Saturday, April 04, 2015

So where are you skiing this year?

Since moving to London in my early 20s, and then going on to work in advertising, a common question I got asked was if I was skiing that year and where. People would talk about where they had spent the season working in chalets in their gap years, and where the best snow was. I had never skied in my life. Growing up in South Africa with our climate and in my socio economic braket, it wasn't the done thing. If my parents could afford a holiday, it meant driving down to the coast and spending a week at the beach. I knew only one person who had skied and her parents were well off and they had travelled to Europe to do it. I remember fingering her mothers fur coat and matching fur hat (very James bond) and thinking that if there was a heaven, this was it. Skiing in Europe felt like a glamorous distant dream to me - totally other worldly. 

When I met my now husband (in my late 20s in London), I was invited along for my first ever ski holiday. We went with a bunch of friends of varying abilities, got a chalet in France, and I had a couple of lessons. While I went into the experience with an open mind and a good attitude, at night everyone would tell tales of daring, near death experiences, and things that really scared them. Things like encountering ice, getting on or off chair lifts, falling off of chair lifts, button lifts etcetera. It had never occurred to me to be afraid of any of these things, but maybe I should be? I was too young and new to the experience to appreciate that this kind of big upping and scare mongering is a part of the group holiday ski experience. Listening to all of these things on this and a couple of subsequent trips, along with a few falls during my lessons, I began to worry and somewhere along the line I became afraid and developed a massive mental block. 

Now, if you think about it, putting yourself into exceedingly discomforting and restrictive ski boots and then locking yourself into skis and pointing yourself down a steep icy mountain is indeed contrary to what we instinctively think of as sane life preserving behavior as humans.  It's right to have every fibre of your being tell you that fighting gravity in this way is a very bad idea. Against that, watching people in their 70s gracefully glide down ski slopes at a fair clip with the wind in their silvery hair makes you think that maybe, just maybe, there may be a knack to it that even you could learn - because if elderly people can do it, it can't be all that bad and life threatening right? 

I have been on, including my current vacation, eight ski holidays. Most people would be proficient by this point, but for me, it hasn't quite happened. Today, for the first time, I did a red run. To give you some idea the system goes something like this (although it varies from country to country): Green (beginner) Blue (intermediate) Red (experienced)  Black (advanced) Off piste (lunatics). This holiday I asked my instructor, an enviably handsome and athletic Swede by the name of Kenta, when in hells name I was going to get the hang of this: "I mean, eight ski holidays, for gods sakes? When will it fall into place and when will I stop being terrified?"
"Well," he drawls in his Swede/American laid back handsome ski instructor accent, "You've gotta just keep skiing. The more you do it, the more you get used to it. And the stuff that you find tough today, you do without thinking tomorrow. And before long none of it feels particularly terrifying any more."

I listen to all of this, and for a moment there is a glimmer of hope: 'Yes!' I think to myself 'I'm going to get this. By the end of this holiday I will confidently be doing blacks - no problem. It's all in my head.'  And then I remember how stubborn I am, and if I decide that I am terrified and something is tough, then goddammit, I am going to be terrified and it's going to be tough an no one is going to convince me otherwise.

My children did a bit of skiing on the nursery slope and short beginners run last year, and this year, after only 4 mornings of skiing, are on reds and blacks already. This resort, Verbier in Switzerland, doesn't have green slopes and is not known as a beginner-friendly resort, so acceleration is unavoidable. But they have no fear, and no fear of falling especially, and unquestioningly have faith in their teachers and follow them down anything. This morning I found myself out at the same time as my children, and my daughter (excited at the idea of us skiing together) called out: "Come on Mum!" and then proceeded to point her little skiis down the mountain. Within minutes she was out of sight, while my son, not listening to his teacher, was gunning it down at top speed right in the direction of the edge of the mountain with his instructor flying after him. I stood staring down the slope my daughter had just effortlessly skied down, with a look of abject horror on my face. My legs were aching (skiing is incredibly physically demanding - more so when you are a beginner), hating every minute and wondering why the hell I had signed up for this nonsense, yet again. For the first time since having them, I envied my children. Or more specifically, I envied them their fearlessness.

The key (as I've been told by countless instructors and experienced skiers) is to learn to let go and allow yourself to pick up speed. The speed, pointing your ski's down into the fall line (facing down the mountain) is what makes your turns easier and the whole business more effortless, safer? and a lot less hell on the legs. And yet getting over that mental block of not only the acceleration but the fact that you are pointing down something steep and icy is incredibly difficult, well, for me at least. Maybe if I have a glass of wine before doing it? At this point I'll try anything.

In the cafes and restaurants that you eat lunch in, there is invariably a video playing on the screens of people doing extreme skiing: parachuting from helicopters down treacherous vertical slopes that are otherwise inaccessible, and then skiing maniacally down them in straight lines.  This is supposed to be motivating, but in my case it makes it difficult to swallow my food. It looks utterly terrifying. The videos cut to close ups of ruddy faced handsome men and women high fiving each other after their death defying stunts. These are exciting people. These are glamorous people.These are people that don't just exist, they live! The men are athletic, tanned, and have long hair and easy laughs - they laugh in the face of danger. At night I imagine them wearing turtle necks, drinking whiskey, and having swarms of young women around them in the bars. And if this were the 70s or 80s, they'd light up a cigarettes and a logo for Marlboro would come on the screen.

Years ago on another group ski holiday, seeing my distress, a good friend of my husbands pulled me aside and said to me: "You really don't have to do this to please him you know? If you don't like it, don't feel the need to do it." And he was right of course. Now in my 40s I am well past that point in my life where I feel the need to fit in with or impress my peers, and my husband is happy to take the children on ski holidays even if I don't want to join. So why do I keep trying? Why do I keep putting myself into a situation that I find not only physically uncomfortable but also demanding and frightening? I think at the heart of it it comes down to tenacity and sheer bloody mindedness: I look at all these other people doing it, and doing it well; the children, the families, the elderly people, the inarticulate drunken idiots you see in the bars at night, and I think to myself: If they can do it, why can't I? What makes me different?

 So I keep trying, I keep pushing myself. Some days I have great moments, and others terrifying ones where I just want to pack the whole lot in. And in all of this I keep hoping that one day, maybe one day, I might be the one sitting in the bar at night in my polo neck, drinking my whiskey, saying to a wide eyed rookie: Ah yes, the off piste skiing here is awesome. You've gotta come out with us in the helicopter tomorrow,' while exhaling a great plume of Marlboro smoke.

Sunday, March 01, 2015

So this is 40

Some months back I decided I wanted to write about turning 40 but in a way that was different from all the satirical and cliched pieces that are floating about. I wanted to make it uniquely about my experience and if it contained elements that other people related to  - great. But ultimately I didn't only want to write it for the purposes of publishing, but more so to provide a  record for myself - a kind of keepsake to look back on and read one day when, please god, I reached the next big landmark age - like 80? Which is why this is a very long post and probably a lot of TMI going on - you've been warned.

I started and stopped writing this on several occasions, and the somewhat disjointed result of that may be evident here. I just didn't quite know how to approach the subject.  Changes tend to be gradual, almost imperceptible - so even though I've attempted it here, it's tough to sit down and articulate exactly how I've emerged through the years and what conclusions I've made thus far. Unless of course you run into a childhood friend whom you haven't seen in some time and they point out things like: "Wow you look so different. You used to have a lot of acne and were so shy! And do you remember that time you peed your pants at school? That was hilarious!" And you think to yourself, 'Ah yes, now I remember why I haven't seen this moron in 20 years.'

So why all the sturm und drang over what is essentially just another birthday? Maybe the real anxiety we have is that turning 40 marks a crossing over from one phase of our life into the other. A bit like 21 is the alleged gateway into adulthood from childhood, 40 is the gateway into mid life - as in, this is it guys, you are officially into that next chapter - no turning back. There is also the fact that 40 for a lot of people comes with expectations of what we are supposed to have achieved by this point in our life and it forces you to stop and take stock. Thoughts like: 'I just didn't expect my life to turn out as it has,' or 'This is not where I thought I'd be,' or even, 'This is not the life I want' are not uncommon. It reminds me of the John Lennon lyrics: 'Nobody told me there'd be days like these, nobody told me there'd be days like these, strange days indeed, most peculiar mamma.' And perhaps more poignantly, also by the wonderful Lennon: 'Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.'

Rewind to 30 years ago: It's 1985 and I am 10-year-old kid, slightly shorter than average, enviably slender, with a boyish haircut. I'm thinking about the the year 2015. Wow, 2015. What will I be doing? Where will I live? What will I look like? I cannot remember the specifics (memory and age aren't great friends), but I do recall my fantasy of myself at 40 involved having fabulously big hair, impressive shoulder pads, a glass desk, and an office with an incredible view. Oh and I thought I'd be old, because 40 was old to me back then. But old with style. All very Dynasty - with a pinch of Stephanie from The Bold & The Beautiful thrown in for good measure. There were no picket fences or children in this vision. I never imagined myself playing happy families. I suppose as a tween my idea of reaching some kind of pinnacle in my life was about being a powerful independent career woman - something to do with what my mother had always instilled in my sisters and I: "Never be dependent on a man or anyone else for that matter. Always be financially independent and have a good job to fall back on."

Fast forward 30 years and I am a stay-at-home mother of two children with absolutely zero interest in a big office  - great view or not. I have never been particularly well designed to a job in an office or working within an institution. Which is not to say that I lack ambition, but I'm more of a solitary worker and I never really had that killer instinct to want to climb to the top the way some people do. I always wanted to be happy however, whatever that is, and being happy was more important than zeroes on a check. In the days I did work in an office I'd often fantasise about working in a zoo as a keeper or being someone that read the millions of books that aspiring authors sent in to publishing houses. But like so many people you do what you do in order to make a living and pay the bills. These days I fantasise about having a place to paint that has great light, and often stare longingly at my elderly neighbours house which has this beautiful old glass extension on her 1st floor. Ahhh just think of all that natural light. I might have to go over there and make friends and suggest we discuss studio rental space.

I suppose the point I'm trying to make is that I'm not doing what I thought I'd be doing at this age, i.e. the whole sterling career, but that's OK. Where I am now is a product of hundreds of choices, some of which felt extremely random and insignificant at the time, and circumstances over the years. And in my opinion luck plays a greater part in things than we'd like to think. Because the fact of the matter is I do consider myself incredibly lucky - I like and enjoy my life. And while I am not yet published and I may not have a name in the public or have invented something that changes lives, I have what I feel to be a meaningful life. In the last few years I've come to appreciate the importance of this and not chasing after a fantasy of what I think I should be or have. And living a life that is not about what everyone else thinks or has, but it being an authentic existence that works for me. And let's not forget about choice - even if sometimes if feels as though I only have a few choices, that's better than a hell of a lot of people in the world today.

For a long time 40 felt old to me, and now that I am 40 myself I don't feel old. I think mentally I kind of stopped ageing somewhere in my 30s which is when I genuinely feel I hit my stride. Being blessed with a solid relationship, good friends and a supportive family, and having children also helped me start appreciating who I was, being OK with that, and I suppose finding my voice. Also conflict became a whole lot easier for me in the last few years - not easy in that I don't have anxiety about entering into it or occasional contrition after the fact. But more so I suppose when you have a degree of confidence in your opinions and feelings about something and are not as concerned with people's opinions of you, you can hold your boxing gloves aloft and enter the ring with a degree of confidence - irrespective of the potential bloodied outcome.

Somewhere in my 30s I also learnt to be OK with saying no to things that I didn't feel comfortable with and realised that doing things to make other people happy and the cost of my own wellbeing is not worth it. The sad reality is that a lot of people will take as much as you are prepared to give and don't always have the same degree of empathy or generosity as you imagine they do. Likewise as I've gotten older I've become more choiceful in terms of how I spend my free time - which granted has a lot to do with not having all that much free time when you have children. But the whole politics of relationships from my 20s and early 30s just doesn't interest me any more. And if spending time with someone leaves you feeling drained or unhappy or anxious, then it's not something I want to invest myself in. Which is not to say that all friendships are always happy and plain sailing and a good friend is indeed someone that is there for you when times are bad. But generally speaking some people just suck the life out of you or make you feel bad about yourself, and life's too short to be going round in circles with them as they deprive you of the will to live.

I asked my husband, who turned 40 last year, how he had felt about this milestone. "Well its was fine really, no big deal," he replied in that upbeat philosophical manner he has. "But listen, let's not kid ourselves. It's a reminder that a good half of my life is over and that I'm going to be getting older, and I'm that much closer to, if I'm lucky,  a natural death."

Ah yes, death. Once you get to a certain age, that's really at the heart of all this older birthday anxiety business right? No one likes to talk about it, so we talk about super vitamins, taking up running, juicing, re-reading the classics, learning an instrument, painting classes, visiting South America etc. And late at night when we are lying in bed we think about and put off making mammogram appointments and prostate exams and try to push these scary thoughts far out of our minds. A few weeks before I turned 40 I got a letter in the post saying I was eligible for a free stroke screening test. Now, I appreciate from my friend who is a neurologist that you don't have to be elderly to get a stroke, but the timing did make me wonder if I'm now in store for a whole bunch of 40+ medical test pamphlets to start flooding through my mail box. Because whether I like it or not, I now fall into that category and tick that box. 

I think about exercising more now because I am acutely aware that diet alone doesn't shift the pounds as it used to, nor does it get the heart rate up and one is meant to do that a few times a week to be healthy etc etc etc. Dear god. The truth is that all of this stuff, all of it, is to somehow avoid facing what will be the inevitable decline and decay of our bodies, and the really big elephant in the room: our eventual death. But it's a shitty subject and like everyone else I like to pretend everything is not about it, even though it is, so let's continue along the lines of self denial and change the subject.

My views on politics, religion and sex haven't really changed that much over the years. I mention these three things because apparently your views on these big three conversational no-no's are a fairly good indication of who you are as a person. Well, OK, sort of. In terms of sex and relationships, there are times I become very sad thinking about how I allowed myself to be treated in my 20s (and indeed treated others) and the almost careless manner in which I threw myself into relationships and situations that were evidently bad for me. I want to go back and take hold of my younger self, look her in the eye,  and say: "You are worth so much more than you think. Don't waste your time on someone who doesn't see that about you." I also want to say to my university self, "Stop with the peanut butter and syrup on toast and be more active," but that's another story. The virtues of hindsight.  

These days I am blessed with a partner who I love, and who I like and respect and have a lot of fun with. When I was younger and probably even at university, I genuinely didn't think I would get married. I saw relationships as things that were about arguing and having to compromise massively in a way that I didn't think would suit me. I also thought that if you had a relationship and didn't argue then it lacked passion and wasn't the real thing. And when I looked at some of the passionate relationships around me the protagonists didn't look all that happy. It never occurred to me that I might just be lucky enough to meet someone that I could find friendship with and mutual respect, someone that fit around my rough edges, complemented the good in me, and made me want to be an even better person. And that kindness, consideration, compassion, empathy and trust is at the heart of everything. Oh and fun, you've got to have fun together. This is something the rubbish romance novels you read as a young girl don't tell you.

Likewise I spent a lot of my younger life worrying about my weight - OK I still worry about it and like everyone else I think I could be 5-10kgs lighter. But as a younger person I obsessed about it and spent a lot of time wearing baggy clothes and hating the fact that I wasn't as thin as my friends. I look back at my high school diaries and see myself miserably counting calories and marking down my weight each day, and being overwhelmed with self loathing because at 16 or 17 I weighed 55kgs. Yes 55kgs.  I pray to god my daughter doesn't go through the same thing but I think the fact that my husband and I are not fat phobic and body obsessed as my parents were is probably a good start.

At 40 I do not have what the magazines refer to as a bikini ready body, or whatever the hell that means, and that's OK. My body is fit and healthy (knock on wood) and it's worked hard all these years and carried two babies. And since the day I was born, my heart has never once stopped beating - not once in 40 years. Isn't that an incredible thought? What an amazing machine. I am increasingly appreciative and thankful for the genuine miracle that is my body and in spite of the lumps and bumps and effects of gravity here and there I love it. It's mine right?  At some point you've got to stop with the self loathing, look after your body and be kind to it because it's got to last you.  And to decide that healthy is a lot more than most people have and it's a lot more important than some bizarre concept you have of what will make you beautiful and happy. Oh, and it's OK to buy a bigger dress size.

In terms of politics I still believe passionately in state funded good quality healthcare and education for everyone and I love the fact that I live in a country that uses my taxes to help people that are disabled, elderly and less fortunate - although obviously it could always be more. These things are essential empathetic societal components and I wouldn't want to live in a country that didn't give a shit about its citizens. I genuinely loathe the fact that the American political system always brings up abortion every time there is a vote. Someone's right to make this incredibly personal and difficulty choice is genuinely debased by that political circus. As for gay marriage - this is such a no brainer for me. You have every right to marry who you love, barring of course siblings, because well, as I say to my kids who often debate the merits of marrying each other: "You don't want too much of the same DNA in the mix guys". 

In terms of religion, we are what the Americans refer to as secular in terms of how we raise our children, but if at some point my children discover a particular faith they are interested in pursuing I will support them in their choices. OK, maybe I might try and talk them out of scientology or joining a cult. But barring that, ultimately you have to let your children be their own people and live a life that feels meaningful to them - irrespective of your own beliefs. I did however read an article recently on secular households that made me feel even more confident in the path we have chosen. You can see it here.

My music choices remain fairly eclectic; lots of classical, still some hip hop and R&B, Billy Joel and Paul Simon (great poets!), and since meeting my husband Radiohead and more recently The National. And I do find myself listening to a radio station that plays a lot of 80's and 90's stuff which I remember my mother used to do (only hers was 60s and 70s music). As a tween this used to irritate the hell out of me as I liked the trendier stations that had shock jocks (relatively speaking) who played current stuff. Now when I am driving and a song comes on that I know all the lyrics to and it takes me back, I am filled with inexplicable happiness.  Likewise I used to like Indie films and as a teenager bad horror movies - now I don't want to watch things that make me unhappy or anxious. If I want that I only have to open a newspaper.

I stopped going to nightclubs somewhere in my 20s because even at 24 I realised I was one of the oldest people there. Recently my husband and I went out with friends of ours and the club had a dance floor and the people there were all around our age or older, and it made me feel happy and comfortable - a kind of 'breathe out' feeling. I also loathe and avoid places where the music is too loud to have a conversation. This, I know, makes me definitively old - 40 or not. I also walk around the house switching off lights after people and berate anyone for letting the tap run while they are brushing their teeth. My dad used to do the same thing which I attributed to him being tight with money. And yet I do it, and for me it's about not wanting to waste energy or resources because I'm painfully aware that all things are finite. I recycle.

I've loved having children which was a surprise to me because while my middle sister, even as a child and a teenager, was always great with kids, they never seemed particularly interested in me and I had no idea how to be around them. When I had my daughter in my 30s I was absolutely clueless about babies, but I got there in the end and I cannot imagine my life without my children. I am definitely not someone who ever says: 'If I knew then what I know now I would not have had kids,' although I genuinely appreciate parenthood is not for everyone. I'm happy I did it, and a little sad I didn't meet my husband earlier because maybe we might have had a chance to have more children. My Obs Gyn tells me that in this day and age 40 is still relatively young to be having children, to which I respond: "Really, more children now? Who has the hell has the energy?" And she says, "I agree with you, but you know, if you wanted to... ."

In terms of the children we do have we are over that really exhausting baby and small child rearing phase and now into the next part of things which involves helping with homework, attempting to answer ever increasingly complicated questions about the world, and helping them negotiate their school yard relationships. I spend a lot of time thinking about how I handled particular situations, feeling bad about some of the shouting (especially in the morning ahead of school) and trying to be present, interested and fun with my children. And there's still a ton of tidying and cleaning up non stop - I'm not sure that bit of parenting ever stops. 
I definitely find myself looking forwards with my focus on my children and their futures, rather than mine so much, and hopefully steering them in the right direction to achieving a life that they find meaningful and fulfilling

My 72-year-old painting teacher tells me that provided you have your health, life just keeps getting better and at 72 she is having the time of her life. She tells me that she knows who she is, and that as you get older you really cut through a lot of the unnecessary stuff and focus on what is important, which inevitably makes life a lot easier. It's one of the many reasons I enjoy the company of older people because they take you by the hand and guide you through the stuff they've already been through with a attitude of 'Come on, follow me, it's not so scary. There's actually some pretty amazing stuff ahead of you.'

And so with some trepidation, but not as much as I thought, I take a deep breath, plug my nose with my fingers, and jump over the threshold and into that unknown, somewhat daunting, but undoubtedly exciting landscape that is my 40s.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

But is it tennis?

Yesterday I helped save a Russian baby from drowning. It was the case of being at the right place at the right time - in this instance inside of the pool right by the edge as this small child in a swim nappy and T-shirt confidently walked up to the water's edge and stepped in. At first I thought perhaps he was one of those toddler prodigy swimmers - the kinds you see on YouTube where they've been taught how to swim from birth. But as he almost immediately began to sink like a stone I reckoned it was just a case of over confidence on his part and being mesmerised by how inviting the water looked. I grabbed him by the arm and lifted him to the surface as his mother simultaneously rushed over and fished him out. She smacked him on the bottom and frog marched him back to their sun lounger. I was not acknowledged for my part in the rescue. I think she was in shock from what might have happened and maybe a little bit embarrassed that it had happened in the first place under her watch. Poor kid - I could tell his ego had been bruised.

The day before that I encountered Djokovic, his coach Boris Becker and the Ukrainian player Alexandr Dolgopolov training at the courts at the hotel we are staying in. After my own game, I sat on the bench by their court and watched them play for an hour or so and listened in on their conversation - the upcoming Australian open, racing fast cars, the usual stuff incredibly talented and rich young men talk about I suppose. It was genuinely fascinating watching how these world class players train: Both had their coaches on the courts who stood in the corners with tennis rackets and hit the balls that had gone amiss back in. Then there were two other men (similarly armed with rackets) and then there was a ball man probably provided by the hotel. So all in all seven people on the court at a given time.

Djokovic is tall and lean and handsome. He doesn't swear when he messes up a shot, not that there are many that he messes up, and he hits long, hard and just over the net. And interestingly his backhands are both single handed and double handed. Boris Becker was virtually unrecognisable. A lot of sports figures grow old gracefully and land up looking lean, fit and tanned and sort of handsome in an ageing Gary Player kind of way. Becker, after having  double hip surgery and more recently ankle surgery, kind of limps around and looks a lot older than his 47 years. I imagine the pain leading up to the surgery and then during recovery has a way of etching itself on your features. 

When I play tennis, and I use the term very loosely given present company in the previous paragraph, I am ill tempered and an incredibly sore loser. If, during my regular life, I try and maintain a sense of calm, on the courts all my inner rage is unleashed. My husband tries to make small talk or extend some affection and this is usually met with: "Don't touch me, don't even talk to me." And some balls are deliberately aimed at vulnerable parts of his body. People who don't know us from outside of this environment would wonder why anyone would want to be with such a vicious sore loser, not to mention the expletives that exit my mouth. 

A lot of this stems back to playing tennis with my sister when I was a child. My sister, who is two and a half years older than me, got private tennis lessons. I played a bit at school, but was never really that good at it. My sister took it very seriously, and we would sometimes play in our backyard on the paved driveway. She would be Christ Evert Lloyd (because she was the attractive one) and I had to be Martina Navratilova. Obviously Navratilova was a better player, but her mannishness didn't appeal to either of us. And because my sister was stronger, getting lessons, and a better player, she also always won. It did not bode well for our already shaky relationship.

I guess a lot of my present day tennis rage is a kind emotional flashback situation from those days; the almost psychotic competitive feelings I get the minute I step on the court never fail to surprise me. So when I turned 39 I decided to dispense with the frustration of never really knowing if I was just a bad player or maybe I just needed to learn how to play properly, and decided to get lessons. These days I get a lesson once a week with an incredibly nice and talented coach called Michael. Michael is almost stereotypically handsome; that is, when you think of a tennis pro you think of them as being tanned, lean, with slightly curly hair beneath the cap, and handsome. Michael is all of these. He tells me I am very tense on the court (he doesn't know about the flashback rage), I need to relax, and I need to play more in between lessons. My friend, who also trains with Michael, and I have decided to play once a week together, although this decision was made as the temperatures in London started to plummet to around 5 degrees. We decided to take it up again in March when things start to warm up. However this holiday a new friend gave me that rare as gold tip off as to the whereabouts of an indoor tennis court not too far from my house, so I can now play year round without risking pneumonia. 

Another decision I have made, in addition to improving my tennis game, is to lose weight. I was inspired by how lean Djokovic is. Now obviously it's insanity to compare oneself to a world class tennis player given he spends his life in training or playing in tournaments. But he also moved with such ease, and I don't. I am horribly unfit, or at least, too unfit to play as well as I would like. And the shorts of my skorts ride up because my thighs have gotten even wobblier than they were before. Also we had our Christmas family photo taken at lunch this year. I like comparative sorts of things and looked at the photo we had taken last year before realising that I can no longer fit into the dress I wore then, and haven't for quite some time.

I hate dieting. I find it boring and tedious and people who constantly talk about dieting are boring and tedious too. No one wants to hear about how many calories you consume or how many you managed to burn off  - it's genuinely of no interest to any one else, unless of course you are a member of an online forum or club that concerns itself with such things. Also it strikes me as slapping good fortune in the face when you think about how many people are struggling to put food on the table in the first place and there I might be saying: "Oh no, I think I'm going to have to give up on the daily de-caff soya lattes because that soya milk is not as fat free as you think!" First world problems and all that.

Anyway, a really good friend of mine who is amazing for many reasons, but mostly because she is the voice of reason in the face of my neurosis, said to me a few months back that people who regret becoming parents often do so because they see it as losing something rather than gaining it. We were talking about a couple of people we knew that had said something to the effect of: "I love my children, but if I knew then how much it would change my life, I don't think I would do it again." I think the same can be said for wanting to lose excess weight: If you see it as having to give up all the things you enjoy to attain it, it's probably going to be an awfully torturous, resentful, and ultimately unsustainable business. Whereas if you look at it as gaining better health, being fitter, feeling better emotionally, and an opportunity to buy some nice new (smaller) clothes, then maybe there's something to be gained by it.

"But we are intellectuals," I complain to my friend at dinner over sushi. "I mean -  I write, I paint, I concern myself with world events, what bloody difference does it make to what is going on in Syria if I am a size 8 as opposed to a size 10, er I mean 12?" This is how it always is with me and why I often sabotage my weight loss / get fit attempts - I veer between wanting to be leaner and thinking it's a case of pointless narcissism in the face of serious stuff. And I never, ever, talk about this kind of thing in front of my children because I don't want them equating their value or worth to their body shape. "Well", my friend replies calmly, "You are right, these things are not important in the context of what you mention, but personally I have a certain aesthetic and I enjoy feeling good about myself and being attractive to my husband too. Maybe that's not acceptable to some people but it's not about what other people think, it's about what is important to you."

Which leads me to today - I swam with the kids and a friend of ours that is also here on holiday looks over from his lounger and says: "Now there's a first!" And I was too embarrassed to tell him that I often wait until people I know are not around to swim with my kids because I am shy of how I look in a bathing suit. I'd rather he thought of me as an uninvolved parent than seeing all my wobbly bits. Which is a very sad admission on my part. I don't look at other people around the pool and judge how they look, and I was genuinely angry when years ago Cherie Blair was pictured on holiday and journalists, a couple of which were women! made fun of how voluptuous she looked in her bathing suit. As if she had committed some terrible crime by daring to wear a bathing suit and have fun with her children on what was a private holiday, just because she wasn't model thin. Heaven forbid she doesn't hate herself as we hate ourselves right?

It's true that sometimes I do look at exceptionally hairy men around the pool and then I tell my husband that they may in fact be werewolves and when there is a full moon he will have to fight them off. And he looks at me in that way he does (with long suffering love and affection and slight concern for my sanity) and says, "Uh-huh." Likewise on the aeroplane over to our holiday I show him this image of Sam Faiers and say: "Wow, now that's a great bikini body, don't you think?" and he points to a more curvy woman and says he prefers that look. Which is probably why he was attracted to me in the first place, because I am a lot curvier than the curvy woman he pointed to. God bless him and people like him. I wish I shared his aesthetic, but no matter how hard I try, Linda Hamilton's figure in Terminator II became an iconic 'how one should look' mental imprint for me at what was probably an important body image developmental age. And bizarrely, because I should know better, it remains the figure I aspire to and will probably never achieve. I guess it could be worse, it could have been Barbie I wanted to look like, and then, like the very thin Russian woman who is also poolside, I might have to have my lower ribs removed.

I'm going to start on cutting out the wine during the week, go easy on the carbs at night, and in addition to tennis, try and get 20 minutes of cardio in a few times a week. That doesn't sound too bad, does it?  And on days that I fail to do any of the above and partake in my 4pm tea, biscuit and stroking the cat ritual, I must remind myself of the following: That  it may not be peace in the Middle East, but somewhere in the world there is a small Russian baby with delusions of swimming grandeur, that is still alive in part, thanks to me. Even if I did execute said rescue with my wobbly bits on public display.

Monday, December 22, 2014

All you can eat

Fridays in the Middle East are like Sundays back in England. It's the day of rest, and also, as it turns out, the day that everyone, hotel guests and people living in Dubai alike, descend on the magnificent Al Qasr hotel for the all you can eat (and drink) buffet brunch.  An enormous and famous enterprise spanning three vast interconnecting restaurants and terraces that you are free to wonder between with every kind of cuisine you can imagine: Grilled meat, prawns, sushi, truly exceptional and authentic Indian food, Mexican food, Italian, middle Eastern, puddings of every description, chocolate fountains, candy floss, and so forth and so on. Plus Sangria stations, Mohito Stations, Rum Stations, people walking around endlessly topping up your champagne glass. Accompanied by live music and starting at 12.30 and finishing at 4pm it seats hundreds of people at maximum capacity. 

In the four years that we have visited Dubai, we have attended this buffet on three occasions, and on each occasion I look around at the Bacchanalian excess and decide it's a bad idea. Things like this inspire the inner glutton in people even if you aren't gluttonness by nature. Because it's not inexpensive you find yourself thinking: 'I must get my money's worth!' And if say, like my husband and I, you only go for an hour and half with the kids (beyond that and they start getting bored and running around) and have the equivalent of a starter, single mains, a dessert and two glasses of champagne, it's not great value. I imagine were we not with the children, and say with a group of friends, we could quite easily while away three and a half hours while grazing, talking, and getting mildly lit, as so many of the tables of people appear to do.

Some of the tables, however, don't so much graze as stock pile. And the plates of half eaten food and desert as people greedily go on to the next thing before the food in front of them is finished, always makes me feel deeply ashamed of this kind of wasteful excess even if it is not my own. I often wonder what some of the waiting staff, some of whom are from very poor economical situations back in their home countries, think of such gluttony and decadence.

It reminds me of an occasion where as a teenager I attended a wedding with my parents. My mother, who has a beautiful voice and would sing in the church at weddings, was almost always invited to the receptions along with my father and us children. They were grand and opulent affairs, where the bride and groom seldom knew a good 70 percent of the hundreds of guests because they were friends or business associates of their parents. At one such reception, a rare occasion my father had agreed to accompany us, he unluckily as it turns out, got sat next to the organists's boyfriend. The boyfriend, in contrast to my father's quiet and reserved nature, was an exceedingly loquacious man in his early 20s with lots of product in his hair, very pointy shoes, and a shiny suit that ended at his ankles. He informed my dad that because his girlfriend played the organ, he too got to attend a lot of weddings and the parties thereafter. He relished telling my father that by now he had fine tuned his modus operandi: He would eat and drink as much as he could, go to the toilets and make himself sick, and then return for rounds two and even three. To illustrate this he ensured the waiter brought him not one, but two large bowels of the soup we started with, and beamed at my father. I imagine intellectually my father thought this reminicent of how the Romans behaved at orgies, but instead of interest his face registered suddenly smelling something very unpleasant and he excused himself and risked the dance floor with my mother. "What a truly disgusting young man," my father later told us. "Who does such a thing?" 

On our most recent visit to the Friday brunch at the Al Qasr, a nearby table comprised of two well dressed English couples in maybe their 50s. One of the women kept singing to and haranguing the increasingly wary-looking young man from the Indian Sub-Continent who would gingery approach to fill her glass. I imagine she was telling him not to wonder too far off because her glass would soon need refilling. I felt sorry for him. At one point she had to use the bathroom and needed escorting by her huband because she was unable to stand up alone let alone put one foot in front of the other, unassisted. By five minutes to four as we were about to leave with the children I noticed their table had visisted the Mohito station and had lined up rows of drinks to last them once the free booze had stopped being served.  The last time I recall stacking up on drinks in this way I was in my twenties on a budget and it was nearing the end of happy hour in a bar. 

If you are in Dubai, I'd definitely recommend having the experience of the Friday brunch even if it's just the once, because with the right company I think it can be an incredibly fun afternoon. And seeing that vast array of food so beautifully laid out is quite something. I also remind myself that irrespective of age or budget we all derive pleasure and ascribe value differently, and for some the opportunity to sample so many different kinds of food or perhaps even drink excessively is an afternoon well spent. Even if, like my unfortunate father's dinner companion from so many years ago, some require bulimia in order to achieve it.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Notes from a holiday

My son lost his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Leonardo in the sea this week while he was playing with it where the waves break. He was very upset. Back at home that Leonardo is often at the bottom of his toy chest or lying behind his bedroom door sometimes for a week at a time, and he won't even notice. But when we come on holiday, the children are only allowed to bring one or two toys because of space, and therefore these items become extremely valued and special. I appreciate there is a lesson in all of this. I spent 20 minutes wading in as far as I could with waves crashing against me, trying to spot Leonardo - hoping he might float to the surface or be washed up on the shore. I watched children searching for shells, hoping one of them might find Leonardo and hold him up before I'd trot over and say "Actually thank you very much, that belongs to my son!" But eventually I had to admit that he was well and truly gone. I walked back to where the children were sitting and admitted as much, but attempted to add an upbeat spin to it: "Just think what adventures Leonardo might have ahead of him? Who knows where he might wash up right? Perhaps India?" The children weren't buying it and showed me a small pile of sea sand with an ice-cream stick stuck in the middle of it. "This is a funeral mound for Leonardo," my daughter announced. My son nodded solemnly.

I think my children are a lot more at ease with the harsh realities of life than I am.

Growing up, holidays were few and far between. My father was self employed and either couldn't afford to take the time off, or we couldn't afford a hotel. Holiday rentals were mostly rejected by my mother, who unusually for someone in 70s/80s middle class South Africa eschewed the then affordable domestic help. In turning down our suggestions of a holiday flat, she'd protest: "Why would I want to go on a holiday and still have to cook and clean? That's not a holiday. I might as well stay at home where I do that anyway, and not spend the extra money!"

On the few 
occasions we did get her to relent to holiday rentals, my mother would pack her bleach, assorted cleaning materials, sponges and clothes, and we were not allowed to even sit on the edge of a bed without my mother sanitizing the entire place first. That evenings meal of takeaway fish and chips on paper plates (she would not have had a chance to clean all the pots and pans, plates, glasses and cutlery in the kitchen before we were allowed to use them) would inevitably be accompanied by my mother's blow by blow account of how black the toilet bowl had been, or how many times she had had to empty the inferior vacuum cleaner before deeming the carpet acceptable for our bare feet. "How some people live in such filth is beyond me," she'd lament with a look of disgust on her face.  "They have no shame. Can you imagine putting up your house for rent in such a state?" We'd eat our fish and chips quietly and dream of a holiday in a hotel that lived up to my mothers hygienic standards so she could stop cleaning, relax, and do fun things with us. My father's expression said pretty much the same thing.

Holidays with my parents were also incredibly boring. My mother and father would find a spot by the pool or on a grassy patch as one approached the beach ('that blerry sand gets in everywhere'), and would bake themselves like steaks - alternating sides. They had no desire to sight-see, spend any money (my father), or take walks on the beach. My father hated spending money. There is a photo of us children, I think I am six years old, pictured with my father on the beach. We are all eating ice creams. We all look incredibly happy, except my father, who manages to look cross while eating an Eskimo Pie. I remember ahead of that picture being taken that my father was in a bad mood because he had to fork out for the ice creams.

Now that I am an adult myself I appreciate that my parents didn't have much money (a relative term I suppose, especially in South Africa at the time), and that from months, and sometimes years of no holiday, my parents were quite simply exhausted. Their idea of a holiday was quite literally resting, sleeping and doing nothing. Although I also remember evenings playing cards with my father who was an accomplished rummy player and had taught my siblings and I how to play from a very young age. Or visits to the Shark Board to see that day's autopsy and being fascinated by what was found in a shark's stomach, and always a little disappointed that it wasn't a human limb. The occasional treat eating in a nice steak restaurant, or the occasion  I'd suggested to my father he might want to rent a canoe and take me out on the small lake because I found the idea romantic. We got stuck in the first mud filled nook and I had to listen to my father berate me for my fancy bloody ideas as he tried in vain to row us out to open water. I laughed and laughed, much the same way my daughter often laughs at my frustration.

I think what my parents failed to appreciate is just how much we children longed for their attention, their time, and to be doing things with them. Even little things. Our weekends were never spent going to zoos or museums or at play dates the way my children's are, apart from family gatherings on occasion. My parents spent the weekends working around the house. If you weren't working at your job during the week, then on weekends you had to cut the grass, clean the house, do the ironing, fix the light switch, etc etc etc. So on holidays we were desperate to do things with them, and they, understandably wanted to do nothing at all. 

I try and remember this now that I am grown and have my own children. Like my parents, by the time the holiday comes all I want to do is read on my Kindle, drink a glass of wine, and sleep on my lounger. I have no real desire to do anything more strenuous than that, especially the first few days of the holiday which are usually a kind of recuperative period from some or other cold I am recovering from.Or a kind of sleep catch-up time. And like we did with my parents, my own children beg us to swim or play with them, and we inwardly moan but get up and do it, and find it's rather fun actually. My husband is far better at engaging with the children in a physical way than I am and is always up for taking them on walks, for ice creams, or to the water park. I am the parent that enjoys sitting with them on my lap talking and listening to their little stories and plans. Although swimming with them is also one of my pleasures.

Unlike my parents, I avoid the sun at all costs. I spend my days lying in the shade and venture out only wearing a high factor face cream and sun hat. As children we would often burn and our skin would peel. This was considered the sign of a good tan and a holiday well spent. These days it's considered a good way to get skin cancer. But I doubt we knew much about things like that in those days and sometimes I long for the ignorant bliss of childhood as opposed to the neurotic times we live in these days where pretty much everything gives you cancer, or so we are told.

I wish my father was still alive. I am so sad that he doesn't know my lovely husband or my children or me as an adult for that matter. I'd love to take him to some of the places I've been so very fortunate to visit, and say, "It's OK Dad, don't worry about the money, just relax and enjoy yourself. Or likewise take my mother to a nice hotel that she'd declare perfect lovely and sanitary. And then of course I'd guilt my parents into swimming with the children or taking them to the beach so that I could lie on my lounger and sleep.

Thursday, November 06, 2014

A body of work

In this week's issue of Closer magazine, there is an article about a woman who had sex with 50 strangers in the back of a lorry. My first reaction was, '50 people? Who has the energy?' Then, bizarrely (in terms of how one's mind works), I wondered if she owned the lorry, did she live in it, was there a bed in it? Having read the article it turns out that Rebecca is doing a tour around England as part of an adult TV show, and the people she sleeps with are members of the public who have won a competition to have sex with her. Apparently over 2000 people (men, women and couples) applied for the opportunity. Ahead of the liaison in the back of said lorry, they are all stringently checked for STI's. Rebecca says she's a single mother and this, along with her career as a porn actress, affords her the ability to send her children to private school, have a four bed home, and they all go on nice holidays together.  She calls it harmless fun. 

Fair enough. She seems in charge of her vagina and how she uses it. I'd be interested to see what the magazine's readership reaction to this will be in next week's letters section. Most of the time the magazine has articles about people who are about to have their 12th baby and are pictured seated on a large sofa in their council house with their rugby team brood looking defiantly at the camera. The blurb shouts out: 'I'm not ashamed to live off of the state and I'm going to keep having babies!'. That gets people really heated. Rebecca only has two children and she supports herself. Although having featured her vocation in a popular magazine, I wonder how the school run is going to be for her? Personally I'd be keen on a coffee with Rebecca - I have a lot of questions.  
The full article is by Miranda Knox in 
Closer magazine, 1-7 November 2014.

In my life sculpture class we are working on a nude of a woman. The model is Rubenesque in build and has terrific confidence especially considering that yesterday, our first class with her, she had to disrobe in front of effectively a group of strangers on a cold Wednesday morning in a dusty old art room. At the coffee break she told me that posing has given her a lot of confidence and helped her deal with her body issues, 'Especially as I am a larger woman.' She's beautiful, warm and approachable, and I liked her immediately. I told her I don't even walk around naked at home, apart from say between the bathroom and the bedroom, and even then I tend to cover up with a towel or dressing gown. Naked has never really been my thing, and forget going topless on a beach. I am always curious about nudists who say that wearing clothes feels genuinely unnatural for them. For me it is the opposite.

My children are talking about Christmas, a lot. Every commercial on television adds another toy to their list. Every now and then I get a notepad and paper and ask them to tell me what three things they would really love, which is a pointless exercise. They um and ah, start conversing with each other, and then rattle off some plastic crap they saw on a recent You Tube toy review clip or ad break. Last night I told them that when I was a child we never got toys except on our birthday or Christmas, so when I was asked, I knew EXACTLY what I wanted, and even then I wasn't always guaranteed to get the things on my list. For some reason my parents continually overlooked the note, in bold, double underlined, and with stars and hearts around it which read: "The entire Tinkerbell hair and makeup line please."

I've written before about my feelings when it comes to Christmas. This year I'm trying not to be cynical about the occasion. And in truth, having children does make you that much more enthusiastic, and dare I say it, a little excited about the process on their behalf. We put up our tree at the start of December because the television and stores are advertising stuff from October already, so I can only push it as far as the 1st of December before there is a coup d'état in our house. And decorating the tree is a very big deal for the children, although this year we will have to work around our lunatic cat who attacks the belt on my dressing gown in the morning, never mind a tree full of sparkly dangly things. Then there is the obvious lingering guilt about lying to the children, yet again, about the existence of Santa, the toy making sweat shop elves, and the reindeers, and how Santa gets down the chimney. Understandably, my son cannot wrap his head around how a rotund Santa fits down our chimney. "Magic, I respond, it's magic." Not unlike me undertaking that painful and almost impossible feat of engineering that is squeezing myself into a pair of Spanx.

And of course I am guilty of using Santa and presents to extort better behaviour out of my children from about October onwards, which I appreciate is wrong, but I guess it could be worse. As a child I got the back of hand on my backside when I misbehaved - so a bit of extortion is probably OK. I have a sneaking suspicion my daughter who is going to be seven soon, has her suspicions about the whole Santa thing and that it might just be a story, but she's smart enough to go with the flow and milk it.

I showed my Pilates teacher a photo of the internet sensation that is Jen Selter's bottom. This woman has an amazing backside, apparently voted the best bottom in the USA and so famous that it is allegedly making Kim Kardashian very nervous about her own backside being usurped in popularity. I clicked on a few photos of Selter's bottom and showed my teacher: "See this one, look at it here, and this one, isn't that amazing?" I thought that by showing her the pictures I could indicate my desire to have a bottom like that although I don't actually want to do anything particularly strenuous to achieve it. Like so many people these days I'm after the quick fix that doesn't actually exist. My instructor told me that the bottom is a muscle mass and with work one can actually shape it, as Selter evidently has. And as it happens, most of Selter's photos are of her unbelievably shaped derriere in work out clothes at the gym and in the process of exercising. My teacher looked at my excited expectant expression - not unlike someone that is hoping to win a car on the Oprah Winfrey Show - smiled sweetly and said, 'Yeah, well, OK, you can work towards that, although a lot of it is genetic.' Later I reflected on this while eating a ham and cheese sandwich and drinking a cup of tea. 

Friday, October 31, 2014

Let it go

I recently saw my in-laws and complimented my father-in-law on how trim he is looking. He assured me he was making an effort in this respect and it was important "not to let one's self go."  I remember my parents using that phrase when I was growing up. "Oh, look, it's Mrs Barnes. Gosh, she's really let herself go, she used to be a great beauty." Or, "Geoff has gained a lot of weight since he stopped the gym - he's let himself go." My mother spoke of people who got married, let themselves go, and got divorced. 

But what did letting oneself go mean? If I thought about the people my parents had pointed out, perhaps it meant steadily getting fatter and fatter? Or going from being a smart dresser to wearing old stretched out sweat pants or tent dresses and not brushing ones hair? Or maybe turning out like the angry woman who worked at Jughead Burgers? I imagined myself being any or all of these things and my husband turning around to me one day and saying: 'You have let yourself go. I am leaving you for a young woman who has not.' It didn't occur to me that people don't just 'let themselves go', it's more a case that life happens. As you get older a myriad of changes take place in your life and within yourself that are far more complex than the loss of a head of hair, a little waistline or the washboard stomach you may have had in your early 20's. For the record I have never had a washboard stomach, so my husband has got nothing to compare my far from washboard stomach to now. Maybe there's something to be said for not setting one's self up.

Now that I am what people refer to as a grown up myself (although I'm not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean or how I'm supposed to be one), I get that letting oneself go implies that somehow you stop holding the law abiding, healthy eating, regular exercising, good citizen shit together and release the inner slob, or sex addict, or over eater, or procrastinator, or disco dancer. That you don't trust yourself to have some kind of internal balance to just get on with life with an equal measure of stuff you ought to do and stuff you actually enjoy doing. The fear being that if for even a minute you let one of the masochistic self control balls drop, all hell is going to break lose. God forbid we stop flossing every night, have that second glass of wine or start smoking again right? The earth will gather its petticoats and climb off of its axis. Or not, as it turns out. Maybe that's the ultimate fuck with you head thought and why we busy ourselves with all this useless stuff in the first place. The truth of the matter is that ultimately, the universe does not care if you take off all your makeup at night or run an extra mile. But that's an entirely different subject for a different time. Gather all ye nihilists ... .

Letting go is a problem for me. I live my life a lot like I ski: shoulders up by my ears, all joints clenched, and feet grimly gripping ski's and in turn the snow. Holding on for dear life and anticipating every worse case scenario. I had an American ski instructor years ago - a lovely man - and he'd sing to me as he skied backwards gracefully to face me: "Let it go, just let your body go." And sometimes, by some small miracle, I could switch off the neurotic inner voice that was telling me that like that Kennedy who died while skiing (backwards trying to catch a football) I too was going to die. Even though I struggled to ski forwards, let alone backwards while doing a sport. And when this happened when I managed to stop worrying and trust what by now my legs and body knew how to do, it was heavenly. Frightening, exhilarating and a relief to pick up speed and feel the wind in my ears and just, well, let it all go. It remains a very physically embodied lesson for me on the importance of living life fully and without fear. 

I read a book a year ago that sold really well - it was Paul McKenna's 'I can make you thin,' aiming to to help people lose weight and keep it off. And when I read it, I thought, 'dear god, how disconnected from ourselves have we become that we actually have to pay someone to tell us what is so obvious?' To summarise it's this:  Eat what you like when you like, but eat only when you are hungry and stop eating when you get full. With some self hypnosis techniques thrown in for good measure. Yup, I can see McKenna sitting back on his leather chair laughing out loud while counting his money. And I imagine even though it seems so obvious and simple his book is a revelation to many and some will even benefit from it. I told a friend about his weight loss theory a few weeks back, and she said to me: "Oh, but I could never have such a relaxed attitude. If I told myself I could eat anything I would eat everything and get very very fat." She almost visibly held her breath as she said this as if she was terrified of just, you know, breathing, never mind eating.

My grandmother spent her life obsessing about food. As a child she was deprived of it due to poverty and as an adult she deprived herself of it in what seemed like a constant stream of diets and breaks from diets. The carrot diet, the mango diet, the all you can eat just out of the oven bread-roll diet. She told me she wanted to fit back into the beautiful dresses and clothes she wore as a younger woman. In the week that she died (she was in her 80s) she was asking my mother to order her pizza and cokes - food she never really ate. I never forgot that and told myself that I didn't want to live my life like that. I didn't want to spend my life depriving myself of things only to be on my death bed regretting it all because of some tragic self imposed life sentence. 

There are people who take vacations where they run with the bulls or go climbing dangerous mountains. Personally that sounds too much like hard work to me, but I get that society and how we live our lives has very much removed us from what makes us feel truly alive - that core sense of survival. We are no longer chasing after or being chased by saber tooth tigers, so we pay a lot of money to climb into a cage and get lowered into the sea to be surrounded by dangerous sharks to remind us that we could be dead at any moment but as it turns out, we aren't. And for a few minutes after, we take a deep breath and as it fills our lungs, we feel exhilarated and thankful for the life we have, and we promise ourselves to live more fully. And much like when a friend or relative dies, we take stock: We promise ourselves to call our family and friends more often. To have the courage to chase after love even with the risk of rejection. To quit the job that is slowly killing us inside and do something that we really love. To feel genuinely proud of our children even if they don't fit into some unrealistic version of the people we thought they/we ought to be. 

In that moment, when we have faced death, it's as though we are exposed the the truth; the very heart of who we are, why we are here, what we want, and what we need. And we feel all of these things in our very being. At least until we are back in the office a few days later and all the usual noise (ours and other people's bullshit) continues and that truth gets drowned out. And all too soon we are back to our disconnected alienated self that needs the internet or news to fill us with its daily dose of fear and tell us what not to eat, what to read, what to believe in, what to do, and how to feel. This is what it has come to.

Then there's perspective. Whenever I feel myself obsessing about my waistline, money, schooling for the children, or the fact that my one glass of wine an evening has now become two, or about the ever mounting garbage in the world and the ever decreasing rain forests, or the fact that there are terrorists at large, I stop and think of people in the world that are struggling to find food for themselves or their families. Or of those that are right now, this minute, fending off rapists and ethnic cleansers and wondering why the rest of the world is not helping more. Or of people who have their passports confiscated and are being forced to work in slave labour conditions. Or people that are disappeared, beaten and killed for their so-called political beliefs. Or people that are forced to leave their small children and travel to a different country so they can provide. Do you think these people are standing in supermarkets worrying about the benefits of organic versus free range chicken or how many minutes on the Stair Master it will take to burn off a cappuccino? Or whether or not their kids spend too much time on the iPad? My god, our priorities have become so fucked up.

Something I also came to realise soon after having kids was that my husband and I spent and continue to spend a lot of time arranging play time, play dates or holidays with play facilities for our children, and yet at some point in our lives play has failed to be a priority.  If it's such a fundamentally important part of a child's development and happiness, when does that stop for us, and why should it? I'm not talking about watching TV or getting drunk or high - although I appreciate the escapist merits of these things. I mean, actively engaging in an activity not because you have to, or ought to, but because you enjoy it. That it challenges you and engages you and you experience pleasure and frustration and exhilaration and excitement while doing it. Where you even feel a little bit guilty because for once in your life you are doing something that is fun and by choice and not because you are getting paid to do it or because you were told to do it. 

So, why don't we eat food that we enjoy, and eat when we are hungry instead of starving ourselves? Walk because it's good to feel the air on our faces and not have to sit in traffic, as opposed to doing so because of the calorie burning deficits? Go out on week nights? Have an occasional cigarette if we want one? Take a day off of work occasionally and go to the movies on our own instead of missing films because our partner or friends aren't interested in watching them? Dance or play tennis or run because we like to not just because we're told we need regular cardio? Turn off the bloody TV and make love instead? When did simple living become so complicated? And why are we so afraid to live our lives without an internal policeman who's voice is not our own?

In my search to have a more meaningful existence and I suppose deal with anxiety and sadness in a non medicated way, I've made a conscious effort to just let it go a bit and start living more. Like everyone else this doesn't come easy. Your parents tell you what to do, you are told what to do at school, and later at work. And so it's hard to switch that all off and trust in yourself to live your life in a way that is true and meaningful to you and has nothing to do with other people's opinions. I'm not about to switch to caffeinated coffee, wear a bikini without a coverup or actually read the Conservative door drops before chucking them in the recycling box. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But these days my jeans are a little tighter and I don't quite fit into the Hervé Léger style dresses I have and which I had to practically starve myself to fit into in the first place despite wearing Spanx! I'm tired of depriving myself and struggling with something which should be a simple and natural act - you know, eating to survive right?

And what a relief to go out and not have to sit up poker straight and suck in one's gut all evening because of a fashionable outfit that was designed by a sadist, with admittedly nice taste. And to enjoy food. Bliss. I goof around more with the kids with stuff that they want to do - as opposed to just the stuff that's interesting or convenient for me. So we do the wrestle mania-type stuff or pretend we are wolves and I find I enjoy it too. It's fun to be silly. I use my spare time to paint or do this, write, because it makes me happy and it's my thing. Also I am very fortunate to derive a lot of love and support from my family and my parter, which I genuinely appreciate is a gift and something I do not take for granted. And I'm trying not to ruminate on things that worry me or make me unhappy - so not too much on the news sites, never the crappy Daily Mail, and not too much FB. And occasionally, I'll have a wonderfully decadent sugar filled cookie and a cup of tea and sit with my cat on my lap, and this simple thing will feel like a small slice of heaven.