Advice to a young'un

There are many pieces of advice one could offer the yoof of today (and of any time) - from "be true to yourself" (such ballbaggery - try some lying to yourself first, because only then will you really understand that your way is better than the highway) to reach for the stars (and now I have S Club whatever in my head - music maestro, toots!) Well, such advice is all well and good but it's so utterly subjective and often pointless. I mean, most of the advice I could impart to a kid kicking it in the tower blocks and estates of South London would be about as valuable to him or her as that once given to me by a sixteenth century monk ...

I digress.

Anyway, if I was to give a young person some unsolicited advice, it wouldn't be about shining your teeth and crimping your gullet or wotnot. It would be this: Learn how to have a fucking good time on your own. If you can't occupy yourself, getting other people to do it will only make you into a raggedy annie ballbag. You are the master of your own ship, kids, so if your ship has no chance of making itself happy then what's the fucking point? What if everyone else died tomorrow? Would you be able to give yourself a merry chuckle now and again? I know I could - although obviously because I would be as drunk as the proverbial skunkery and high on sugar after the looting I would perform on the Chocolate factory and Supermarchés.

Being able to entertain yourself - hands out of your trousers young man - is vitally important. You are your only constant. Fact. So get on with the self-love. And now I have gone wrong (I only had one boddingtons, your honour ...)

Relationship advice. Just this once.

Generally, I wouldn't be the go-to girl on relationship advice. I've had one significant relationship in my adult life (Reader, I married him) and a year long relationship when I'd just turned 18. So what do I know? Anyway, during a conversation last night with my friend Fiona, I realised that I do have some insight into what makes a long term relationship work (because, no shit, it's our 17th wedding anniversary on Sunday and this year we've been together for 20 years) Of course, I was pretty drunk and became overly delighted with myself for five minutes before meandering off into a tangental reel of other nonsense. So what is this nugget of advice, you ask? I can hear your bated breath from here.

Well it's this - "compromise" doesn't necessarily mean "sacrifice".

That's it, man. That's what I've learned.

Don't get those two bad boys confused. Too often, I hear people bandy about the term "compromise" as though it's tantamount to being branded on the forehead, i.e. this shit will scar you for life. No, it won't. Compromise is an agreement, on both sides, because you want to be together, you want to make it work. Oftentimes, you don't even know you're doing it. You go with the flow and work that shit out on the hoof. It's not one of you destroying your own life to make the other happy - you simply cannot do any such thing by making yourself unhappy. That's some fucked up thinking because, really, if your partner loves you, thinks you're a bang up fly dawg, or wotnot, why would they want to make you miserable? That, my friends, is A1 Ballbaggery. Capital B.

Of course, compromise isn't always easy, but it is necessary - and it doesn't mean ripping the arse out of things. You'll work it out. Because you want to. Because they want to. You don't have to rip out your heart and serve it up on a plate, but don't expect the other part of the equation to do so either. Roll with the punches and come up swinging, as they say, together. Find a way otherwise it's time for goodbye. Which is probably for the best.

Doctorin' the House - or, One Day, my PhD may come

I'm a student again. Well, sort of. I'm officially registered as an external student with the University of London's International Programme (Goldsmith's) which means that I basically have to teach myself a degree. I'm still writing and have planned it so I have plenty (or some, at least) time for both. Probably.

If only the vertigo would stop. The sudden stomach lurching knee-quaking moments where "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" shoots through my cerebral cortex and flashes its hot pink knickers in my mind's flinching eye. After all, I have a fairly easy life, on the surface at least. If I simply wanted to read books for the rest of my life, I'm lucky enough to have a husband who would support me. As long as I'm happy. But I'm not happy, not really. Autonomy isn't mine. I don't run my life, I often feel like I'm simply an appendage to his. He's the best person I know but he has his life and I need to remember that I have mine. Coasting along, constantly asking myself why I feel so unfulfilled - it's hardly a question with a difficult answer - has become about as much fun as grating my bum cheeks.

I've been afraid for most of my life, or so it seems. In reaction to the fear, I've bedded down into the comfort of my marital security and nested there like a legless elephantine-gestating-bird. Or something. However, amidst all that apparent safety, I've become lost. I'm halfway to the witch's house and the birds have eaten my breadcrumbs (actually I probably ate them and that's why I have a tummy ache, just to make matters worse)

It's time, as they say, to do or die (figuratively speaking, natch) I'm in much better shape than I have been in years, both mentally and physically; I'm the same person but improved and souped up, still afraid but feeling it and doing it anyway. This is in no small part down to the fact that in the past year or so things have changed, things and people around me have opened my eyes. We have a cracking group of friends who have shaken me up a bit (whether they know it or not) They've blown the cobwebs out of my recumbent brain and have made me want to take charge of my life again. My dear friends on the much-maligned Facebook (a facility that has practically saved my life over the past few years) have also stimulated and inspired me (Matron) I'm lucky to know a lot of smart and interesting people, many with a lust for life or, at least, a lust for not pissing their's right up the wall. They've inspired me to stop skulking in the shadows like an embarrassingly cheesy ballbag and come out into the open, to not be afraid to realise what I want, to say it out loud, and to go after it. They've made me be myself again. I like it.

My dream is to get my PhD and enter the halls of academia. That path might be open to me, but if I fail or if I deviate, at least I've tried, at least I'm living. It's a cliché, perchance, but all clichés ooze truth. Living in a world of constant wondering (what if, what if) is a ball aching way to exist. It grinds you down and robs you of your zest. And everyone needs a little zest.

A Grand Plan

I confess my attitude to weight loss is hardly what one might call "hard core" but it is working ... at the same rate as mountain ranges are formed, admittedly, but still working. Lately, however, I've lost a bit of focus. While changing my lifestyle is good and "dieting" is bad (or, rather, setting yourself up for a fall in the long run) it has meant that I seem to have forgotten just how much weight I still need to lose. Yes, I've done really well. Yes, I've lost 7 stone or so which is exactly what I needed to do and I should be pleased with myself. But not too pleased. Maybe I can't play in the front row for England anymore (that's a self-derogatory rugby reference) but that doesn't mean I'm done.

Thusly, I have come up with a plan. A refocus, if you will.

One week on Tuesday, it will be 70 weeks until my 40th Birthday. If I lose 1lb per week (0.5kg) I could potentially lose 5 stone (approx 32kgs) in total. That's slightly more than I've been planning on, which makes it seem eminently "doable".

So, challenge issued and challenge accepted.

Bon voyage.

COLLYWOBBLES!

I'm going back to University. I've already bought books, even though I can't register until next month and most people don't start until September. I have notebooks, pens, all sorts. I'm good at that. Getting organised, sorting out what I need. The thing I'm not very good at is the rest of it. I can buy a great folder or a right shiny exercise book, perfect for whatever I need, but can I actually USE it? Can I study? Can I do what I should? Generally, I excel at not doing what I should, I'm an absolute Ace in that department. Give me a rule or an obligation and I'll have flouted, broken or ignored it within five minutes, tops. Even when it benefits me. ESPECIALLY when it benefits me. I get this odd feeling in my stomach, like butterflies if butterflies were partial to lead boots, and the urge to do the opposite takes hold of me. I can't concentrate for toffee, never have been able to. How in the Bejesus Derby did I ever get a Master's degree? Luck. Must be. And WHAT THE GODDAMNED HECK DO I THINK I'M DOING ANYWAY? Shizzle. I need a little raft to take me to a little island where I can live out my little days just reading and mooching and doing little else.

But that's the trouble, isn't it? If I just sit and vegetate, if I don't push myself, don't try to live the life I want, do the things that I believe are the right things for me to do - whether or not my collywobblers try to tell me elsewise - my life will be a little life. Not worth a mention. A footnote to the lives of others. If I didn't care about that, if I didn't want more, then that would be just fine, but it seems like a big barrel of meh to me. I've never thought of myself as having ambition, never felt like I was entitled to it, but that same rudderless rebel within tells me that I'm no stinking footnote (at least it has some use, I guess) I'm the goddamned main attraction in my own life, for the love of Galactus.

But I've still got the collywobbles. Still got the little voice that says "You're an idiot if you think you can do it. It's all just another waste of time, you pointless girl". Fucking collywobbles.

An Amendment

I'm not sure I made my point in that last post. I made A point, but perhaps not THE point I had in mind. I got carried away with myself, I frequently do. My point was that I've realized that I'm ALLOWED to feel aggrieved. Someone might well see the same set of circumstances in a very different light, but my perspective is not negated simply because it's mine. I have a right to feel imposed upon or injured (I'm bowdlerizing Emma, it's a terrible habit) just as anybody else does. I shouldn't immediately jump to the conclusion, which I all too often do despite my bluster, that I must be the offending party and that my hurt is simply covering embarrassment or wotnot. Sometimes people are fucking shitty. Sometimes people should be called out on it, but sometimes you need to walk away because it will never be made right. But that doesn't mean you don't have a right to feel hurt. You are and I am entitled to our own perception and reaction. And fuck anyone who says otherwise. They're probably ballbags.

Bygones. Finally, bygones.

The large woman on Supersize vs Superskinny last night really reminded me of someone from my past, someone who I haven't had contact with in a long time (and they will know me by the trail of the offended and the aggrieved) I'd been thinking about trying to get back in contact (I doubt I'd get any response) but this timely reminder changed my mind. 

Some people really do treat you wrong and those people, no matter how much they think they're the wounded party, can fuck off. I was hurt and I was let down. I'm allowed to say that because that's how I felt. I did shit wrong, no doubt, but the vitriol and the abandoment that I was treated to outweighed that billy bullshit. For a very long time I blamed myself entirely. I felt embarrassed and guilty even though I knew it wasn't all down to me, that I had certain problems that someone who cared for me would not condemn me for. I'm allowed to own that, to think enough of myself to say "I wasn't the only one in the wrong actually. You were shitty too. You should be ashamed of yourself. My behaviour might have seemed unacceptable to you but, if you'd known me at all, it was understandable, if not palatable. If you had really been my friend you would have weathered it because god knows I had to weather your ballbaggery often enough." Besides, I don't need that kind of weedy arsebiscuit hanging on me, sucking my energy. My demons aren't gone but they are currently cowering in a corner licking their wounds. I'm strong. I survived. Clinging onto tiresome worries about bygone shitdickery can only hold me back. 

So I say, enough. 

The small stuff doesn't need my sweat. And that episode is small stuff now. Bygones. Over. Done. Thank you large lady from Supersize vs Superskinny. I hope you get healthy and stay happy. You've done me a massive favour (no pun intended) You made me feel approximately 800% better about something that has been weighing on me for several years. I feel free of it. It took its own sweet bloody time. 

This session of whining was brought to you by Self-Indulgence Inc.