Last night at our favourite spot, The Bot Bot conversation was raging about chest hair. An odd topic you might think, but to four single girls, it's really what life is about. Ok - that might be a little indulgent, it's not world peace, but still, it's what we were talking about. It was the Davos of chest hair.
Do you utilise an undershirt to double up? Do you want to hide or expose? Do you button ALL the way up? One button open? Do you flirt with two? Are you 'all out to the wind' Hawaiian style? How much do you expose for Exposure's sake? It's like playing chicken with your clothing.
An Irish lad 'opened' the conversation, crossing the divide with an ambitious 2 button drop, at the encouragement of the four ladies he was joined by an Italian who managed to 'open up' as well, although I preferred his initial single button gap. If the truth were told, I've got to admit I'm not a fan of chest hair. I find it strange. I'm not entirely sure why - I just do. I think it might hark back to latent connotations with gorillas and nits or something. Either way I don't mind a one-button drop but two? That's ambitious, and really should come with large gold chains, brill crème slicked hair and tight jeans.
Male cleavage is a point of contention for most women, and I dare say the debate started with our jungle dwelling ancestors and will rage for long after I'm gone. Unless we genetically breed it out - hair, I mean, not men. So ultimately, we need to look past the selected button drop and remember that inside every shirt there lies a man. And, well, if under that they are also sporting another made entirely of hair...then so be it.
Davos chest hair session closed. Tea, coffee and cocktails will be served in the break. Lets come back promptly in 15 minutes and move on to world peace.
Friday, February 5
Thursday, February 4
I'm a loser by default- hmmm
Internal struggle #359: Why do I always need to be a winner? Even when I'm clearly not, in any classic way an actual winner. Why do I always have to be rewarded just for showing up? Woody Allen said that 80% of success is turning up. Well I don’t know about that Wood-ster. I mean, come on? Really? Do we honestly strive to achieve anything anymore, or do we simply assume by birthright, that, of course we will? Achieve that is, not strive.
My latest educational obsession involves Generation Y and its foibles - one of which seems to be the united notion of failure by participation. That's not to say that we don't participate, in fact, it points to the fact that 'participate' seems to be all we actually do. No one is ever singled out as a real winner and given an early 80's style bowling trophy, obviously not for lack of talent but instead for fear of alienating the rest. And so everyone gets a cheesy participation plaque to send straight to the 'pool room' (non-Australian readers please ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUVYlVYNR4). Agreed, I guess this results in fewer aggressive alpha type winners and if that is the goal - fair enough. Teary 4 year old pre-schoolers everywhere thank you. But in the end, if there are no winners, does that mean there are only losers? If we never have to fight to win how can we really expect not to lose by default?
By never having to deal with winning or losing and the feelings of elation along side disappointment are we really being prepared for the bigger picture successes and failures of life? A friend mentioned this at dinner and it's had my mind in a whir since approximately 3am on Sunday morning at the exact time it was mooted. She has a point. Will our generation be a blundering crowd of 'also rans' even though we run faster, jump higher, think bigger, drink harder, speak louder and fight smarter than any generation than before us?
Look, I don't mind participating - don't get me wrong, I float with the notion that life is about the experience; the journey as well as the destination. But lets call a spade a spade here. It's also about winning. And I want to win. So quit moddie coddling me and hand out a first prize, the fact that I didn't win will bug me for about 5 minutes and then I'll learn the lesson of failure and move on. Seems pretty straightforward to me. If 80% of success is turning up perhaps we need to spend a lot more time focusing on the 20% that results in the winner/loser divide and hand out a lot less loser trophies.
My latest educational obsession involves Generation Y and its foibles - one of which seems to be the united notion of failure by participation. That's not to say that we don't participate, in fact, it points to the fact that 'participate' seems to be all we actually do. No one is ever singled out as a real winner and given an early 80's style bowling trophy, obviously not for lack of talent but instead for fear of alienating the rest. And so everyone gets a cheesy participation plaque to send straight to the 'pool room' (non-Australian readers please ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUVYlVYNR4). Agreed, I guess this results in fewer aggressive alpha type winners and if that is the goal - fair enough. Teary 4 year old pre-schoolers everywhere thank you. But in the end, if there are no winners, does that mean there are only losers? If we never have to fight to win how can we really expect not to lose by default?
By never having to deal with winning or losing and the feelings of elation along side disappointment are we really being prepared for the bigger picture successes and failures of life? A friend mentioned this at dinner and it's had my mind in a whir since approximately 3am on Sunday morning at the exact time it was mooted. She has a point. Will our generation be a blundering crowd of 'also rans' even though we run faster, jump higher, think bigger, drink harder, speak louder and fight smarter than any generation than before us?
Look, I don't mind participating - don't get me wrong, I float with the notion that life is about the experience; the journey as well as the destination. But lets call a spade a spade here. It's also about winning. And I want to win. So quit moddie coddling me and hand out a first prize, the fact that I didn't win will bug me for about 5 minutes and then I'll learn the lesson of failure and move on. Seems pretty straightforward to me. If 80% of success is turning up perhaps we need to spend a lot more time focusing on the 20% that results in the winner/loser divide and hand out a lot less loser trophies.
Wednesday, February 3
Don't drink the water in Damascus.
Perhaps someone could help me out with a definition of a home? I've come to the conclusion that I'm not really sure I have one anymore. A 'home', as opposed to a 'house'. I know I still have one of those.
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.
Tuesday, February 2
Finally IDOL has a good business plan!
I've been listening to a cheesy pop tune that's got me humming and thinking - granted, not a common mix...
Stan Walker's, Little Black Box has me yearning...to dance and to place an order.
I think my life needs something little and secret. Not a city guide with numbers of unknown drycleaners, cobblers and boutique hotels. Not a forbidden love affair (although I wouldn't be averted to one of these). And not a little black book with a list of names for whom my name still causes flutters. Nope - Instead, I need a real little black box, the industrial sort. The sort that records all the details of a May Day flight before it goes plummeting to the ground. A little piece of history that remains in tact through fire, water, brimstone and bar side banter. In fact, to be fair - if these little boxes are indestructible – why has no-one thought of simply building the whole plane from them?
Hmmmm. An indestructible little black box of emotion - I'd like that. I would like to stipulate that my little black box should strain airline convention and be accessible by me obviously. Negating those in places of power is mandatory, just in case there are sections which may need slight editorial input - you know, for security and copyright issues of course. And perhaps if it could be available at all times? Otherwise it would be rather pointless - I'm probably going to die choking on a banana sooner than in a Boeing 747. Please note I do not eat banana.
I think, honestly, it would save a lot of angst and drama - particularly on hung-over hazy Sunday mornings. I'd be able to point at certain moments and note - THERE! TOLD you he said that - TOLD you we went there, TOLD you! HA! A virtual self regulated Big Brother.
But instead life is a matter of he said she said. And that's as simple as it is.
And so to put you on the spot a bit Stan claiming to 'search through the wreckage of a love affair, there's a little black box in the middle of the ocean holding all the truth about us, it's a little black box, a record of emotion, everything that ever was.' Well, now you’re going to have to follow through on your business plan - even if it is in song form, because frankly, I'm going to need to get me one of these babies. Either than or a reality TV camera crew.
Stan Walker's, Little Black Box has me yearning...to dance and to place an order.
I think my life needs something little and secret. Not a city guide with numbers of unknown drycleaners, cobblers and boutique hotels. Not a forbidden love affair (although I wouldn't be averted to one of these). And not a little black book with a list of names for whom my name still causes flutters. Nope - Instead, I need a real little black box, the industrial sort. The sort that records all the details of a May Day flight before it goes plummeting to the ground. A little piece of history that remains in tact through fire, water, brimstone and bar side banter. In fact, to be fair - if these little boxes are indestructible – why has no-one thought of simply building the whole plane from them?
Hmmmm. An indestructible little black box of emotion - I'd like that. I would like to stipulate that my little black box should strain airline convention and be accessible by me obviously. Negating those in places of power is mandatory, just in case there are sections which may need slight editorial input - you know, for security and copyright issues of course. And perhaps if it could be available at all times? Otherwise it would be rather pointless - I'm probably going to die choking on a banana sooner than in a Boeing 747. Please note I do not eat banana.
I think, honestly, it would save a lot of angst and drama - particularly on hung-over hazy Sunday mornings. I'd be able to point at certain moments and note - THERE! TOLD you he said that - TOLD you we went there, TOLD you! HA! A virtual self regulated Big Brother.
But instead life is a matter of he said she said. And that's as simple as it is.
And so to put you on the spot a bit Stan claiming to 'search through the wreckage of a love affair, there's a little black box in the middle of the ocean holding all the truth about us, it's a little black box, a record of emotion, everything that ever was.' Well, now you’re going to have to follow through on your business plan - even if it is in song form, because frankly, I'm going to need to get me one of these babies. Either than or a reality TV camera crew.
Monday, February 1
Spanish candy?
I came home last week at 3am and promptly threw a stuffed reindeer Hercules had won me at a street fair out the window. The 3rd floor back window to be precise. I wanted no witness to the crime, nor did I want to have to walk past it in the morning. Upon reflection, that's when I made my decision. And threw any love for him out as well. What a waste of affection. I can't stand loitering on the sideline. I'd given him opportunities to have the 'this is not going to work' conversation - but he never said anything. And now cowardice in total silence. I can't abide that. Get in or get out. Cause someone injuries or stay off the field.
Perhaps that means I'm angry, but as far as I'm concerned it means currently I'm enjoying being a self-important, pretentious little shit. And you know what I say to that? 'So what.' Denial and my Zen calm are my survival techniques and I'm feeling so arrogantly contempt I don't care.
I want to sit down instead of the old lady on the tube, cut people off in traffic, leave my sticky lunch wrapper on the table, let important calls go to voice mail, steal someone's lunch money, give the bus driver the finger, press all the buttons in the elevator, drop my gum, ignore people on the footpath and push someone in the coffee line. I feel like an irrationally irritated 5 year old. And frankly, there is nothing better for a bad mood than scooping it up and sprinkling it over everything and everyone you come across, spreading it around a bit. Just like salt. 'Stand still while I rub salt in your eyes - it will make me feel better.'
But if I'm very honest with myself, it's not for everyone, and not everyone can be lucky enough to deserve my wrath. In frankness currently it's reserved for one person. And given the chance, I would use his heart as my personal piñata. Hell, I turned 25 didn't I - and 2+5 is only 7 - so how mature do I really have to be about this? I want a piñata. Now. I want a baseball bat and I don't want to have to admit to feelings of rejection.
The myth of Hercules might detail a man of strength and violence but if push comes to shove he's not winning this round. No way. Not in my bulletproof state and his of cowardice. Give me a piñata and a pina colada and maybe I'll go back to letting old people sit down on transport. Maybe.
Perhaps that means I'm angry, but as far as I'm concerned it means currently I'm enjoying being a self-important, pretentious little shit. And you know what I say to that? 'So what.' Denial and my Zen calm are my survival techniques and I'm feeling so arrogantly contempt I don't care.
I want to sit down instead of the old lady on the tube, cut people off in traffic, leave my sticky lunch wrapper on the table, let important calls go to voice mail, steal someone's lunch money, give the bus driver the finger, press all the buttons in the elevator, drop my gum, ignore people on the footpath and push someone in the coffee line. I feel like an irrationally irritated 5 year old. And frankly, there is nothing better for a bad mood than scooping it up and sprinkling it over everything and everyone you come across, spreading it around a bit. Just like salt. 'Stand still while I rub salt in your eyes - it will make me feel better.'
But if I'm very honest with myself, it's not for everyone, and not everyone can be lucky enough to deserve my wrath. In frankness currently it's reserved for one person. And given the chance, I would use his heart as my personal piñata. Hell, I turned 25 didn't I - and 2+5 is only 7 - so how mature do I really have to be about this? I want a piñata. Now. I want a baseball bat and I don't want to have to admit to feelings of rejection.
The myth of Hercules might detail a man of strength and violence but if push comes to shove he's not winning this round. No way. Not in my bulletproof state and his of cowardice. Give me a piñata and a pina colada and maybe I'll go back to letting old people sit down on transport. Maybe.
Sunday, January 31
Check the weather report stat.
I'm freezing.
I've been icy for a while now and I don't really know why. The rest of my apartment is warm- but my bedroom, the place in which I find my solace and spend most of my time - with is old fashioned wooden floor and big window, well it just never seems to warm up. The water in the shower is never scorching no matter how high I turn it or how long I wait and it frustrates me no end. The only time I seem to feel genuinely toasty is when I'm hurrying somewhere rugged up against the chilling wind that oddly coerces tears from my eyes early in the morning. Tears that have nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with temperature.
The wind is aptly pulling from my body what my heart isn't sure it wants to let itself do.
No matter how hard I've tried in the last week to let go of the relationship that has ended with Hercules I still manage to feel a strange emotional coldness. A surprisingly numb feeling that has spread in a pattern inverse to the usual physical version. It creeps outwards from my heart right to the extremities. And yet, it's not uncomfortable, in fact, it's a calmness that feels eerily nurturing. I feel like I've woken up from a dream to find myself in the final stages of grieving something that I never understood but knew was somehow important to me. I can't even manage to put it into words that make sense.
I guess just because our time together was short I could assume it was unimportant. But even that, especially that, I don't think I can somehow say. I don't think I can safely relegate it to the short, sweet and meaningless category.
For the first time I don't want to analyse him or us, or whatever we had and it's a strange feeling for me. What I do find I'm feeling is the cold. Its almost like the hotter the feelings in the relationship the colder the end of it feels. And as the current numbness eventually wears away I just wonder if it is the end of the relationship that has me feeling this way, or if it's a change in my composition that I'm going to have to try and accommodate?
But for now my confusion seems to be confounded to tears only eked out by the cold weather. And to be fair, spring is only a few weeks away.
I've been icy for a while now and I don't really know why. The rest of my apartment is warm- but my bedroom, the place in which I find my solace and spend most of my time - with is old fashioned wooden floor and big window, well it just never seems to warm up. The water in the shower is never scorching no matter how high I turn it or how long I wait and it frustrates me no end. The only time I seem to feel genuinely toasty is when I'm hurrying somewhere rugged up against the chilling wind that oddly coerces tears from my eyes early in the morning. Tears that have nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with temperature.
The wind is aptly pulling from my body what my heart isn't sure it wants to let itself do.
No matter how hard I've tried in the last week to let go of the relationship that has ended with Hercules I still manage to feel a strange emotional coldness. A surprisingly numb feeling that has spread in a pattern inverse to the usual physical version. It creeps outwards from my heart right to the extremities. And yet, it's not uncomfortable, in fact, it's a calmness that feels eerily nurturing. I feel like I've woken up from a dream to find myself in the final stages of grieving something that I never understood but knew was somehow important to me. I can't even manage to put it into words that make sense.
I guess just because our time together was short I could assume it was unimportant. But even that, especially that, I don't think I can somehow say. I don't think I can safely relegate it to the short, sweet and meaningless category.
For the first time I don't want to analyse him or us, or whatever we had and it's a strange feeling for me. What I do find I'm feeling is the cold. Its almost like the hotter the feelings in the relationship the colder the end of it feels. And as the current numbness eventually wears away I just wonder if it is the end of the relationship that has me feeling this way, or if it's a change in my composition that I'm going to have to try and accommodate?
But for now my confusion seems to be confounded to tears only eked out by the cold weather. And to be fair, spring is only a few weeks away.
Thursday, January 14
When you smile alone...
For someone who has an allergic reaction to long distance relationships I'm happily surprised to be in one. In fact, the only itching I’ve been doing seems to have resulted from the strange insect bite I obtained in the Bahamas and if you go by the unpublished Bible-of-my-mother, this can be attributed to a riotously vicious mosquito which my own insect infested childhood didn't quite prepare me...so much for building an immune system to ward off 6 legged creatures and man creeps.
Without boring you with the promotional details like he's tall, handsome, kind, funny and sexy all at once. I can pretty much state that for better or worse he's pried open the vault which had, for a while perhaps, become my heart, jammed it open with a wedge of laughter and thrown down a bolt of happiness to stop it blowing shut. I in return have essentially thrown my abandon off a cliff - admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that I like him and discovered what its like to find myself smiling when there's no one else around. It's nice, it's been a while and it's different.
I've no idea where it's going or how long either of us can support this rather expensive air mile addiction we've developed, but I do know for the first time in a long time I don't want to shrug only to look back and say...shoulda, coulda, woulda...didnt, damn. In fact, for the first time in a long time I'd like to catch myself walking down a hallway, smile to no one in particular and say...did, doing, damn good.
Without boring you with the promotional details like he's tall, handsome, kind, funny and sexy all at once. I can pretty much state that for better or worse he's pried open the vault which had, for a while perhaps, become my heart, jammed it open with a wedge of laughter and thrown down a bolt of happiness to stop it blowing shut. I in return have essentially thrown my abandon off a cliff - admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that I like him and discovered what its like to find myself smiling when there's no one else around. It's nice, it's been a while and it's different.
I've no idea where it's going or how long either of us can support this rather expensive air mile addiction we've developed, but I do know for the first time in a long time I don't want to shrug only to look back and say...shoulda, coulda, woulda...didnt, damn. In fact, for the first time in a long time I'd like to catch myself walking down a hallway, smile to no one in particular and say...did, doing, damn good.
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