Childhood Memories

An email from my mother yesterday drastically changed my state of mind. My Nan, who has been hospitalised at home for the last month or so, is back in hospital. The prognosis really isn’t good. She is approaching the end of her life fast and we are now talking about days rather than months.

After an emotional chat with my mum, I felt compelled to look into a range of possibilities to get myself home. The constant tears flowing from my heart were clouding my judgment, making it impossible to be reasoned with. Yet, mum tried to make me see why going over wouldn’t be of any help. At this stage, Nan barely speaks anymore, cannot hear as they had to remove her hearing aids and is out of it most of the time, barely aware of who is around. And as mum said, I spent a large amount of quality time with Nan in February and she wants me to keep that last memory rather than see her mother in her current condition.

Three more phone calls later, I put together a little note for mum to take to Nan. Something simple, including a picture of Nan with all her grand-children, telling her how much I love her. Putting it together was hard as I was faced with the inevitable reality of what is happening. The sadness that filled me what unexpectedly overwhelming. I knew that no matter how prepared you are for the death of a loved one, the feeling of sadness is inevitable. I just had forgotten how intense the pain could be. Selfishly, I wish it would all be over, for my own sake, while at the same time, the idea of her departure breaks my heart. I went to sleep, my heart and my head crammed with emotions.

I woke up this morning filled with memories of those special moments we spent as children with Nan. It put a smile on my face, remembering all the things we used to do that drove her mad, all those expressions she used to comment on our mischief and less than perfect behaviour and the fun we had whenever we would spend our holidays with them. We sure loved to torment her a little. With her death now inevitable, when it comes, I want to be ready to share with those who knew her the things she used to do for us and the grand-mother she was.

Could I be way off the mark here?

I woke up this morning feeling extremely pissed off with myself. Something just wasn’t right. I could feel that feisty part of me getting more and more worked up. One look in the mirror and it started to get even louder. So, I let it take over. I’ve realised that, sometimes, it’s best to just let them run with it.

Unfortunately for me, it was on a mission and took me all the way to that dreaded place in my bathroom: the scale. Now, here is a tool I don’t believe should even exist. It is one of those things that push women to go through extremes and resort to rather drastic measures. Once I was standing in front of this item of torture, guess what! It made me climb onto it. How rude!!! Of course, I had to look; after all, it obviously had an agenda, so I bent my head down… Interesting that, it’s a movement that remind me of shame and embarrassment... Anyway, I went to take a very quick look, the type that barely registers what it sees, hoping what I was about to see wouldn’t ruin the rest of my day. And then, the penny dropped … That digital number staring back at me only re-enforced that angry feeling inside.

Like many women, I have had a life long battle with that dreaded scale and what it represents. Most of the time, I deal with it rather well and manage not to let it get to me. Although, another way to look at it is that I just ignore the problem all together. I have spent my life trying to accept the way I look and the shape I am. It wasn’t always easy, and still isn’t. But I feel I have survived the stereotypical ideas connected with my own size.

Yet, I can’t help but think about the culture of image obsessed we live in. I often worry about the young people being raised in this crazy world. Between the fantasy worlds of TV/Movies where everyone is picture perfect, the fake world of fashion magazines where every photo is air-brushed and improved until it doesn’t look like the model any longer, and the oh-so-perfect world of celebrities who have access to every trick in the book to transform them into someone you’re unlikely to ever cross path with in the street, how can anyone feel that they belong?

I feel, in our effort to be healthy, we’ve gone too far, and moved into a whole different dimension, going passed the health issue and into a much more sinister area. And in that move, our judgment on others has changed. We might have become more aware of racism and discrimination regarding creeds and colours, but we’ve moved it into another area of our judgment on people’s physical appearances.

Consider this, for a moment. When you see someone in a wheelchair, or walking with a limp, what comes into your mind? How do you judge that person? More often than none, you probably wonder what happened to them and feel sorry for them. Now, think of what might come into your mind when you cross pass with an overweight person. Are you really feeling sorry for them? Or are you more inclined to judge them? Take those two people and place them in a pub, having, let say, fish and chips. Which of the two will make you think “Bad idea mate, you really shouldn’t be having this, you’re already in bad enough shape”? Do you ever think that when you see a group of healthy looking people having a pint and a cigarette outside your local? Probably not, as you can’t see the effects those habits have on their bodies.

And maybe, you do none of those things. Maybe you’re just well adjusted and I’m not. After all, I wanted to use the word obese instead of overweight, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hate how it sounds and its implication. Then I realised I was making generalisation and in a way, discriminating against others than might not think the way I do. Well, tough! After all, this is my space, it is all about me and how I feel about the world surrounding me. Besides, I really don’t think I’m that way off the mark!

Where did the line go?

I can remember a time when sex and love where interconnected and when I would have never given one without the other. When my heart was pure and naive, and the very thought of sex for pleasure only was an abomination. Today, I wonder what happened to that girl. She was so innocent, so gullible – although, to be honest, she still is sometimes – and truly believed in love and romance.

I’ll tell you what happened: she grew up, tried to make some sense of it all, but, being so naïve and unfamiliar with the rules of that world, she got tricked, played, used and got lost in the mix. And that thin line she would have never crossed, well, first, she just put a toe over it, just to see what it was like on the other side. Ah, the unknown can be so attractive sometimes. Then the toe became a foot, after all, it can’t be that bad, can it? And before she new it, she had moved the line to a different area. At first, she just moved it to the side a bit, but as time went on, it got moved to another room, then another level. It started to fade away, becoming a little more blurred every time she moved it. As the line weakened, that girl fell asleep in the corner of my head and my heart. Thing is, and please don’t ask me why but, today, that girl is waking up again. She still believes in love and romance and wants her line back.

Problem is, as those things regularly happens to the most untidy of us, she can’t find that bloody line anymore!!! And she’s been looking, believe me. She’s even got me searching for the flipping thing. She won’t leave it alone. Plus, she wants me to stop having meaningless sex… Who does she think she is? Seriously, I ask you. Since I’ve started having that casual relationship with Mr Max, she’s become increasingly louder. How am I supposed to stay sane with her going on about love and true feelings … and Mr H.? She’s really fallen for him and wanted me to give it one last shot.

She knows me so well, though. She knows the inside out of my heart and soul. And, well, let’s be realistic here, when she starts going on, I have a habit to listen. Because, she is that most hopeful and most loving side of me. But she’s also the one that suffers the most from not feeling loved. We often talk about it, but she just won’t give up. I have, and she can’t admit that. So, in trying to calm her down – or shut her up, depending on how I feel ;-) – I have sent Mr H one last e-mail. I had to, for her sanity, if not for mine. And in a way, she is right; we need to know that those feelings were real, and not just a fragment of our imagination.

I didn’t want to tell Mr Max, but she felt it was only right. Interestingly enough, and I guess it’s only fair after what happened, he’s been really supportive. The biggest surprise of all was the quick response from Mr H. Although, now, she’s getting even louder because, in a twist I didn’t really see coming, those feelings were not only real, but shared! So now, I just can’t shut her up! That’s the problem with her, when she gets it, she really gets carried away. I’ve tried to explain to her, yes, he shares them but he’s got his own things to deal with and might not be ready for us. But she won’t listen. She keeps going on about love, hope and Mr H. I’m not denying I don’t want it too, because I do. She and I are one after all. But I’m probably a little more cautious than she is.

And guess what, she’s found that stupid line! So, as you can imagine, we’ve been having a bit of a war because she’s determined to bring it back. I’ll be damned if I let that happen! Sorry, but as long as I am single, I’m having fun, and that’s that! Line or no line!

Just let me rant...

Last night, Ash and I went in search of a pub with a dance floor. And we found one. A fairly good one at that. It was, in fact, full of actual grown ups, a nice change from the usual crowd of teenagers we regularly find ourselves surrounded by when going out dancing. That’s where I was faced, one more time, one too many times, by the reality that it doesn’t matter how old you are or how mature you are meant to be, there are things that just don’t change, especially when alcohol is involved.

And I’m afraid I’m not talking about being able to have a good fun night without getting totally hammered or behave in a way that reflects your maturity. No. I am talking about something much more troubling. I am talking about how totally surreal my evenings out, in this country, can truly get. Over the years, I have grown familiar to a range of fascinating behaviour when out during the week-end.

One that comes to mind is the Island Bag Ladies. You know the type. A bunch of women dancing in a circle, worshiping their purses as they lay them in the centre of their little convent. And that drives me crazy! What do they need those for anyway? Oh yes, I forgot, they carry their full make up kit in there. For you gentlemen, who have not had the privilege to experience the women’s toilets in a pub or club on a Saturday night, count yourself lucky! Imagine, if you will, a herd of drunken swaying giraffes, desperately trying to carefully reapplying their faces on. The thing is, past a certain time – usually by 8pm!!! – it really doesn’t make any difference anymore, the beer goggles stops the opposite gender to notice the difference! I say, put your face on before you leave home, slap a 20 in your bra and leave that dreadful bag behind. I think we should ban those bags the way bouncers ban drinks from the dance floor. I mean, they are already limited in space, so that island just ends up cramming my style, to be honest.

And while I was watching these mammals circling their totems last night, I noticed a few women wearing that new style skirt, the one that puffs up at the front and is rather tight at the back. You know the one I mean? That’s when I had an epiphany. I am now convinced that a couple of designers, up there in their big offices, surrounded by miles of fabrics, bored and uninspired had a bet. Who could come up with the worse possible design, making sure it would be unflattering no matter how slim or fit the model is. Then, give it to a few unsuspecting celebrities who will happily wear it on the red carpet and turn it into an overnight fashion must have. It is unreal how gullible some people are, because I am still waiting for the woman who can make it work. It’s unflattering on the best looking models, so to have women above a size zero wearing it is just ridiculous.

And it’s not just that skirt. Why can’t folks work with their own body, instead of trying to fit into a design that is only specific to one type of body shape? I have a fabulous big chest, so yes, I use it and make the best of the figure I have to look feminine and sexy. Ash doesn’t, but she has a really gorgeous perky butt, so no, she won’t be wearing really low cut tops but tight skirts or trousers which accentuate one of her best features. I’m not only talking about big women who try to pull off outfit that really shouldn’t be worn by anyone above a size 14. Don’t get me started on that! I’m talking about how, despite being confident working people, some women just have to put on show as much skin as they physically can before falling into the indecent category. Now, I admit thoroughly enjoying people watching when out, but sometimes, I worry about the future of this country, because when it comes to dress sense, let me tell you, some people are totally clueless.