I'm a manager, so I try to dress reasonably smartly. I'm not really a 'corporate' kind of gal though, so luckily I work in tertiary education where smart-casual errs on the side of casual, and quirk is an acceptable substitute for shoulder pads and power suits.
New Zealanders are also fairly evangelical about our right to 'casual Friday' (aka 'dress-down Friday') and I am no exception, but even so, as a manager I 'dress down' less than I used to.
Normally.
Yesterday morning I must have been particularly tired when I dressed myself, and I actually did dress in the dark. As a result I was dressed more 'Friday' than usual - denim capris, grey tee-shirt, navy cardigan and my favourite Diesel trainers.
Now, this wouldn't have been a disaster on most Fridays, but it wasn't until my Google Calendar booped at me at 11.25 that I remembered I had a launch (and lunch) function to go to at 11.30. I was there as a representative of our governing body, as one of the elected staff members, and the guest of honour was, well, the Prime Minister. Crap.
I had RSVPd, and knew they would have provided vegan food just for me, so I didn't feel right not going. I bumped into my boss and her boss on my way down, and they tried to convince me it would be fine; people would just think I was a student representative. Needless to say, though, I felt completely conspicuous and uncomfortable from the minute I walked in the door, and spent the entire time hanging near the back, half-pretending I was there for something else.
There were several interesting people in attendance who I would have liked to talk to, but there was no way I was going to do it dressed as I was, so I scarpered out and away the minute the formal bit was over, swiping a vegan wrap and a couple of spring rolls into a napkin on my way out.
When I got back to the office I still felt uncomfortable and despite the horse having well and truly bolted, I couldn't concentrate on work until I changed. So I made a quick trip down to that trusty standby, The Warehouse, and re-suited myself in a long swishy top, black leggings and black ballet flats, for a grand total of $42.00. If I'd only realised the function was on half an hour before I did, I could have shopped to more effect!
While I can see the funny side of the whole thing, I'm still also mortified. And I plan to keep a generic dressy outfit hanging on the back of my office door in case of future sartorial emergencies.
16 February 2013
14 February 2013
The lost arts of kissing and silence
When I was 17, a boy I liked (let's call him Billy) told me that men (boys) were intimidated by me, basically because I could be silent. Apparently I was scary because they (the men/boys) would say something, and I would just look at them, silently. They would feel like I was judging them or something (I'm making assumptions now) , and would then rush to fill the silence, ending up saying silly things and feeling embarrassed and hence becoming further intimidated by me. A vicious cycle.
Now, I never set out to be intimidating, but it's true that I'm comfortable with silence. I don't know if this comes from being an only child, from acting training ("CLAIM the stage with your presence!"), or if it's just my personality, but I am perfectly happy to be silent with other people without feeling the need to fill the silence with chitchat. Sometimes this drives my husband nuts (we have a bit of a gender reversal from the assumed norm - he's always asking me "What are you thinking?") but I just don't see the need for oral communication all the time.
So why do some people find silence so intimidating? Is it because people are generally not great at reading body language and therefore need to be told how other people are feeling all the time? I'm quite good at reading mood and sub-text through body language - is this because I'm ok with silence or am I ok with silence because I can read body language? I don't have any answers, just lots of questions! But ever since Billy made his great revelation, I've remembered (and utilised) the potential power wielded by the silent person...
As a side note, I didn't like Billy for much longer after that, not because of the intimidation thing but because when he kissed me, he turned out to be a tongue thruster. You know, the kind of guy who, when he kissed me, seemed like he was actually trying to do a thorough medical exam of my mouth and throat without using his hands. Not pleasant. Also, he would occasionally mix it up by removing his tongue from my throat and bathing the lower half of my face in saliva instead. I'm not sure he realised that I wasn't responding with passion, I was just trying to save myself from drowning.
Here's a tip for anyone who is yet to have their first kiss (or anyone who currently thinks that a kiss isn't a kiss unless you've licked the other person's tonsils at least once) - kissing is all about lips. Lips, not tongue. Did you ever notice that on a T9 phone, "kiss" and "lips" have the same number sequence? That's not a coincidence. A little bit of tongue is ok, but if in doubt, just keep it out!
I wonder what happens when two tongue thrusters get together? Do they have an epiphany and realise that their kissing style, as mirrored by their partner, is about as pleasant as being ball-gagged? Or do they each think the other is the most fantastic kisser ever, and go off blissfully into a saliva-filled future together?
Remember kids, kiss with your lips, and don't be afraid of silence. That concludes today's lesson.
Now, I never set out to be intimidating, but it's true that I'm comfortable with silence. I don't know if this comes from being an only child, from acting training ("CLAIM the stage with your presence!"), or if it's just my personality, but I am perfectly happy to be silent with other people without feeling the need to fill the silence with chitchat. Sometimes this drives my husband nuts (we have a bit of a gender reversal from the assumed norm - he's always asking me "What are you thinking?") but I just don't see the need for oral communication all the time.
So why do some people find silence so intimidating? Is it because people are generally not great at reading body language and therefore need to be told how other people are feeling all the time? I'm quite good at reading mood and sub-text through body language - is this because I'm ok with silence or am I ok with silence because I can read body language? I don't have any answers, just lots of questions! But ever since Billy made his great revelation, I've remembered (and utilised) the potential power wielded by the silent person...
As a side note, I didn't like Billy for much longer after that, not because of the intimidation thing but because when he kissed me, he turned out to be a tongue thruster. You know, the kind of guy who, when he kissed me, seemed like he was actually trying to do a thorough medical exam of my mouth and throat without using his hands. Not pleasant. Also, he would occasionally mix it up by removing his tongue from my throat and bathing the lower half of my face in saliva instead. I'm not sure he realised that I wasn't responding with passion, I was just trying to save myself from drowning.
Here's a tip for anyone who is yet to have their first kiss (or anyone who currently thinks that a kiss isn't a kiss unless you've licked the other person's tonsils at least once) - kissing is all about lips. Lips, not tongue. Did you ever notice that on a T9 phone, "kiss" and "lips" have the same number sequence? That's not a coincidence. A little bit of tongue is ok, but if in doubt, just keep it out!
I wonder what happens when two tongue thrusters get together? Do they have an epiphany and realise that their kissing style, as mirrored by their partner, is about as pleasant as being ball-gagged? Or do they each think the other is the most fantastic kisser ever, and go off blissfully into a saliva-filled future together?
Remember kids, kiss with your lips, and don't be afraid of silence. That concludes today's lesson.
31 January 2013
Sh*t happens - at the wrong time, in the wrong place
I am a responsible dog owner. I make sure my dog is fed, that he has water and shelter, and that he is de-flea-ed, registered and vaccinated (note to self: check when vaccinations are due). He gets inside time and outside time, occasional baths, and lots and lots of love and hugs. And when I walk him, I always, always have a plastic bag tied to the lead for poop-scooping purposes.
Except for last Saturday.
We were heading off to a wedding, and I wanted to take 'Basco for a late-afternoon run just before we were due to leave, so I took him to the beach over the road, which is pretty muddy when the tide is out, but is quite good for swimming when it's in, and I figured it would be fine either way as I was taking the ball and thrower, so I should have been able to give him a decent run.
It's not a particularly busy beach as the ones a few minutes' drive away are sandier and more pleasant for swimming, sunbathing and building sandcastles. On the day in question, I was the only person up my end of the beach, which I get to down a narrow staircase at the end of a small cul-de-sac.
The tide was quite far out, which wasn't ideal as I had been hoping to tire 'Basco out by making him swim after the ball, but I figured he'd be ok just chasing it up and down the beach. No such luck. I'd brought the cheap-rip-off ball thrower instead of the proper one, and honestly, I could probably have thrown it further by hand. Plus, the ball kept ricocheting off in all kinds of weird directions, while Tabasco took off completely the opposite way, usually leaving the ball splat in the middle of a pile of muddy sand. Eventually I took my sandals off and just waded through the mud to get it, cringing about the extra time it would take to get re-washed and ready to go out.
The whole walk was a bit of a disaster, but the 'highlight' came about 20 minutes into the walk (I say "walk" - we were hanging around on the same section of beach so hadn't walked very far!). A couple had come down the same stairs I had, and were sitting on a little bench at the bottom of the path. My charming dog decided that today of all days he was going to take a giant crap right in the middle of the beach, directly in the line of sight of the aforementioned couple. And of course, as I mentioned, I had no bag.
I thought for a moment it was going to be ok, as I raced towards my defecating dog, as both of the people happened to be looking down. But just as I reached him (and before I could get between him and their line of sight), they both looked up. There's no mistaking what a dog is doing when he gets into that awkward-looking horseshoe-shaped pose, so I knew we were snapped.
I used the otherwise useless ball thrower to dig a hole, and buried the pile of poo as deeply as I could. I filled it back in, and for good measure I chucked a couple of fish skeletons on the top, to further deter any holiday makers avoiding the crowds from hanging out and building sand(mud)castles in that particular spot. I knew I'd done enough, that the tide would come in and wash the evidence away, and that no-one sunbathed or built sandcastles on that beach anyway, but boy did I still feel guilty and shamefaced.
I really wanted to leave at that point too - the walk had been a failed attempt, and I needed to get ready for the wedding, especially now that I needed another wash, but I Did Not Want to walk past that couple to get up the stairs, and feel their Stare of Shame upon me.
I walked a little way down the beach, around a small corner, and kept peering surreptitiously round the corner to see if they were gone yet, while I pretended to keep throwing the ball for my disgraced mutt, but apparently they were there for the long haul. I started to get really annoyed with them - why were they just sitting there, silently, anyway? Didn't they have anywhere better to go, or anything better to do. Finally, a glance at my watch convinced me I was just going to have to suck it up and walk past. They barely glanced at me, but I felt their silent reprimand, whether real or imagined, and my cheeks flushed with the indignity of it the whole way home. Which was less than five minutes, but still..!
I am now very careful to ensure I always have a bag to hand wherever 'Basco and I are walking. But I still managed to have another embarrassing poo moment the other day... a story for another time! (I bet you can't wait).
Except for last Saturday.
We were heading off to a wedding, and I wanted to take 'Basco for a late-afternoon run just before we were due to leave, so I took him to the beach over the road, which is pretty muddy when the tide is out, but is quite good for swimming when it's in, and I figured it would be fine either way as I was taking the ball and thrower, so I should have been able to give him a decent run.
It's not a particularly busy beach as the ones a few minutes' drive away are sandier and more pleasant for swimming, sunbathing and building sandcastles. On the day in question, I was the only person up my end of the beach, which I get to down a narrow staircase at the end of a small cul-de-sac.
The tide was quite far out, which wasn't ideal as I had been hoping to tire 'Basco out by making him swim after the ball, but I figured he'd be ok just chasing it up and down the beach. No such luck. I'd brought the cheap-rip-off ball thrower instead of the proper one, and honestly, I could probably have thrown it further by hand. Plus, the ball kept ricocheting off in all kinds of weird directions, while Tabasco took off completely the opposite way, usually leaving the ball splat in the middle of a pile of muddy sand. Eventually I took my sandals off and just waded through the mud to get it, cringing about the extra time it would take to get re-washed and ready to go out.
The whole walk was a bit of a disaster, but the 'highlight' came about 20 minutes into the walk (I say "walk" - we were hanging around on the same section of beach so hadn't walked very far!). A couple had come down the same stairs I had, and were sitting on a little bench at the bottom of the path. My charming dog decided that today of all days he was going to take a giant crap right in the middle of the beach, directly in the line of sight of the aforementioned couple. And of course, as I mentioned, I had no bag.
I thought for a moment it was going to be ok, as I raced towards my defecating dog, as both of the people happened to be looking down. But just as I reached him (and before I could get between him and their line of sight), they both looked up. There's no mistaking what a dog is doing when he gets into that awkward-looking horseshoe-shaped pose, so I knew we were snapped.
I used the otherwise useless ball thrower to dig a hole, and buried the pile of poo as deeply as I could. I filled it back in, and for good measure I chucked a couple of fish skeletons on the top, to further deter any holiday makers avoiding the crowds from hanging out and building sand(mud)castles in that particular spot. I knew I'd done enough, that the tide would come in and wash the evidence away, and that no-one sunbathed or built sandcastles on that beach anyway, but boy did I still feel guilty and shamefaced.
I really wanted to leave at that point too - the walk had been a failed attempt, and I needed to get ready for the wedding, especially now that I needed another wash, but I Did Not Want to walk past that couple to get up the stairs, and feel their Stare of Shame upon me.
I walked a little way down the beach, around a small corner, and kept peering surreptitiously round the corner to see if they were gone yet, while I pretended to keep throwing the ball for my disgraced mutt, but apparently they were there for the long haul. I started to get really annoyed with them - why were they just sitting there, silently, anyway? Didn't they have anywhere better to go, or anything better to do. Finally, a glance at my watch convinced me I was just going to have to suck it up and walk past. They barely glanced at me, but I felt their silent reprimand, whether real or imagined, and my cheeks flushed with the indignity of it the whole way home. Which was less than five minutes, but still..!
I am now very careful to ensure I always have a bag to hand wherever 'Basco and I are walking. But I still managed to have another embarrassing poo moment the other day... a story for another time! (I bet you can't wait).
21 January 2013
Am I suffering from anxiety-anxiety?
In my last post I said that I've never really considered myself to be the anxious type, and at the time of writing, I did actually believe that to be true. However, I've been thinking about it quite a lot since posting and realised that actually, that's complete bollocks. I'm totally an anxious person, it's just that I don't get anxious about most of the things (I think) most people do.
Public speaking - love it. Exams - thrive on them. Spiders, bugs and creepy crawlies - not my best friends necessarily, but I'll happily scoop them up and put them outside. Heights - I LOVE being up high in trees, lighting rigs, roofs, ladders, climbing walls etc. Reading a roomful of almost-strangers a story about my vagina - no problem. (It probably wouldn't occur to most people to be nervous about that last one, but I'm pretty sure they would be if they were suddenly asked to do it!)
There are, however, a lot of things that do make me very anxious, which most people probably don't think twice about. These, then, are the things that make my hands clench, my heart beat erratically, my stomach drop, and a fizzy, needly sensation zing along all of my nerve endings:
Public speaking - love it. Exams - thrive on them. Spiders, bugs and creepy crawlies - not my best friends necessarily, but I'll happily scoop them up and put them outside. Heights - I LOVE being up high in trees, lighting rigs, roofs, ladders, climbing walls etc. Reading a roomful of almost-strangers a story about my vagina - no problem. (It probably wouldn't occur to most people to be nervous about that last one, but I'm pretty sure they would be if they were suddenly asked to do it!)
There are, however, a lot of things that do make me very anxious, which most people probably don't think twice about. These, then, are the things that make my hands clench, my heart beat erratically, my stomach drop, and a fizzy, needly sensation zing along all of my nerve endings:
- people who walk behind me, particularly in clippy cloppy shoes. I HAVE to either start jogging to get well in front of them, or stop and let them past me.
- taps that have been on for too long (in my opinion) or which are dripping.
- when the ads come on and no-one turns the volume down straight away.
- watching cringe 'comedy' on TV or in movies - I feel anxious and embarrassed for the character/actor and literally can't watch. I have never been able to watch "There's Something About Mary" right through for this reason.
- similarly, listening to someone give a speech which is too long, or not funny when they think it is, or just generally bad, even if I have absolutely no connection to that person.
- going somewhere or doing something that has been my suggestion, but it takes longer than I think other people think it should, or isn't as good as I think other people think it will be. It doesn't matter whether other people are actually thinking that, and usually I'm not worried personally about the time and/or crapness, its just that I feel responsible for other people's disappointment.
- thinking that I have done something bad or wrong (as in, sent an 'email that could be misinterpreted', not like 'killed someone') or that someone else will think that something I had done was bad or wrong. This happened at work just before Xmas, and I sent an email to my boss 'fessing up. When I didn't hear back I assumed she was so cross she wasn't replying, and spent several days fretting. It turned out she hadn't replied because she wasn't in the least bit bothered!
My worst ever anxiety attack, which I think was a full-blown panic attack, happened not long after The Kid had been diagnosed with retinoblastoma, childhood eye cancer. She had to have her right eye removed, and although she now has an amazing prosthesis, for the three months after the operation she just had a 'pink eye' (the implant) with a clear plastic shield over it. I decided to give her a haircut, as she's always been pretty anti having her hair brushed so we keep it shortish, but ended up cutting it too short on one side, to just below her ear. I ended up shaping it round into an a-symmetrical bob which actually looked fine, but when I finished and looked at what I'd done, I burst into uncontrollable tears. The Kid was very confused and I was trying to keep calm for her sake, but I was convinced that I had somehow ruined her life and mine, and that The Husband was going to divorce me on the spot the instant he came home. I was finding it hard to breath at one point, and when he did arrive home I think I terrified him by rushing out with The Kid and sobbing "Please don't be cross with me, I didn't mean to!"
He was understandably bewildered and thought something terrible had happened, and when I told him I was talking about The Kid's hair he was so relieved that it jolted me out of my panic and made me realise it was not such a big deal. I guess my stress was understandable, given the circumstances, but I've also been much more careful when cutting her hair ever since!
I'm not sure if I actually suffer from some sort of general anxiety disorder, or if I'm just a bit of a freak, but the good thing is that in recent years I've recognised the situations that stress me out, and have learned to deal with them. So do I consider myself the anxious type? I guess, if asked, I'd still say no. What do you think makes someone the 'anxious type'?
14 January 2013
Zen and the art of dirt road driving
I've never really considered myself the anxious type, although since giving birth to my daughter four-and-a-half years ago, I've certainly noticed my anxiety levels increase. Someone said that motherhood is like taking your heart out of your chest and letting it run around on its own, and I can relate to that. My daughter had a serious illness just after she turned three, and that, again, increases the anxiety quotient.
So anyway, I was driving home from work yesterday when it suddenly came into my head that my husband and daughter (and my brother-in-law who is staying with us) could have been in a car accident and all died. This happens on occasion (me getting thoughts that people have died that is, not people actually dying, although I guess that happens too) and so far I've always been wrong. Nevertheless, my heart sped up and my mind started racing through all the possible scenarios, and I knew I would have no peace of mind until I got home. I have a 45-minute commute, so I have plenty of time to mull, and by the time I was about 10 minutes from home, I had actually begun writing eulogies in my head. Yes, this is what my mind does.
Three kilometres from home I rounded a corner to see a fireman standing on the side of the road, waving people to slow down, and round the next corner was a road block with an ambulance, and police officer diverting traffic off the main road. Now, you might think at this point that I would have had a meltdown/nervous fit/etc, but instead I went completely calm. It was almost as if the world went silent and stopped. I followed the line of cars turning onto the small side road, pulled over into a bay when I could, and phoned home. Thankfully, husband answered, and everyone was ok. I've never been so happy to be wrong!
I pulled back onto the road, and, potential crisis number one over, now realised there was potential crisis number two. The place we live is on the coast, and there's really only one way in and out. So, the diversion we were being sent on was significant.
The black line is the normal route - about 3 kms. The red line is the diversion - about 22kms of windy, dusty, dirt road (what we call 'metal roads' in New Zealand).
I've only had my car for three weeks, so I'm not yet totally familiar with how it handles, and, more importantly, how much petrol it has when the needle is on empty. Which it was. Yikes. I figured I'd go for it - the warning light hadn't come on yet so I was (almost) sure I would make it and it would add another 15 minutes onto an already extended journey if I were to go back to the last petrol stop. "Sure" is relative though, and the further we got along the road into the wilderness, the less sure I felt. I turned off the aircon to save a bit of fuel, but it was hot and muggy so I put the windows down a bit instead. With the dry weather we've had, and the unaccustomed heavy traffic on the dirt roads, the air both inside and outside of my car was soon thick with dust. I was trying to use my windscreen wash sparingly too, as I wasn't sure how much of that I had left either, but the early evening light streaming through the dust clouds formed practically opaque walls along and across the road and I could barely see a thing.
It felt a bit like "The Hunger Games" for a while as cars began falling by the wayside - overheated engines, shredded tires, cars just not coping with the conditions. There were very few places to pull off the road, so I was keeping everything crossed that my car wouldn't suddenly shudder to a halt. The petrol light hadn't even come on yet, but as I had never seen it come on I started to wonder whether the light actually worked at all. The further we got, the more the traffic increased in both directions, and these roads are really only wide enough for one.
After what seemed like an hour at least, we came to a road sign - 10kms to go. My petrol light still hadn't come on, and I calmed down a little, almost certain that if the light did come on, I would surely make it 10kms. That was possibly the longest 10kms I've ever driven, and the relief I felt when we emerged onto tarsealed road, at the top of a hill I recognised was definitely palpable. We limped back into civilisation, a rag-tag line of brown-coated beetles. I felt a sense of collegiality with my fellow survivors and was almost sad when we started peeling away to our different destinations.
My heart ached a little for those cars just embarking on their dusty journey, but the crash was severe enough that the road was closed for several hours and I imagine many people had no choice.
I arrived home forty minutes later than usual, hot, dusty and heart sore with imagined tragedies. A cold glass of crisp white wine has never tasted so good.
So anyway, I was driving home from work yesterday when it suddenly came into my head that my husband and daughter (and my brother-in-law who is staying with us) could have been in a car accident and all died. This happens on occasion (me getting thoughts that people have died that is, not people actually dying, although I guess that happens too) and so far I've always been wrong. Nevertheless, my heart sped up and my mind started racing through all the possible scenarios, and I knew I would have no peace of mind until I got home. I have a 45-minute commute, so I have plenty of time to mull, and by the time I was about 10 minutes from home, I had actually begun writing eulogies in my head. Yes, this is what my mind does.
Three kilometres from home I rounded a corner to see a fireman standing on the side of the road, waving people to slow down, and round the next corner was a road block with an ambulance, and police officer diverting traffic off the main road. Now, you might think at this point that I would have had a meltdown/nervous fit/etc, but instead I went completely calm. It was almost as if the world went silent and stopped. I followed the line of cars turning onto the small side road, pulled over into a bay when I could, and phoned home. Thankfully, husband answered, and everyone was ok. I've never been so happy to be wrong!
I pulled back onto the road, and, potential crisis number one over, now realised there was potential crisis number two. The place we live is on the coast, and there's really only one way in and out. So, the diversion we were being sent on was significant.
The black line is the normal route - about 3 kms. The red line is the diversion - about 22kms of windy, dusty, dirt road (what we call 'metal roads' in New Zealand).
I've only had my car for three weeks, so I'm not yet totally familiar with how it handles, and, more importantly, how much petrol it has when the needle is on empty. Which it was. Yikes. I figured I'd go for it - the warning light hadn't come on yet so I was (almost) sure I would make it and it would add another 15 minutes onto an already extended journey if I were to go back to the last petrol stop. "Sure" is relative though, and the further we got along the road into the wilderness, the less sure I felt. I turned off the aircon to save a bit of fuel, but it was hot and muggy so I put the windows down a bit instead. With the dry weather we've had, and the unaccustomed heavy traffic on the dirt roads, the air both inside and outside of my car was soon thick with dust. I was trying to use my windscreen wash sparingly too, as I wasn't sure how much of that I had left either, but the early evening light streaming through the dust clouds formed practically opaque walls along and across the road and I could barely see a thing.
It felt a bit like "The Hunger Games" for a while as cars began falling by the wayside - overheated engines, shredded tires, cars just not coping with the conditions. There were very few places to pull off the road, so I was keeping everything crossed that my car wouldn't suddenly shudder to a halt. The petrol light hadn't even come on yet, but as I had never seen it come on I started to wonder whether the light actually worked at all. The further we got, the more the traffic increased in both directions, and these roads are really only wide enough for one.
After what seemed like an hour at least, we came to a road sign - 10kms to go. My petrol light still hadn't come on, and I calmed down a little, almost certain that if the light did come on, I would surely make it 10kms. That was possibly the longest 10kms I've ever driven, and the relief I felt when we emerged onto tarsealed road, at the top of a hill I recognised was definitely palpable. We limped back into civilisation, a rag-tag line of brown-coated beetles. I felt a sense of collegiality with my fellow survivors and was almost sad when we started peeling away to our different destinations.
My heart ached a little for those cars just embarking on their dusty journey, but the crash was severe enough that the road was closed for several hours and I imagine many people had no choice.
I arrived home forty minutes later than usual, hot, dusty and heart sore with imagined tragedies. A cold glass of crisp white wine has never tasted so good.
10 January 2013
The Chip Bag Incident
Yesterday I was jokingly reprimanded by a colleague for not squashing a box lid before putting it in the recycle bin (exciting stuff, I know. Our office is rockin'!) and I was (mostly jokingly) piqued because I knew I hadn't put the box lid in there in the first place (and would have squashed if I had!). She assumed it was me because the box lid had my name on it - and I was suddenly reminded of an incident, which still rankles, from my primary school days.
I've always been one of those people who thrives on positive feedback and hates being told off. If I did something wrong which I thought might result in a telling off, I would lose sleep, my heart rate would increase and adrenaline would start singing round my body as I imagined the anticipated reprimand. These days I'm aware of how much of a ridiculous overreaction this is, and can talk myself down most of the time. As a manager, I have to put my neck on the line for my team sometimes, and I know that sometimes there is good reason for doing something which might antagonise someone in authority. Still, it's deeply entrenched.
Anyway, when I was at primary school we could order our lunch from several of the shops over the road from the school, one of which was a fish and chip shop. We would write our name, room number and order on an envelope, put the money inside the envelope and post it through the shop door before school. Then, just before lunchtime, the lunch monitors would go and collect all the lunch orders and distribute them. One afternoon, when I was about seven, after a very satisfying hot dog (this kind) and chips (fries) for lunch, I was back in class when a note arrived - "Could Renee please come and see Mr Allen in Room 12".
I was not the kind of kid who got summonsed places very often, except to receive accolades (yes, I was THAT kid at school) so I was confused but not too worried. But when I entered the classroom full of very big and scary-looking Form Two (eleven and twelve year olds) kids, my heart began to thump in my chest. I made my way to the front of the class where Mr Allen, a large balding man with a booming voice, stood waiting, holding an empty and crumpled-looking paper bag. I can't recall the exact conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:
Mr A: Is this your lunch bag? (holding up the ketchupy bag with an envelope stapled to the front, displaying my name in big, bold, 7-year-old handwriting)
Me: Yes.
Mr A: Well why didn't you throw it in the rubbish bin?
Me: Um, what do you mean?
Mr A: I found it blowing around the playground. We don't tolerate littering in this school. Why didn't you put it in the rubbish bin?
Me: But...I didn't drop it. I gave it to my friend because there were some chips left that I didn't want.
Mr A: Well it has your name on it. You need to make sure your rubbish goes in the bin. Make sure you do next time.
At this point my knees were shaking, I could barely breath and it's a miracle I didn't wet my pants, so horrified was I at being thought a litterer and a Bad Child. I knew it wasn't my fault, but this didn't seem to make any difference to the large scary man in front of me. I heard several sniggers as I fled from the classroom and I could feel the laughing eyes of the very grown up (in my mind anyway) Form Two kids, my idols, on me as I went.
I still remember the name of the girl who was the actual littering culprit, and I'm pretty sure I never let her finish my chips again. I'm sure Mr Allen would be horrified to know that this one experience is so firmly burned into my brain (or maybe he'd be pleased; some teachers are quite sadistic), but I think this was also the first of a number of experiences that started to show me that authority figures are not always right. I didn't fight back that time, but it put me on the right path to challenge in the future.
Do other people have such a horror of being told off, particularly when it seems unjustified?
I've always been one of those people who thrives on positive feedback and hates being told off. If I did something wrong which I thought might result in a telling off, I would lose sleep, my heart rate would increase and adrenaline would start singing round my body as I imagined the anticipated reprimand. These days I'm aware of how much of a ridiculous overreaction this is, and can talk myself down most of the time. As a manager, I have to put my neck on the line for my team sometimes, and I know that sometimes there is good reason for doing something which might antagonise someone in authority. Still, it's deeply entrenched.
Anyway, when I was at primary school we could order our lunch from several of the shops over the road from the school, one of which was a fish and chip shop. We would write our name, room number and order on an envelope, put the money inside the envelope and post it through the shop door before school. Then, just before lunchtime, the lunch monitors would go and collect all the lunch orders and distribute them. One afternoon, when I was about seven, after a very satisfying hot dog (this kind) and chips (fries) for lunch, I was back in class when a note arrived - "Could Renee please come and see Mr Allen in Room 12".
I was not the kind of kid who got summonsed places very often, except to receive accolades (yes, I was THAT kid at school) so I was confused but not too worried. But when I entered the classroom full of very big and scary-looking Form Two (eleven and twelve year olds) kids, my heart began to thump in my chest. I made my way to the front of the class where Mr Allen, a large balding man with a booming voice, stood waiting, holding an empty and crumpled-looking paper bag. I can't recall the exact conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:
Mr A: Is this your lunch bag? (holding up the ketchupy bag with an envelope stapled to the front, displaying my name in big, bold, 7-year-old handwriting)
Me: Yes.
Mr A: Well why didn't you throw it in the rubbish bin?
Me: Um, what do you mean?
Mr A: I found it blowing around the playground. We don't tolerate littering in this school. Why didn't you put it in the rubbish bin?
Me: But...I didn't drop it. I gave it to my friend because there were some chips left that I didn't want.
Mr A: Well it has your name on it. You need to make sure your rubbish goes in the bin. Make sure you do next time.
At this point my knees were shaking, I could barely breath and it's a miracle I didn't wet my pants, so horrified was I at being thought a litterer and a Bad Child. I knew it wasn't my fault, but this didn't seem to make any difference to the large scary man in front of me. I heard several sniggers as I fled from the classroom and I could feel the laughing eyes of the very grown up (in my mind anyway) Form Two kids, my idols, on me as I went.
I still remember the name of the girl who was the actual littering culprit, and I'm pretty sure I never let her finish my chips again. I'm sure Mr Allen would be horrified to know that this one experience is so firmly burned into my brain (or maybe he'd be pleased; some teachers are quite sadistic), but I think this was also the first of a number of experiences that started to show me that authority figures are not always right. I didn't fight back that time, but it put me on the right path to challenge in the future.
Do other people have such a horror of being told off, particularly when it seems unjustified?
09 January 2013
The Plan
I'm eat quite well - my diet tends to be rich in veggies, pulses, grains and fruit, so I'm not too worried about that side of things. However, I'm a bit of a grazer so I'm trying to take more notice of what I'm actually putting in my mouth and when (no smutty comments please!). And trying not to snack on my daughter's leftovers!
My main issue is exercise. What with work, commuting and studying I spend most of my time sitting, and although I do sit on a swiss ball at work, I know that so much sitting is bad for my health. So to the plan...
Goal one - to achieve by end of 2013
My long-term aim is to get a treadmill desk. Yes, this is a thing. The concept is that you walk, slowly, for all or most of the day, while you work on a computer, or on the phone etc. There is a company in New Zealand who make their own version, the Health Desk, so that's what I'm looking at getting. It's not particulalry cheap, so I'm looking into my options - if anyone wants to sponsor me, I'm happy to write you a column or be 'researched' so let me know!
Ongoing Goals
Exercise every day. Current schedule looks like this:
- Monday, Wednesday, Friday: 1 hour walk (at least 5km)
- Tuesday, Thursday: 15mins trampoline (no backwards somersaults!)
- Saturday, Sunday: at least 1 hour walk, increasing
Since I leave the house at 7am during the week, this means I have to get up pretty early to exercise. So far, though, today is the only day I haven't managed it. However, as soon as I've posted this, I'm using the rest of my lunch break to walk instead, and I'll try to do something when I get home as well. I have a calednar on my door at work, and have asked my team to challenge me if there is nothing written in for exercise on a particular day.
Now, although this plan really isn't focussed on weight loss, I do hope to get back to a more comfortable weight. I don't think I'll ever be my pre-baby weight again, so I'm not going to beat myself up about that.
But I would like to feel comfortable in my skin again.
My main issue is exercise. What with work, commuting and studying I spend most of my time sitting, and although I do sit on a swiss ball at work, I know that so much sitting is bad for my health. So to the plan...
Goal one - to achieve by end of 2013
My long-term aim is to get a treadmill desk. Yes, this is a thing. The concept is that you walk, slowly, for all or most of the day, while you work on a computer, or on the phone etc. There is a company in New Zealand who make their own version, the Health Desk, so that's what I'm looking at getting. It's not particulalry cheap, so I'm looking into my options - if anyone wants to sponsor me, I'm happy to write you a column or be 'researched' so let me know!
Ongoing Goals
Exercise every day. Current schedule looks like this:
- Monday, Wednesday, Friday: 1 hour walk (at least 5km)
- Tuesday, Thursday: 15mins trampoline (no backwards somersaults!)
- Saturday, Sunday: at least 1 hour walk, increasing
Since I leave the house at 7am during the week, this means I have to get up pretty early to exercise. So far, though, today is the only day I haven't managed it. However, as soon as I've posted this, I'm using the rest of my lunch break to walk instead, and I'll try to do something when I get home as well. I have a calednar on my door at work, and have asked my team to challenge me if there is nothing written in for exercise on a particular day.
Now, although this plan really isn't focussed on weight loss, I do hope to get back to a more comfortable weight. I don't think I'll ever be my pre-baby weight again, so I'm not going to beat myself up about that.
But I would like to feel comfortable in my skin again.
07 January 2013
A short history of my weight - Part Two
Continued from previous post...
My stay in hospital (one week flat on my back, surgery, one week recovery in hospital) and subsequent at-home recovery period left me skinny to the point of looking rather gaunt (so I'm told - I don't actually remember it too well as I was on some pretty good pain killers!) but I soon got myself back to a healthy weight around 60-62 kgs. Somewhere around this period I also became vegan (but I won't go on and on about that, I promise. This is not that kind of blog!) and the combination of my diet and the amount of exercise I was doing dropped me down to a steady weight of around 58-60kgs. This is not overly light, but probably the slimmest I could be, and still be healthy, given my height and frame.
I really liked the way I looked and felt during this time. I've always been quite broad-shouldered and with a medium-sized bust (boobs? breasts? never sure which term I'm most comfortable with), and had always found it hard to find shirts that fit well and didn't gape at the button over my bust. During this time (2006 - 2007) though, I was able to wear shirts, finally, and I fit very comfortably into size 10 clothes for the first time. This might make me seem shallow or appearance-obsessed, but I'm not, I don't think. Nor do I care how big or small anyone else is, and I don't subscribe to the 'perfect 10' theory. I just felt very comfortable in my skin at that size; I felt healthy and happy and in control of my appearance. Mum came over from New Zealand in 2007 and we went on holiday to Venice and Greece - the pics from that period are some of the few of myself that I actually quite like.
Life, as it is wont to do, decided to throw an unexpected but very welcome spanner in the works, and I discovered I was pregnant in December 2007. My husband and I were planning to have children but hadn't quite figured out when would be a good time. Since there probably never would have been an optimal time, it just happened, and we dealt with it! I enjoyed watching my belly grow with my baby, although I did feel a little wistful at saying goodbye to the waistline I had worked so hard for...
Ember, our daughter, was born on 10 August 2008, after a long induced labour (a story for another time!) and is now four, and our only child. I breastfed her for 18 months (at which point she weaned herself) and while this did help shed some of the pregnancy pounds, I've never gotten back to my pre-pregnancy weight.
At present I work full-time, with a 45 minute commute each way to work (it's worth it for where we live though). My job is desk-based, and I am studying part time, so by far the greatest part of my day is spent sitting. I am vegan again (after a wee regression back to vegetarianism when Ember was born) but find I am more likely to eat junk than I was before, and doing much less exercise, so it's hardly surprising that my weight has crept back up to almost 70kgs.
And so to the present. I have resolved to improve my health, my fitness and my lifestyle generally. I have plans and ways to keep myself motivated, and I hope that by putting it out publicly, I will be able to guilt myself into keeping to my resolutions if my willpower fails.
Next post - the details of my plan. :)
My stay in hospital (one week flat on my back, surgery, one week recovery in hospital) and subsequent at-home recovery period left me skinny to the point of looking rather gaunt (so I'm told - I don't actually remember it too well as I was on some pretty good pain killers!) but I soon got myself back to a healthy weight around 60-62 kgs. Somewhere around this period I also became vegan (but I won't go on and on about that, I promise. This is not that kind of blog!) and the combination of my diet and the amount of exercise I was doing dropped me down to a steady weight of around 58-60kgs. This is not overly light, but probably the slimmest I could be, and still be healthy, given my height and frame.
I really liked the way I looked and felt during this time. I've always been quite broad-shouldered and with a medium-sized bust (boobs? breasts? never sure which term I'm most comfortable with), and had always found it hard to find shirts that fit well and didn't gape at the button over my bust. During this time (2006 - 2007) though, I was able to wear shirts, finally, and I fit very comfortably into size 10 clothes for the first time. This might make me seem shallow or appearance-obsessed, but I'm not, I don't think. Nor do I care how big or small anyone else is, and I don't subscribe to the 'perfect 10' theory. I just felt very comfortable in my skin at that size; I felt healthy and happy and in control of my appearance. Mum came over from New Zealand in 2007 and we went on holiday to Venice and Greece - the pics from that period are some of the few of myself that I actually quite like.
Life, as it is wont to do, decided to throw an unexpected but very welcome spanner in the works, and I discovered I was pregnant in December 2007. My husband and I were planning to have children but hadn't quite figured out when would be a good time. Since there probably never would have been an optimal time, it just happened, and we dealt with it! I enjoyed watching my belly grow with my baby, although I did feel a little wistful at saying goodbye to the waistline I had worked so hard for...
Ember, our daughter, was born on 10 August 2008, after a long induced labour (a story for another time!) and is now four, and our only child. I breastfed her for 18 months (at which point she weaned herself) and while this did help shed some of the pregnancy pounds, I've never gotten back to my pre-pregnancy weight.
At present I work full-time, with a 45 minute commute each way to work (it's worth it for where we live though). My job is desk-based, and I am studying part time, so by far the greatest part of my day is spent sitting. I am vegan again (after a wee regression back to vegetarianism when Ember was born) but find I am more likely to eat junk than I was before, and doing much less exercise, so it's hardly surprising that my weight has crept back up to almost 70kgs.
And so to the present. I have resolved to improve my health, my fitness and my lifestyle generally. I have plans and ways to keep myself motivated, and I hope that by putting it out publicly, I will be able to guilt myself into keeping to my resolutions if my willpower fails.
Next post - the details of my plan. :)
06 January 2013
A short history of my weight - Part One
Like many people, or at least many women, I've had a variable relationship with my weight. I've never really been over weight, but I've certainly been at both extremes of my healthy BMI range. And yes, I know it's actually mass, not weight, that I'm talking about, but "A short history of my mass" made me sound too much like a priest... Anyway.
I was never one of those skinny kids, but through primary school I was fine. My family ate pretty well at home and my friends and I spent most lunchtimes at school running around, climbing trees and swinging on the monkey bars. When I went to high school, age 13, suddenly running around wasn't cool anymore and my new group of friends spent most lunchtimes just hanging around in the quad. Although my school did have compulsory PE (gym) for the first two years of high school, we girls used to get out of it as much as possible (we considered sweat to be unattractive, and god forbid we looked unattractive!), and I wasn't doing any formal sport or exercise outside of school.
I got to my heaviest at age 14, around 70 kgs. My Dad was quite overweight, and had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease a couple of years before. He didn't do a lot of exercise, and loved things like fry-up breakfasts, roast dinners, pancakes and ice-cream. He used to cook for everyone, and it was hard to say no when a plate of food was put in front of me. We knew he wasn't healthy, but it was still a huge shock when he died suddenly of a heart attack in July of that year (1994), a couple of months after his 49th birthday.
Mum and I made some fairly major lifestyle changes after that, particularly in relation to our diet. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was also in the early stages of developing an auto-immune condition (later diagnosed as sarcoidosis of the larynx), one of the symptoms of which was drastic weight loss. Within less than a year I went from 70kgs to around 55kgs, without much effort on my part. With the naivety and obliviousness of youth, I was thrilled! Naturally though, my family and teachers were somewhat concerned, and I was constantly being sent to doctors and counsellors. Eventually a paediatrician sent me for x-rays, which led to a CT scan, which led to a two-week hospital stay while they tried to diagnose me.
Once they figured out what was going on, I was put on massive doses of cortisone steroids - and anyone with experience of these will know that one of the most common symptoms is weight gain, and what they call a 'moon face' effect. Thankfully, I escaped this, and my weight simply climbed back to somewhere in the middle of my BMI range. Despite still not doing a lot of formal exercise, apart from the odd aerobics class, I stayed around the middle of the range for the next few years, even managing to lose a little weight in my first year of university, when most girls put on the 'fresher 14' (14 pounds). First year uni was also my first foray into vegetarianism, mostly because the food was slightly better (apart from the deep-fried crumbed tofu blocks, which were served still frozen in the middle! *shudder*).
Flash forward a few years to 2006. I was married, living in London, walking everywhere, taking circus classes and going to the gym. I was the fittest I have probably ever been, and sitting comfortably at around 62 kgs. Then I landed badly (very badly) during a trampoline routine and broke my back. Yes, for real. I crushed my lumbar one vertebrae, and ended up in hospital for two weeks. The food was terrible, and without going into the gory details, when you are stuck flat on your back for seven days, you don't want to put too much in, as you really don't want to deal with how it gets out again...
I was never one of those skinny kids, but through primary school I was fine. My family ate pretty well at home and my friends and I spent most lunchtimes at school running around, climbing trees and swinging on the monkey bars. When I went to high school, age 13, suddenly running around wasn't cool anymore and my new group of friends spent most lunchtimes just hanging around in the quad. Although my school did have compulsory PE (gym) for the first two years of high school, we girls used to get out of it as much as possible (we considered sweat to be unattractive, and god forbid we looked unattractive!), and I wasn't doing any formal sport or exercise outside of school.
I got to my heaviest at age 14, around 70 kgs. My Dad was quite overweight, and had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease a couple of years before. He didn't do a lot of exercise, and loved things like fry-up breakfasts, roast dinners, pancakes and ice-cream. He used to cook for everyone, and it was hard to say no when a plate of food was put in front of me. We knew he wasn't healthy, but it was still a huge shock when he died suddenly of a heart attack in July of that year (1994), a couple of months after his 49th birthday.
Mum and I made some fairly major lifestyle changes after that, particularly in relation to our diet. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was also in the early stages of developing an auto-immune condition (later diagnosed as sarcoidosis of the larynx), one of the symptoms of which was drastic weight loss. Within less than a year I went from 70kgs to around 55kgs, without much effort on my part. With the naivety and obliviousness of youth, I was thrilled! Naturally though, my family and teachers were somewhat concerned, and I was constantly being sent to doctors and counsellors. Eventually a paediatrician sent me for x-rays, which led to a CT scan, which led to a two-week hospital stay while they tried to diagnose me.
Once they figured out what was going on, I was put on massive doses of cortisone steroids - and anyone with experience of these will know that one of the most common symptoms is weight gain, and what they call a 'moon face' effect. Thankfully, I escaped this, and my weight simply climbed back to somewhere in the middle of my BMI range. Despite still not doing a lot of formal exercise, apart from the odd aerobics class, I stayed around the middle of the range for the next few years, even managing to lose a little weight in my first year of university, when most girls put on the 'fresher 14' (14 pounds). First year uni was also my first foray into vegetarianism, mostly because the food was slightly better (apart from the deep-fried crumbed tofu blocks, which were served still frozen in the middle! *shudder*).
Flash forward a few years to 2006. I was married, living in London, walking everywhere, taking circus classes and going to the gym. I was the fittest I have probably ever been, and sitting comfortably at around 62 kgs. Then I landed badly (very badly) during a trampoline routine and broke my back. Yes, for real. I crushed my lumbar one vertebrae, and ended up in hospital for two weeks. The food was terrible, and without going into the gory details, when you are stuck flat on your back for seven days, you don't want to put too much in, as you really don't want to deal with how it gets out again...
TO BE CONTINUED...
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