Author: poshbirdy

Art deco/ art nouveau maniac enjoying a deep and meaningful relationship with alcohol

Before The Cloak Completes Me

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The veil first appeared in my late thirties. It was as useful as it was disconcerting because it gave me anonymity, allowing me to slip outside in any old thing, without make up or concern. I wasn’t worried because I saw other women wearing the same veils, and sometimes they were more obvious than mine. I felt that no-one cared how I looked, but I knew I could still slip off the veil and shine when I chose, be noticeable, and get attention when I sought it

Around age 45 I had a crisis of confidence. I did something unspeakable with my hair and struggled to find a look that suited me. I chose not to be in most holiday photos. Thanks to good friends and Baz I trusted that I would come out the other side of this ‘difficult’ stage, though that perm was nearly a step too far even for him

And yet a cloak started to descend somewhere shortly after that. Minor health issues sapped my energies and my youth. These were of no interest to anyone but me, and there was no advice on what to expect

While running at the weekend I bumped into a much-loved friend I first met when we were pregnant. I nearly walked right past her because we hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years and because she was wearing her full cloak. When I saw it was her we embraced. And then all the tears came – she’s having a tough time

We have birthed, mothered, menopaused. We have neglected ourselves and deferred, trusting that we would one day have the opportunity to re-invent ‘us’ and to peel back the opaque layers that the years have added. After all, we’re still the same inside, aren’t we…

There is still time before I will become completely invisible, but I feel the weight of that cloak every single day. I urge all women to stop your veil from becoming your shroud. Go out and light up that room. What seemed at first like a convenient homogenising layer of welcome soft focus will inevitably become more dense and will obscure you if you allow it

Be you. All the time. Smile, laugh, enjoy real friends and make time to see each other

 

 

Pigeon Steps, but Progress

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(they’re chicken steps really)

I am pleased with myself this week. Having taken ten days out to recover fully from the flu that rendered me completely ‘speechless’ for three days, I have been out running again

Perhaps it’s the prospect of longer summer evening runs with friends through the Great Park, returning home to a meal cooked by the lovely Baz. Or perhaps it’s just the fear of not feeling good in a swimsuit on holiday. Whatever it is, I am grateful to discover that I have not lost all discipline

I have been doing only 3.5 miles at a time and I covered just ten miles last week, but I remind myself that it’s ten miles more than I have been doing for the last two years. I’ll work out a new route to get back on target for increasing my mileage and I need to start stretching again, as I realise that I am already developing bad habits. I cannot risk more injury, especially with my megalomaniacal left hamstring already getting edgy (after some strenuous furniture moving last week, which always sets it off)

So, thank you to the very kind gentleman in a transit van who waited patiently for me before reversing on Monday evening, and to the other driver who chose to let me cross the road on my way home in the dark. These small kindnesses remained with me, and are part of why I got up early again to run through the frost on both sunny mornings this weekend, breathing in the delicious air and watching the small birds warm themselves low in the hedgerows. Running this week has been absolute heaven

 

 

 

State of Mind ‘Agitated’

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An unremarkable photo, yet it immediately brings it all back…

I have an intense fear of drowning, which goes back to childhood. In August 2012, while the world watched the Olympics on our doorstep in the UK, we took off on a whirlwind round-the-world trip and had at this point reached the Great Barrier Reef. I was desperate not to pass my fear to my daughter, so all three of us were poked on a scuba lesson at the GBR. I was terrified for months in advance

The lesson and dive went well until that familiar panic seized me and I had to be helped up to the surface and brought back to the boat by a lifeguard, devastated that I had failed after so much

Later, as we headed back to the mainland we were lucky enough to see whales breaching, then Baz and C went downstairs to watch the video of our lesson while I stayed alone on deck, unable to think any more about being underwater. I sat alone, wrapped in a towel, and cried tears of total exhaustion yet also gratitude for the opportunities given to me

It was only when I could see land that I started to relax

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Love and Mess

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1995. Boy met girl. Girl was possibly borderline alcoholic but Boy didn’t mind

We made a good team and we knew it. Within a few months we were buying our first flat together. Our lives revolved around work, travel, friends and being in love

Charlotte arrived sixteen years ago and suddenly the well-oiled routine of our lives became chaotic. We hadn’t fully understood the transition from couple to family, and we did not successfully adjust our work-life balance, whatever that actually is. Around this time, vacuuming lost all priority, and we still laugh about the Saturday morning when Baz was cleaning and a 2 year old C came out of her room to ask – ‘Why are you hoovering, Daddy? Is someone coming round?’

And so our lives continued. C adopted the same slovenly habits that we had, and we have bumbled through with only the occasional exhausted freakout from me when I simply cannot cope with the mess, collapse in tears and order a clear up

There are times when our hovel looks very nice: times when we know that people are coming over, and we try to give the impression that we live effortlessly in our little home space. The truth is that I barely even know what is in the fridge most of the time.

Other than the wine in the door, of course

The hoover (it’s actually a skinny sixties-looking-throwback) is where I hang my bra when I bath. All vacuums deserve a bit of a diversion, it’s no fun for them either

People sometimes make ‘good-natured’ jokes about our lifestyle, but I pity them. It’s not that I like mess, but the alternative is to nag constantly. And nagging creates dog’s arse wrinkles, you know. I’ve seen them on the faces of people around me as they berate their spouses. I’ll stick to laughter lines, thank you. And mess

For our Christmas visitors we pulled the place together to look respectable. All of C’s art stuff was cleared away. As always I vowed that it would stay this way, and that we would ‘get on top of it’

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But several weeks later I realise that we have rather let things slip. I know this because there’s a home-mummified frog on the dining table again, next to a vase of balletic dead roses, whose petals have shrivelled to linen. Both items are in fact part of C’s current GCSE resources, but they just add to the general impression of slobbery

So, having already spent 21 years together, Boy is now borderline alcoholic as well. Perhaps a little less Boyish than he was. He and Girl are still very much in love, and to their enormous joy and constant surprise there’s a beautiful, partly feral teenager in the house

And a dusty but really very sexy vacuum cleaner in the bathroom

 

Winter Scavenger

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I am laid up with the lurgy so thought I’d just post a picture for the Daily Post Photo Challenge. I caught this sleek and shiny fella on the pyracantha, picking off the berries at their best. Doesn’t he look fine

And yes, I did have to check the spelling of pyracantha!

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Torture by Toiture and Death by Beetroot

After my recent rant which I removed from blogland on the advice of my more sensible other half I now believe hope that roof work may commence in late March or April. This is SUCH good news and has buoyed me up no end

And plumbing? Well, who cares?

Yes, I am feeling rather upbeat about this French folie, which can only mean one thing: that I have been away from it for too long and have forgotten the reality. There has been rather a lot of rain since my last visit and I sometimes ponder the amount of water going into the plastic barrel on the stairs, wondering if it’s overflowing and cascading over the steps. But then I banish that thought and replace it with the idea of opening the shutters and flooding the house with east-west light. Of course, it’s not as easy as that because the windows and shutters are all swollen and rusted in situ, but it’s a happier thought than rainwater p***ing through the roof, isn’t it

In a strange twist – and there is no seamless way to add this to my post – I need to talk about beetroot. I started to crave the stuff a few years back and now I will happily drink cartons of beetroot juice, eat beetroot soup at lunch, and even dunk my beetroot falafel as well (thank you, Waitrose, for spotting this bizarre gap in the market. I would never normally buy falafel!)

So, what does this mean? I guess either my liver must be in great shape or it’s really struggling. Does anyone else share my beetroot addiction? Or will no-one else admit to its mysterious pink side-effects?!

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So that was lunch…

Fat Girl Running, sunny day

It might seem hard to believe from my chubby Gravatar, but I would still call myself a runner. I took it up in my thirties and continued, without any apparent running-related injury, pausing only briefly for a surgery in 2012. Then at the end of 2013 the discomfort I had been ignoring for  a couple of years in my left thigh developed into a stronger pain across my groin and left buttock, and I had to take advice. I was advised to take a break, at a time in my life when running was especially beneficial to me

After a number of visits to arrogant consultants who injected me and exhausted my private health cover, I got a chiropractor involved (a runner himself), and after months of seeing him it has actually paid off. He still has to make small corrections, but with this and some yoga I have been pain-free for months now

So it’s time to tackle the two stone I am now carrying with me (in my defence, it’s hard to adjust when you stop running 20+ miles per week). That means it’s time to put a playlist together for my iPod, some tunes to keep me moving and to regulate my pace a little. I’ll never be fast but I have a weight target and a half marathon to run in August. Here we go!

As I am starting from scratch after such long break, a friend who used to run with me kindly created a spreadsheet to build up the miles. It’s not as though it’s difficult to gauge the build up, but it’s surprising how a simple tool can motivate. I also get regular gentle nagging texts from another understanding friend to check up on me

The hardest bit right now is not the run, but going out in running clothes. It hurts my pride. There’s no hiding in these clothes and my bra hurts. I don’t look in the mirror once geared-up because I may just talk myself out of leaving the house, and that won’t help. There must be some kind of mathematical graph or equation covering the degree of effort involved, the embarrassment encountered and the distance covered. At some point the embarrassment will reduce because I’ll be leaner and fitter, while the distance covered will be greater and the overall difficulty will remain somewhere in the same region. I am not good at maths but I can make this equation happen

Already at just three mile runs my lungs are working better and I have runner’s calm all day. Nothing unwinds me like a few miles in the open air, however wet or chilly. I’m still staying off main roads where possible because I am not ready to be judged by passing motorists on my physique or my technique. They don’t realise how hard it is to go out carrying extra weight and be exposed to criticism. I know this because I have judged often enough. Tough karma

Today is Valentines Day, and after the filth that was yesterday’s running weather I woke to golden sunshine and I really looked forward to going out. As I stood at the for of the bed, getting into my tragic spandex, Baz lay in bed in the dark and said ‘Well done. I’m proud of you’

There’s nothing more a girl needs than this. A sunny run and the support of the person who matters. Happy Valentines Day, Fatty x

Life Imitating Art -the Scream (again)

The Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge this week is ‘Life Imitating Art’. I had just seen an old photo from a previous post, and thought I would re-purpose it:

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Yes, it’s Edvard Munch’s ‘the Scream’ in floorboard form, usually hidden under a kitchen stool at home. Of course, it’s been re-worked and plagiarised by everyone over the years, so once more won’t hurt

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https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/life-imitates-art/