:

1. I mentioned to my boss that if they need someone to interview the wonderful Kevin McCloud when he comes to town in October, I was super keen. His response: "Who's Kevin McCloud?"

2. I just laughed at a joke about franking credits. Let me repeat: FRANKING CREDITS.

3. I stayed in the car for longer than necessary last night so I could listen to the end of Don McLean's Vincent.

So this happened

I'm not saying that I'm proud of posting a link to this photo of Alexander Skarsgaard's, um, Good China, but I'm doing it anyway. The link contains a spoiler for the finale of True Blood (which I stopped watching a few seasons ago but which Aleisha assures me is good again) but it also contains "Eric's" junk so, you know, you make the call.

That sound you hear...

... is the last final remnants of my once fierce, mostly long-since burnt out, crush on Pete Doherty disappearing forever. Because no. Just no no no no no.

Last night I had a dream...

... that I woke up and could't figure out if it was 8.30am or 10.30am. Then I actually woke up. It was 2am. True story.

Evidence I am not a very nice person #12

Last night I tried very politely to move past a girl at a bar who was blocking my way but she was too busy bitching about someone to her friend (very loudly and obnoxiously) to hear my murmured "excuse me... do you mind... could I just...?" So when I sort of forced my way past her I accidentally jogged her elbow, spilling about half of her pricey looking cocktail on the floor and I sort of... smiled inside a little bit.

Things that have charmed me today:

#3 My former boss calling to see how devastated I was by this news.

Things I definitely should not do to perk myself up after a really awful day (that isn't over yet):

1. Gorge on leftover gnocchi and bread and butter pudding in one might carbfest that will leave me feeling faintly ill afterwards.

2. Buy myself an Alannah Hill cape. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WRONG ALTHOUGH I AM KINDA THINKING I MIGHT JUST TRY IT ON THIS WEEKEND BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, WHY NOT.

3. Stick head in oven. I mean, for starters, it's electric.

It is not enough for me to succeed, others must fail

Like I wasn't having a bad enough day already, now I'm basically sick with jealousy.

Things I have learned upon re-reading* the last four Harry Potter books

1. I really love the Harry Potter books**.

2. JK Rowling, for all the shit she takes over her prose style, writes really, really great fun plots.

3. The last couple of books could probably technically benefit from a far stricter edit but I'm sort of glad all that extra (read: semi-pointless) stuff I might have missed previously is in there to enjoy.

4. Ron is basically the true hero of the series, putting up with Harry being super famous and awesome all the time. Except of course for all those times he doesn't put up with him at all and, in fact, Loses His Shit.

5. Ron is also quite a shit wizard. Am I wrong?

6. George Weasley may be gay. AM I WRONG? I may be wrong and maybe it's just wishful thinking but Fred Weasley is the only one who ever seems to get any action.

7. Casting choices made in the (ugh) movie versions have coloured my view of the books forever. I now can't read the books without finding the characters of Sirius and Snape kinda, ummmmmm, hot. Thanks for nothing Gary Oldman and Alan Rickman (call me!)

8. I really love the Harry Potter books.


* re-reading is misleading because this time around I listened to them on audiobook, which was basically perfect.

** Not sure I can bear to go back and re-read the first two, though. Sure they're short but I do remember them being on the, um, simple side.

Weighty matters

I am embarrassed by the amount of time I spend thinking about my body, what it looks like, how it could look better and what I put into it. I feel lame-as-shit for letting the number I see on the scale determine how I feel about myself. I think it's kinda sad how happy losing a cheeky 5+ kilograms last year made me feel. Ditto how depressed I feel at having put 3kg back on.

These are all possible reasons why I really enjoyed this blog, which offers a slightly different perspective on weight loss not seen all that often.

The case of the 3 month wait

Bring on October 31.

My body is a genius.

It's true. My body is a genius. So genius, indeed, it's capable of gaining 3kg in one week of only moderately indulgent eating and drinking. I don't know what this means for my self esteem and ability to look at myself in the mirror without weeping but if I was a cavewoman or living off the land or something I would be CRUSHING IT survival-wise.

Unexpected lessons I have learned from watching the trashy UK TV series Mistresses #34

Ovarian cancer will probably solve all your problems.

Sell Out

So, yeah. This.

Things I thought but did not say to the only other guy in the gym at the weekend:

ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS YOU HAVE SWEATED ALL OVER THIS MACHINE SO COMPREHENSIVELY THAT I HAVE TO PUSH A BUTTON SOAKED IN YOUR SWEAT IN ORDER TO INCREASE OR DECREASE THE SPEED/INCLINE ON THE TREADMILL YOU FUCKING MONSTER YOU HAVE A TOWEL WITH YOU THAT'S THE WEIRDEST PART WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU WERE YOU RAISED IN A CAVE?

Today

Can just fuck the fucking fuck off today, basically. 

Sometimes

It is not worth getting out of bed in the morning. Especially if you have a cat curled on top of your head.

How to be a smug shit while meeting a new (religious) contact for work:

Him: (names a priest).

Me: Oh, he confirmed me.

Him: (names another priest).

Me: And he baptised me... and married my parents.

Pants

When I was eight or nine years old I was, like many girls of my age, obsessed with horses. I took horseriding lessons every weekend with my friend Kym and after school we would either play with our various toy horses - fastening and unfastening mini plastic saddles and "grooming" scratchy fake manes - or read the latest installment in the Saddle Club book series. (It was a good read, that series, although I'm still a bit disappointed to this day that they never outed Stevie. Who did they think they were kidding? I mean, sure, she got a boyfriend somewhere along the line but I like to think, even then, I knew he was just a beard).

I digress. As part of my obsession I loved to draw horses and, because I had very little talent in the drawing department, I also loved to trace far superior drawings of horses done by people who could actually draw and imagine it was my handiwork. I should stress that it could not have been more obvious, looking at the traced drawings, that they had been traced and not drawn freehand. For starters they were streets and miles ahead of what I could actually do by myself. Moreover they just looked...  well, very very traced. There was nothing natural about them, they looked exactly like what they were: the work of a half-arsed nine-year-old fraudster.

I don't remember whether I tried to pass the traced pictures off as my own explicitly or just hoped people would assume I'd done them but I do remember, very clearly, the day on which I was confronted by a classmate called Holly M. We were sitting outside the classroom - it must have been recess or lunch, I don't remember that part - and for some reason I had a pile of my "drawings" on my lap. I was probably showing them off. Because I was a little shit.

At some point in the proceedings Holly looked at the drawings, looked at me and said something like: "Are these traced?"

A long pause in which I must have summed up my options: tell the truth or lie. 

Ridiculously, stupidly, I went for the lie. I'm not a great liar now and I can't imagine I was much better back then.

Two decades and change later I still don't really know why I lied. I mean, I guess I wanted Holly to think I was really good at drawing horses or something but why, exactly, did I care? We weren't friends. More importantly, how did I plan to carry on that lie when I couldn't draw for shit unless I was alone in my room with my horse books and, you know, some tracing paper? It was a poorly thought out plan and, even at that young age, I feel like I should have known better.

What I still remember, many years later was the overwhelmingly ache of regret the moment I lied. I didn't want to lie. I didn't want to try and carry off the lie. The lie had been instinctive and I knew, looking at Holly's face, that she didn't believe me. I was embarrassed. My face must have been fleshed. I couldn't have looked more guilty if a sheaf of tracing paper had suddenly slid out of my school jumper.

I recount this story now not because it has anything to do with anything but because I had a flashback yesterday to that little incident when I told a very stupid lie and experienced the same ache of regret at my work gym.

I am, I must point out, now 30. Not eight or nine. I am an adult. I should be better than this. I am not.

First, some back story to fill you in on the basics. The work gym is very small - it's basically just a little room with some so-so gym equipment in it. Also, the day before the incident I'm about to relate occurred I had been to the gym before work and afterwards left my gym clothes balled up in my gym bag for future use. That ball of clothes included - and this part I have to stress - the knickers I'd been wearing at the time.

Okay, you're filled in and we're ready to go on. 

So, I finished work yesterday with an hour to kill before I had to meet some friends and decided, hey, my gym clothes are still here from the previous day - I should go to the gym. Not having too much time to spare I dressed as quickly as I could, grabbed my book and iPod and walked into the gym. At this point something important happened, although I didn't realise it was happening. The knickers I'd been wearing the previous day, which had been balled up with my gym pants, had somehow ended up in the leg of my gym pants without me noticing (I WAS IN A HURRY). The act of walking into the gym, however, had dislodged said knickers from their resting position, sending them sliding down my leg, past my foot and landing on the floor beside me. In the gym. In front of the other two people that were working out in it.

I didn't notice.

Instead, I wandered over to dump my swipe card on the nearest bench and settled myself onto an exercise bike with my Lawrence Sanders novel. The iPod connected to my ears meant I didn't hear anything when the guy on the treadmill tried to get my attention. It was up to the girl on the bike beside me to alert me to the fact that he was pointing. At me. And then at the knickers. I removed an earbud to hear what he was saying.

"Is that yours?" he panted, still running on the treadmill and pointing.

I climbed down from the exercise bike and walked over to where he was pointing. Beside the entrance to the gym sat a sad pair of knickers. They were white and pink. They had flowers. They were, um, fairly big. They were my knickers.

I straightened up. "No," I said.

He knew I was lying. I knew that he knew I was lying - the way the treadmill was positioned meant he almost certainly saw them drop out of my pants. At the very least he would have known that the knickers were not there before I arrived but mysteriously appeared when I did. I knew all this. And yet still I lied.

Why did I lie? I don't really know - it was instinct. The mature thing - laugh it off and retrieve my knickers - only occurred to me after the childish lie was out there. I cursed my stupidity but it was too late to either retrieve either my lie or my knickers. The silver lining was that there was really nothing my accuser could say either and so we exercised on in silence. If my face burned red I blamed it on the exercise. 

I waited until the others had gone, risking being late for dinner by staying on the exercise bike until the gym was empty. Only once I was alone on the bike did I retrieve my knickers, seen my nobody except my own shame. I looked at the flowery symbols of my disgrace and chucked them into the bin. It seemed like the only thing I could do.