I am grateful for finding a bottle of soda water, unopened, in the back seat of my car this evening. It’s been there since Saturday. Will come in handy.
I am grateful today for the lovely evening I spent with my sister, involving comedy and Ben and Jerry’s, and I am also grateful for my pt knowledge which allowed me to assist fellow traveller on platform 2. (Tired and emotional Hawks fan, who should now be on tram to Middle Park. I hope it was Middle Park he was after though, not Mill Park, otherwise he might be waiting for that tram awhile).
Many years ago, I was crossing Elizabeth St, heading into Chemist Warehouse, and my phone rang. It was a friend, Lynn, having one of her tougher days, and calling to vent. As I perused the shelves of hair removal cream , I patiently listened to Lynnie and her woes. Work just sucked so much. Mark hadn’t texted back for over 2 days (‘I’m going to be realistic this time,’ she said firmly) and to top it off her ASOS order hadn’t arrived in time for Dan’s 30th that night. Fuck it. ‘Why do I have to battle so much?’ she said.
One could sigh ‘first world problems’, and they would be right. But really, we’re all guilty, even the most optimistic people out there, of saying ‘why is my life is bloody hard?’ In the last few weeks I have been thinking life is pretty hard, like the self centred creature I am; I have even written a list of what I am fucked off about. And I have had a cold all week and my fucking nose is blocked and I can’t even taste my Easter chocolate, wah. There’s a humour aspect when I write something on this blog, obviously. But focusing on the bad shit is probably not useful.
I always thought constantly reflecting on what you are grateful for is pretty fucking hokey concept, but I happened across a rather good podcast as I was walking along the river the other day and have begun to rethink the ‘battling’ as just one of those shitty inevitabilities about being an adult. The basic thing is everyone thinks they must battle more shit than others. And that’s not useful for anyone.
The thesis put forward by the most excellent boys at freakonomics was that we have tailwinds and headwinds. When we have a headwind we struggle to move against it, and battle, but then the wind changes we get a tailwind to boost us along – and even after not very long we forget the tailwind and to appreciate it. And we should appreciate those tailwinds a bit more.
In fairness, it’s been awhile since I have been for a jog, and longer since I have been on my bike, but I get it.
A close friend recently vented to me (maybe people just vent to me) that her husband was away 3 weeks out of four, and he never actively parented, and she would really prefer it if he stopped playing on his phone over dinner. Probably being grateful for the good stuff (healthy children, nice shoes, etc.) would be useful to remember. Everyone’s allowed a vent, but to dwell will bring you down.
Do you know, for instance, how much it took you to become a human? So many eggs don’t become anything. That’s quite special. What about the fact you are reading this on the internet right now? You have access to that. A fuckload of the world doesn’t have that privilege. Perhaps rather than worrying about the five extra kilos of chub (conservatively) I have been carting around, I should be grateful for the fact we enough money to feed ourselves?
So, I am going to write every day for the next week of stuff I am grateful for, and see at the end of the week if I am still thinking why the fuck do I have to battle everything. The argument put forward is that gratitude has been shown to be good for us. And I’m willing to test out that thesis. SO! New positive Bridgey.
Today I am grateful for the lovely night we had in Gembrook last night at a magnificent restaurant, and how lovely and bright the stars were as we walked back to the house.
My writing might (might) often become a pale pastiche of something funnier, edgier and more articulate, including this week when I felt it would be useful/constructive to have a ranty tanty and to imitate that most fabulous of bloggers, farkew, and say a big fucking finger to everything that has fucked me off over the last week.
– fuck you, sales assistant at Spencer St outlet, who upon seeing me in shoulderless top, suggested it might be better as a ‘gift for your niece or daughter’
– fuck you, milk choc Lindt bunnies for being so awesomely smooth, creamy and gorgeous and forcing me to gorge on them
– fuck you, adult acne. Who agrees with me? I have fucking wrinkles and fucking pimples!
– fuck you (and a big fuck off) to Monash IVF, who clutter my facebook and google ads (see also Clearblue, fucking elevit, et al, all of you)
– fuck you, to cafes who don’t accept eftpos under $10 and then have something of $9.90 on the fucking menu. Daft Morons.
– fuck you, pain and suffering occurring on the earth right now, and lastly!
– fuck you hair for not looking as nice as Julia Zemiros
That’s better. Thanks readers, may all your fuck yous come true. Feeling better already.
PS: spoke too soon. A very sincere fuck you you to the Belgrave line. Wahhhh
And with a shout out to the legendary Anne Summers, who we saw wearing her pussy helmet the other night while interviewing Lindy West, we have this article here. Go read it now.
Are we really asking that fucking much? Seriously? No, no we aren’t. Equal pay, legal and safe abortion, none of these are new concepts. Why are we still fluffing around with this crap?
Happy Women’s Day everyone! Stay angry.
PS: as I was writing this, some guys on the train predictably started on the ‘when’s international men’s day? Hahahah’. Yeah, every day would be the fucking answer mate.
Had small conniption last day of 2016.
I was enjoying nice cleansing ale at a certain pub in Nelson. This establishment happened to be one of the first pubs that ever served me alcohol, at the beginning of a long and satisfying career of alcohol purchasing. I was aged 17, on summer holiday with the gang, and having a rather large night. It should be noted that the NZ drinking age was 20 at the time, and I have the distinct feeling I didn’t pass for 20 and I was probably intoxicated, so responsible service possibly wasn’t their thing. Commented to LAH that it had been awhile since I had been here. A few years, even. How many? Oh, four? No that’s not right. I was 17 so – CRIPES that was 19 years ago. I was… GAWD I AM SO OLD.
(They no longer served peach x-changes, either, sad face, but the women’s restrooms, with their damp pull down handtowels, were the same as I remembered. There is some long lost photographic evidence of me passed out that very night on the lawn of the cruddy motel we were crammed into, but that’s a story for another time).
But larger (similar) conniption followed when one of my former classmates of 1997 posted on stalkbook that she was organising a school reunion. As in the 20 year anniversary one. GULP and WTAF.
I have mixed feelings about a school reunion. From a practical standpoint I have two important weddings to attend this year back in Chur, neither of which coincide with the date of the reunion. If I lived back there, I might consider going, just for a giggle. But am ambivalent. K’s comment was ‘I hated it the first time, why would I go back?’ and the reality is, everyone I want to stay in touch with from school I am actually still in touch with. Not just sporadically either.
My MIL went to a school reunion recently and commented it was very competitive –all about whose kid had become a doctor, who had bought a mansion in Vermont, etc. all people with something to prove. Is school really something I want to revisit?
Seriously, I still feel about 17. Where did 20 years go?
Went for a walk at lunchtime to boost the ‘tonin levels, get the steps up, and started listening again to the Guilty Feminist on spotify. Love love love this hilarious woman. If you are in to sarky women comics you should totally have a listen. Deborah always starts her routine with ‘I am a feminist but…’ and some of her examples have me lol’ing.
So I tried the same thing. Nowhere near as funny. Hmm…BUT
– I am a feminist, but, I am committed to using the eyelash serum my mother gave me for xmas. This is because my eyelashes are short, and having long eyelashes is generally seen to be desirable and feminine, and I am vain. (Although I should exercise with caution because, coincidentally, the podcast mentioned someone used it on the upper part of the eyelid and lashes started growing out of the eyelid itself! Wrong!)
– I am a feminist but I took my husband’s name when we got married, and not just because my initials became MCG.
– I am a feminist, but, I did look in the reflection of a shop window on Bourke St as I walked back to the office to see how slim or chubby I looked today (so insecure, but I know I am not in the minority.)
– I am a feminist but I found myself blushing in not a negative way when some street workers in NYC called out “looking good baby doll”
– I am a feminist, but recently, I was down at the beach with my mate Beej and she asked me, hypothetically, that if cosmetic surgery was painless, free, and instant, what I would have done, and I had an immediate answer, which is to have my tits lifted (they’re really long, without a bra they actually touch my knees. Ok?)
– I am a feminist but! I wore heels all day on Thursday. I was conducting classroom training and could barely see over the lectern. Feet were agony by end of day.
– I’m a feminist but, I chuckled when someone made the comment about slut shaming the cold drinks machine and her sultry and digital “thankyou, and goodbyyyye”.
– I’m a feminist, but, perhaps jams and pickles are chaining me to the kitchen and reinforcing gender stereotypes?