It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of nice things and a teenage daughter, will soon find her nice things in the wardrobe of her teenage daughter.
“Mum, when DJT isn’t President and it’s safe to go to America, can we go to Target?”
*She pronounced it Tar-jhay…
I can relate to ALL of these!
The last time I cleared my mind I found a button, a peanut shell and a big tumbleweed.
Don’t irk me. I’ll dance naked under a full moon, strewing beautiful wildflower seeds all over your perfectly manicured lawn.
Doing all those hours of cardio every week and still getting winded climbing one flight of stairs is why I have trust issues.
It’s not so much the heat, as it is the stupidity.
I don’t have Mood Swings; I have Mood Quakes.
Whatever the phobia is where you fear being on a plane without a decent book. I have that.
Behind every true friendship there is an automatic unwritten confidentiality agreement.
All of my liquid assets are bottles of wine.
Insomnia struck again last night. I couldn’t calm my brain no matter how much slow breathing I tried. So I whipped up a list of love songs. That’s right. Read ’em and weep. Or die laughing. Share them with your children. Share ’em with a friend. As you can tell, some titles are right, some a just guesswork. The spelling is hilarious. Who cares? YaKnowWhatIMean! From my tired brain to yours – you’re welcome! Got any to add to the list? Comment away!
Dear Reader, if you’ve been following me on Instagram, you will have seen the luscious red velvet cupcake I posted a few days ago, to mark my turning a year older. Not wiser, or funnier, just older. One year short of I-think-I-might-be-grown-up-now.
Being the research ninja I am, I thought looking into the mid-life information on the interwebs might give me some pointers as to how best to blow through this next stage of life. Boy, was that a bad idea! It’s all insomnia and dipping oestrogen levels and visceral fat around organs and reduced muscle mass and bone loss and depression. Seriously?!
How about joy – I’ve finally got my head together (somewhat!)? Joy that I can share my wisdom (stop snickering!) with my daughter. Joy that I have more in my bank account now, than in my twenties, to buy all the books and drink all the coffee. Joy that I can afford all the nice gel insoles to support my falling arches and depleted knee joints. I’ve still got about thirty years of several careers to try out. Or I could just keep doing what I do, because I do it well. I love being a mentor. I’ve found my rhythm. I’m excited that DD is old enough for us to travel together and enjoy these years before she heads off to live her life.
So while I’m sure my oestrogen levels are going to drop, and I’m going to get crankier, and my widening middle is more down to my age than garment manufacturers ganging up against me, I still think I’ve got more fun to look forward to than behind me.
Like more red velvet cake. Nom nom nom.
Supposedly, Marilyn Monroe said, “Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”
I’m inclined to agree with that. Up to about ten years ago, my shoes were vertiginous, multitudinous and splendorous. Seriously, I used to store most of them at work in a cupboard that was supposed to be dedicated to files (no guesses why my team was the first one to go paperless!).
But then my back started to give out. And then I tore my hip flexors twice. And then my spine started leaking fluid. And I wasn’t working in a fancy office any more, I was mostly working on a laptop from my fancy living room. So the fanciful shoes went, slowly but surely. They were replaced by many Converse variants (good for the school run), and wellies, and ankle boots with good arch support.
Approaching almost-forty, I don’t know if conquering the world is still on the menu (it sounds like a lot of work), but DD keeps ‘borrowing’ my shoes (permanently), which makes me think that perhaps it’s not the shoes, but the attitude with which you wear ’em.
I went for a health screen the other week. I have a new life insurance plan which encourages me to engage with it; being fit and healthy drives down my premiums. Now given the fact that I live in central London, don’t have a car, and walk or bicycle everywhere, I like to think I’m pretty fit. However, I didn’t reckon with the utterly medieval height-weight-BMI calculation at the health screen.
Ya see, all that walking and biking builds muscle mass, so even though I am the same clothing size I was at 18 (granted, after childbirth, not all the pieces stack together neatly), the computer (and therefore, insurance company) now thinks I’m overweight. So until I get a Bioimpedance Analysis (BIA) done, to measure the ratio of fat to lean body mass, that number sticks. It’s on my file. All these years spent focusing on how I feel, how I’m managing my auto-immune condition, my PTSD – all meant nothing in light of that stupid number. But just for a second.
I had a choice: to let that number suddenly define me and erode years of hard work and body love, or reject it for what it is. A number. Just a number. A static snapshot of me on a particular day. I chose not to assign it any value in my life.
Because I define my health by the overall picture – mind and body in tandem. How calm I am. How able I am to deal with stress at work. How long my auto-immune condition stays in remission. How mild the flare ups are. How much sleep I’m getting. How much my hip hurts. And so far, I’m winning. I feel good.
I choose this quote by Anne Lamott over that number every single day!
So yesterday, I was at a meeting at school first thing.
Then I came home and discovered husband had moved the mousetrap from near the kitchen bin to near the fireplace. So I phoned husband to ask him why he moved it.
He says he didn’t. I say, are you sure? He says, Yep.
So from my vantage point about twelve feet away, I pop my glasses back on and squint … and see a mouse in the mousetrap.
At this point, I climb onto a dining table chair and scream, “Get out, get OUT, GET OUT!!!!”
Husband is in hysterics on the other end, laughing so hard.
THE MOUSE GOT CAUGHT IN THE TRAP IN THE KITCHEN AND IT CRAWLED ITS WAY ACROSS THE DAMN FLOOR WITH THE TRAP, trying to get back to its hidey-hole. That is one super-mouse!
I got light-headed and seriously panicky, so I exiled myself from the house at husband’s request until he could come home after his meeting to get rid of it. (Husband knows the difference between normal anxiety and my anxiety, and that, my friends, is true love).
I went to a shopping centre, something I loathe almost as much as mice. I bought myself a winter coat since I didn’t have one. I ate some sweet potato mash. My galloping heart beat slowed down. Then husband called and said, I’m home but the mouse isn’t in the trap.
Boom, my heart rate ramped right up again! Stomach cramps. Sweaty palms.
Husband tidied and eradicated any evidence of the mouse’s journey, but we are regarding the the fireplace very warily, in case the enraged mouse comes back in a bionic incarnation. We’re stomping around like ogres to pretend we’re not scared of the teeny-tiny (big, bad) mouse.
Turns out, Husband has murophobia, too. He just loves me that much that he’ll always deal with the mice. Awwwwwww.
I’m attempting Belle Brita’s #LoveBlog prompts for February 2016. Today’s prompt is Best Friends.
Kindness. Honesty. Tolerance. Patience. A slightly off-beat sense of humour. A love of food and wine. Someone who cherishes books. An ability to laugh at oneself. Reliability. Someone who understands my need to go off grid sometimes, emotionally. Really, the same qualities I looked for in a partner.
I’ve had many close friends over the years, and my inner circle hasn’t changed much in the last fifteen to twenty. Every one of my close friends ticks the boxes above. Some are mothers, some are not. But I would say Bretonne Bestie has probably been my closest friend for the last two and a bit years. I still have conversations with her in my head, and try and text her as much as I can. I can’t remember the exact moment we became friends, just that we did. I always felt comfortable in her kitchen, with a cup of coffee and one of her delicious baked treats. She’s like something classy and vintage that just fits perfectly, and feels like it’s been in your life forever.
My other bestie is Husband. I know, I know. CHEESY!
I didn’t have real friends till I was about sixteen, but I think I would have had the same ‘qualities’ list at sixteen as I do now. I am still friends with most of my inner circle at age sixteen. And eighteen. And twenty. They know my stories. They know the evolution of me. We have a shared history. I love my friends because I can sit down with every one of them and pick up a conversation with them even if I haven’t seen them in months or years. Also, they put up with me and all my insanity!
As does Husband. He drives me crazy most of the time, but he ticks all the boxes. And together we share the best story we’ve ever written:
I picked her up from school and on the walk home, we talked about her homework.
Me: So what’s your homework like this weekend?
DD: Mostly good, the maths might be tricky. We’re researching homophobes for English.
Me: WHAT? Seriously, that’s progressive. How on earth are you going to find a list of homophobes?
DD: Well, I’ve got a few in my head already.
Me: Really? (At this point, I don’t know whether to be impressed, disturbed, panicked…) Well, could you give me some examples?
DD: Sure. Bridle, bridal. Serial, cereal. Alter, altar.
Me: Homo-PHONES, kiddo, homo-PHONES.
Yep, never a dull moment.
If you’ve got corkers to share, do join in via the linky on E’s post.