1. Every time I have “booked exercise time into my schedule” I am suddenly seduced by other, more vital tasks such as liberating the toaster tray of crumbs and giving its side panels a really good going over with Windex.
2. I persuade myself with incredible ease that buying work out clothes online is exactly the treat I need to really jump start the whole process.
3. Perusing celebrity “secrets” online is particularly deadly – the search results are endless, depressing and ultimately not applicable AT ALL to myself. It’s not helpful to know that Jennifer Anniston et al start the day by downing a liter of fresh, filtered water because that is not what makes them beautiful – it’s called DNA. (Will buy a case of San Pellegrino though, just in case).
Although I am not an introvert in the typical sense, I know that I am not a “joiner” either. I had a deep loathing for both Brownies and Girl Guides although I liked the accessories – who wouldn’t want that interlocking belt or that much coveted pencil on a retractable cord? But even though I kept forcing myself to join (book clubs, school committees, yoga) when the appointed night came around, I couldn’t bear the thought of going. Surprisingly then, it was unusual for me to attend not one, but three sessions of writing classes at our little library, where a wonderful writer – talented, gentle and quirky – was leading creative writing classes. One of the suggestions she offered for a daily writing warm-up was to choose any random word and write, stream of conscious style if we liked, about whatever drifted forward.
And to date, this method has never failed me.
Many years ago now I was at a party with Some Other Parents and as the evening and wine progressed, one mother leaned in to me and nodded in the direction of the living room. There, a definitely attractive mum had decided to stand on a chair and dance in a manner usually associated with a pole. She was also singing in a Marilyn-infused whisper to whatever was playing at the time. (Alright, it was Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light, gack …) She was just on the cusp of that age where she could basically still get away with it, her body being firm, her hair artfully tousled and highlighted, full lips a shiny bubblegum pink.
But as the person next to me drily observed, “The guys are loving this - but if I stood on a chair? People would just laugh.”
And she was right.
I was never The Master Gardener in my previous life. I always loved the garden and had distinct ideas about what was swoon-worthy (tangled drifts of blue and white flowers; nothing too contrived; no tight dots of military arranged begonias). However, the reality was, I placed no real value on my own contributions and it was simpler to pass the reigns to my husband as he strutted through the garden with Napoleonic control, instinctively knowing what should go where and why certain colours were superior to others. My role (which we joked about frequently and the word “navvy” was often playfully supplied) was to clear out the weeds, bag and bundle the branches he tossed aside and make sure there was a pitcher of martinis and an elegant meal ready at the end of the day.
I’ve written before here about the staff at Sephora and the lift they have unwittingly provided when I have felt low or broke (or both) at varying times. Most recently I was trying to decide between various eye creams (which are please-give-me-a-whiff-of-oxygen expensive) but last a very long time and do provide a vital service. I also learned that even the tiny amount I was patting on with my ring finger (yes, I hang on their every word!) was excessive. As my Sephora counselor of the day laughed “Girl, you’ve been using enough there for four eyes!”
And so it came to pass that in order to make my decision easier, she spooned a button sized amount of the eye elixir into a tiny plastic sleeve for me to take home and sample. She also did not make me feel like I was down and out or an older woman who has to decide between make-up and you know, lentils for the week so I left the store, light and ready to begin afresh with my French eye cream that smelled very lightly of flowers. I was radiant. I was Chrissie Hynde. I was hopeful and happy.
