Currently exploring the world

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Ovarian protest aka an ode to my complete lack of maternal anything

I’ve been told that the sound of a child crying is meant to stir an innate maternal instinct from deep within. 

I won’t lie, it makes me want to punch a wall. 

It’s like a cheese-grater to my womb that sends my ovaries in knots and teeth grinding, accompanied by an unsympathetic, furious inner-monologue that usually goes something like ‘oh ffs, shut up and get a grip, things are only going to get worse’. (Because they are.)

The level of irritability I feel can only be likened to noisy eaters, Tories or when you’re walking and somebody keeps treading on the backs of your heels.

While there’s no questioning my ability to have children (my body insists on bleeding and ovulating on a regular basis), I sometimes wonder whether the hundreds of pounds I’ve spent on luxury tampons and new knickers over the last 13 years is going to go to waste. 

My maternal instinct is about as present as Queen Victoria. And if it is there, somewhere, it’s definitely deep - because I’ve not caught wind nor tail of it for the last 26 years. Ever.

I’m not surprised that friends and schoolmates are increasingly tying the knot, buying houses and having babies (as Facebook so often likes to remind me). People in my year have been having children since before the legal age of consent and that was more than a decade ago, so it’s not like the thought hasn’t ever crossed my mind.

No. I’m surprised at how un-ready I feel.  Which, now I’ve forced myself to think about it, can almost definitely be attributed to one of the following: 1) The responsibility. I can barely find time to make my own dinner, let alone look after a child. 2) The commitment. It took me long enough deciding whether I could commit to a 24-month phone tariff. 3) That I’ve not found the right person to ignite my ovaries (I’ve heard that actually having a partner helps). 4) Priorities. That I’d rather spend my evenings with a G&T and no curfew is probably a good enough reason alone to not have a child. 5) I’m not quite ready to sacrifice my vagina for another being. The frequency in which I’m asked whether I want children is increasing with age - as if I’m running out of time. Like my biological clock is hanging around my neck, weighing me down, huffing and tapping its hands impatiently while counting down the seconds until I’m considered ‘well past it’ for all the world to see. If I was a celebrity, the Daily Mail would be having a field-day uterus-shaming me and making various assumptions about my femininity, sexuality, possible medical conditions and whether I’m cutting a slender figure or not. Perhaps, even, my lack of enviable ads would be to blame.

“Not for at least 10 years,” is my default response. But quite frankly, I’ve lost count of the number of years I’ve been saying it.

I’m not feeling the pressure - I’ve never had a ‘life plan’ - I’m just wondering whether the ‘adult epiphany’ I always imagined I’d have is ever going to happen; whether my supposedly baron maternal instinct is going to suddenly rear its sleepy head out of the blue and scream ‘surprise!’

16-year old me, all frizzy-haired and round and more interested in memorising the lyrics to My Chemical Romance than anything else, imagined I’d be a fully-fledged adult by now with my L plates well and truly thrown out the window. 26-year old me (less frizzy-haired and slightly less-round, still remembers all My Chemical Romance lyrics, so obviously worthwhile) is still trying to navigate the right way around the roundabout - and the only thing I’ve thrown out of the window is any hope of getting on the property ladder in London.

On the bright side, at least I’m no longer drinking cider from a park bench, so credit where credit’s due.

Cheese graters and jokes aside - and before I’m branded a ‘baby hater’ and ‘non-woman’, and eternally damned to the depths of unmaternal hell - I should probably note that I’m not entirely immune to mini-humans. One of my oldest friends has a 9-month old who is probably the cutest thing ever – seriously, if my uterus ever decides to do the whole broody thing I’d pay good money to ensure I pop one out as good as her. I’ve even half-changed her (before she started pissing everywhere). And I didn’t even flinch when she did a massive squelchy poo in her nappy while I was holding her. (Okay, maybe just a little bit.)

But next time someone asks me about babies, I think I’ll tell them my womb is on an indefinite hiatus.

[huffpost]

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*slow clap it the fuck out*  

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Existential crisis 2.0

P-dawg, the latest addition to my mid-20s crisis

I turned 26 last month. Since then I’ve bought a lilac skateboard with pastel green wheels, become significantly less bothered about armpit hair and upped my red wine consumption by at least 98%.

Seriously. On Wednesday I had two glasses of Byron’s ‘best’ red at lunch. Yeah that’s right, the £9 Malbec. And on Tuesday I went to an actual wine bar on my lunch break ALONE. (Still trying to figure out whether I looked independent woman-chic or just tragic.) That’s £23 worth of wine in less than two hours. Include Monday evening and let’s call it £30.

I think I’m having an existential crisis. Or a breakdown.

I’ve started wearing Tesco cotton briefs because they’re comfortable and soft, and last week I had to take a nap in the meeting room at work because I can’t deal with hangovers like I used to be able to, before throwing up so violently in the toilet that it missed the bowl and went on the floor. Thrice.

I also did what I said I’d never do and downloaded Tinder. It’s horrible; I feel like an animal in a zoo. I want to leave but I can’t stop swiping (left 99.9% of the time) like the predictable and judgemental human being that I am (and because I was the spare wheel at my own birthday). 

I’m going to hell and I’m going alone because there’s no need to use two exclamation marks after every sentence. And why are you laying on a pile of feathers? P.S. Those sunglasses are truly awful.

See?

Some (most) might say I’m too picky, but I prefer ‘discerning’. And thanks to my discerning nature I have to watch Netflix alone.

I’m not sure if I’m in denial that I’m now a fully-fledged adult (or at least meant to be - because I don’t feel like one) who has to pay bills and book my own dentist appointments, or whether I’m still figuring out who I am and who I want to be.

Some days I want to dress up and drink champagne and eat the kind of food that’s so posh you can practically inhale it. Others I want to wear dungarees and pigtails and eat Nutella out of the jar with a spoon.

Most days I want to drink wine, so at least something’s consistent.

I thought I’d have most things figured out by now. And by most things I mean life. But most of the time I don’t have a fucking clue. I go into my overdraft every month but still think it’s fine to pay £2.60 for a latte every morning, and it took me at least five conversations and three phone calls to change my phone contract because I was confused. I also almost didn’t get into America because I didn’t know you needed an ESTA.

I simultaneously feel small and overwhelmed by the world - like I don’t quite fit in my own skin - and like I can take on anything… Like, the person on the bus with their music turned up loud. Or changing the sheets. I wonder if that’s how David Cameron felt when he shoved himself into a dead pig’s mouth. Like he could take on anything.

Right now, I’m going to take on my skateboard and deal with everything else tomorrow. Or next week. I’m officially putting figuring life out on hold.

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Flying saucers and fashuuun

(Image entirely accurate)

London Fashion Week descended on the capital this weekend for the 16th time this year, once again making the streets of London impossible to walk through without getting caught up in a horrible tangle of fashuuun that 99.9% of us will never be cool enough to get. Sad face.

Yesterday I very accidentally stumbled into a sea of rabid fashionistas in Soho (it was horrible), each pretending not to want the attention of the guy in skinny jeans and Doc Martins with the Canon SLR and 1k followers on Instagram, but really hoping that he would consider them worthy of his photography BTEC and that they make the #LFW15 hashtag.

I found it impossible to make eye contact with any of them; partly because I’m a normie and not allowed to canoodle with the fashions, but mostly because they were all wearing sunglasses, which I assume was to protect their eyes from the dull light of the cold September day.

I sighed to myself and wished for an alternate universe where I’d be the one wearing the pink flying saucer hat and metallic silver moonboots with a #streetstyle hashtag of my own. For a moment, I imagined life on the #FROW, rubbing shoulders with Alphabet-listers and pretending to ‘get’ the curtain walking down the runway. “THREE CHEERS FOR FASHUUUN!”, I’d shout from behind my Prada shades and I’d be papped for the next issue of Vogue.

The incessant sound of shutters and camera flashes burst my momentary bubble of self-obsession and I turned to my mum and said, “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE SYRIAN REFUGEES???”, before shedding five tears - one out of stress and four for the sake of humanity - and walking in front of someone’s up-against-the-wall-because-bricks-are-so-kooky shot and feeling a small victory for mankind.

[micdotcom]

So, you’ve decided to use the Bible as a literal instruction manual for public policy in the 21st century? That’s great! But maybe you should take a closer look at what it actually says — especially what to do if your wife can’t have kids.

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

at Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris

[hellyeahchandlerbing]

[edwardspoonhands]

The original character descriptions of Friends

[micdotcom]

Potent minimalist art sends a strong message about police and vigilante brutality in America

Journalist and artist Shirin Barghi has created a gripping, thought-provoking series of graphics that not only examines racial prejudice in today’s America, but also captures the sense of humanity that often gets lost in news coverage. Titled “Last Words,” the graphics illustrate the last recorded words by Brown and other young black people — Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant and others — who have been killed by police in recent years.

Let us not forget their voices

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

No more skinny: aka yay, more body-shaming!

You know what's (sort of) funny? When a newspaper - one famed for tacky nudity and shoddy, shallow journalism that largely revolves around the way women look - launches a campaign, led by men, telling women how they shouldn't look.

Now, what I'm assuming Dan Wootton, showbiz editor of the Sun, was trying to do by creating the 'No more skinny' campaign - "against fashion houses using unhealthy and skeletal models" - is draw attention to eating disorders and anorexia in the modelling industry. But that's if you really read between the very few lines, because there's no mention of either of the two in the article. 

So instead, it becomes a sexist, body-shaming piece calling girls out for being too thin, while making some huge assumptions about 'skinny' girls - the main one being that thin girls are only thin because they go to "dangerous" lengths to be that size.

While I'm sure well-intended, what we have here is a body-shaming article based on stereotypes and assumptions. However, rather than women being too fat (for once), now they're too thin. We just can't bloody win, can we?

It's not just Wootton backing the campaign though; he's rounded up some celeb pals in the form of Olly Murs and Professor Green to really give his movement some weight.

Let's take this lovely line from Olly to begin with: "Sometimes skinny women can look attractive."

Sometimes? Can? That's sweet, Olly. Thank you, really, for your kind, kind words and sharing your opinion on the female body. It's nice that you think skinny women are attractive some of the time. I find you attractive... some of the time (though those times are few and far between - probably when you're not wearing a trilby).

I'm curious to know where you'd draw the line, by the way, if I were to give you a patch of sand and line up ten 'skinny' girls - by your definition - along it. Is it the girl with the protruding collar bones who eats three balanced meals a day? Or perhaps the size 6 who is naturally small-boned? What about the size 4 who eats healthily and exercises regularly but struggles to put on weight?

What if I were to throw in a size 16, 13 stone girl who starves herself every day?

I'm sure you realise - because it would be entirely ignorant of you not to, and I'm sure you're not ignorant - that while some girls are naturally petite and healthy, larger girls can also have eating disorders and be putting their bodies at risk.

I'm just curious to know who falls under your "dangerous" umbrella, and whether clothes size really matters as much as you seem to think it does when it comes to health and well-being.

It is futile to argue that the modelling industry isn't sizeist - and I'm certainly aware of, as are most people, what goes on behind closed doors - but the comments in this article insinuate, in a very sweeping way, that we only need to worry about girls of a certain size.

What would be more effective would be a campaign that focuses on raising awareness about eating disorders, both on and off the catwalk, and that acknowledges all people at risk - not just 'skinny models'. Instead Wootton and co. have bundled all girls of a certain size together on the loose assumption that they must have a mental illness to look that way.

Alternatively, rather than publishing a few throwaway comments in a newspaper that constantly picks on, belittles, fat-shames, skinny-shames and exploits women for the way in which they look, why not put more effort into the promotion of a positive body image, encouraging women to feel good about themselves?

As for Pro-curves-Professor-Green (what does curvy even mean?), didn't you recently refer to a photo of your wife as 'thinspiration' - a word widely used to encourage and motivate girls with eating disorders? Yes, thought so.

So thanks, guys, for getting together to really tackle the ongoing issues and stereotypes surrounding women and body image.

No more skinny?

Here's a wild, wild thought: How about men stop telling women how their bodies should or shouldn't look. Full stop.

[olsentwins]

[ksubied]

[18+ only]

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Hair goals.

[teesadutta]

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Three cheers for smears

I have a womb; a fully-functioning vessel that bleeds the Niagara Falls once a month, causes cramps, over-eating and intense bouts of rage way out of my control. It’s also something that I hope will one day carry a child.

The joys of periods and child birth aside, it also means that once I reach the ripe old age of 25 - like the majority of women who are fortunate enough to be offered one - I’m due a cervical MOT - or a smear test, as it’s more commonly known (because what better way to describe the scraping of the cervical lining than with the word smear?)

Having regular cervical screenings means that any abnormal changes in the cells of the cervix can be identified at an early stage and, if necessary, treated to stop cancer developing. So, while the thought isn’t exactly pleasant, it’s definitely not worth ignoring them.

Last week I received a letter from my GP reminding me that not only am I officially not a teenager anymore (which I often like to forget), but also that I’m due a screening.

Now of course my first thought was oh thank god FINALLY. I’ve been waiting for this day since I had my first period in Mrs Allen’s food tech class in year 8!!!

Or… What actually happened was I said oh no out loud and thought I’m not even 25 yet! The must really want to see my cervix. That, or it’s because I turn 25 next month.

Not one to beat around the bush, I made my way down to the clinic the next day to make my cervix an appointment, expecting to have to wait at least a month, as was the case for my last doctors appointment.

'We can fit you in in two days, if that suits?'

TWO DAYS?!

And breathe. It’s cool. They only want to CLAMP you open with a weird metal claw and have a rummage, I thought. No biggie.

(For the record, a speculum doesn’t actually look like a medieval torture device like Google cruelly suggests; it’s actually a perfectly inoffensive-looking plastic thing that slides in as easily as a tampon.)

So I smiled and calmly accepted the appointment like the adult that I’m supposed to be.

Stage one: complete. Stage two: preparation.

The night before the big day I have a shower and tidy myself up a bit. Because god forbid a woman, who probably sees more vaginas in a day than I will in my whole life, sees mine in all its natural glory. (I’m just kidding; I just wanted it to look nice for its special day. Like when you put your best dress on for your birthday.) I then pack a few Valium in my bag for the next day and get a decent night’s sleep.

Thursday 21st August 2014: The day of my inaugural smear. Wahoo!

I go to work as usual and get on with my day until I need to leave. One Valium and one baby-wipe later, I arrive at the clinic feeling suitably woozy - and ready to have a nap.

I’m feeling pretty relaxed once the nurse calls me in; she’s friendly and makes jokes and it makes me realise that I probably didn’t really that Valium to chill me out.

So I whip my tights and knickers off, lie back on the bed, spread my legs like a frog, thinking that I’ve definitely been in weirder positions while she shines a bright light right between my legs and then oh… yeah… there it is… And it feels a bit weird - a little uncomfortable, perhaps - but nothing more than a strange gentle poking in the pit of my stomach that’s over before I can even think of England (as I’d been told to do).

And that was that.

"Some people are so shy when it comes to these things," the nurse tells me once I’m dressed. As a self-confessed exhibitionist, I’m certainly not one of them.

I say I’m not sure why people get shy as she must see so many of them and she laughs.

"Thousands! It’s like a production line." I imagine a lots of vaginas going round on a factory conveyor belt.

So I leave the clinic alive and well, no worse off than when I arrived and all smeared out for the next three years. I’ll receive my results in two weeks’ time, hopefully telling me that all is fine and dandy down below.

My advice to anyone worried about having one: don’t be. And to anybody that’s been putting one off: don’t. 3,000 women are diagnosed with cervical cancer each year, and this is ten minutes every three or five years that could save your life.

As a friend said to me before I left for the clinic: “I’m sure you’ve had worse up there.” (Har har. Much appreciated.)

And, after all, a healthy womb is a happy womb.

:-)

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

The pressure to excel

If there’s one thing to get a woman in the mood, it’s a spreadsheet listing all the times she’s not been in the mood.

This is what one seemingly sex-deprived husband did recently, before deciding that it was an absolutely brilliant (and inoffensive) idea to post it on Reddit. From ‘I’m watching TV’ to ‘I feel gross’ - and yes, ladies, I know you’re looking at that list and nodding your heads - this man noted, in a neatly-prepared Excel spreadsheet - like one you might do for a company report - all the times his wife said no. And then emailed it to her as she left for a business trip.

*insert slow clap here*

What he wanted to gain from this I’m not entirely sure, but I think I can speak for the majority of women here when I say that while his spreadsheet skills are pretty fine, this isn’t the kind of thing that makes us want to drop our knickers.

Which makes me wonder why he’s spent so much time on his laptop, in essence reducing his wife to a vessel for his sexual needs, rather than a) accepting (and respecting) that she’s not in the mood, and doesn’t have to be in the mood all the time; b) talking to her about it, like a mature and emotionally competent adult; c) putting more effort into seducing her and getting her between the actual sheets, than into a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet.

Sex is not a right, and nobody owes anyone anything. It is something that is meant to be enjoyed between two (or however many) people - whether it’s a one night thing or 25 years down the line, married and with children. But sex is only enjoyable when it’s relaxed. And I’m not talking scented candles and rose petals here.

As a woman, sometimes it feels like there’s an underlying pressure to always be in the mood; to be ready to perform on demand. But what people seem to forget is that we aren’t wired like men; we can’t get it up in seconds and finish just as quickly if we want. We’re not gagging for it upon the grope of a boob, nor is it automatically raining on the Sahara with the slide of a hand up the thigh. (Though I guess that may depend…)

For a woman, the path between sitting on the sofa, watching a film and reaching orgasm is often long, sweaty and exhausting. Don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant and fun and all things yes, please, more, but it’s not always simple. Think of it like an Atlas road map - confusing lines of all colours that seem to go round and round in circles, fingers tracing carefully but often losing their way, wondering how and where they managed to go off course, having to backtrack just as carefully to find the last road sign. You know the destination but getting there is a different story. It’s both stressful and frustrating at times, especially when you’re not really in the mood. Or really are too tired, or don’t feel at your best. And this is before you even realise that your husband’s been counting each time you say no - and has put your ‘excuses’ online for all the world to see.

So next time your partner tells you that they want to watch a film or they push you off, respect that, and leave it at that. Sometimes a re-run of friends in a pair of joggers and with a glass of wine really is the more appealing option.

Or maybe check the bedside drawers because she might have a partner in town.

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

Lara.

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[currentlyexploringtheworld]

This bank holiday weekend my flatmate and I decided to try our hands at vegan baking, which resulted in some surprisingly tasty (albeit slightly rock-like) banana and walnut muffins, and a carrot and walnut loaf with lemon icing - the winning recipe, hands down. I'm genuinely surprised at how good it tasted considering we didn't use butter or eggs (and I bloody love eggs).

Both were really simple to make and didn't take long (always a bonus), and a healthier alternative to your standard cake recipe. So good stuff all round. Will definitely be having a go at more vegan recipes in the near future!

Banana and walnut muffins 2 cups of gluten-free flour 1 cup of brown sugar 3 bananas, mashed 1/4 cup of oil 1 tsp salt 1 tsp baking powder 1 cup of chopped walnuts (save a handful for the top)

Carrot and walnut loaf (Based on a recipe by ohsheglows) 1.5 cups of grated carrot 1.5 cups of wholegrain spelt flour 1 tbsp chia seeds 1/2 cup of maple syrup 1/2 cup of almond milk 1/4 cup of soya milk 1.5 tsp vanilla essence 2 tsp grated lemon zest 1/2 tsp ground ginger 2 tsp baking powder 1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda 1/4 tsp salt 1/4 cup of chopped walnuts, plus a few halves for the top Lemon icing: 1/2 cup of icing sugar, 1 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice, a splash of water

[currentlyexploringtheworld]

The perks of going home to visit your parents: a fully-stocked, fully-functioning kitchen (apart from the blender I managed to apparently melt...). A few things from this weekend included roasted vegetable lasagne, multi-seed breadsticks, lemon houmous, Summer tart and chocolate and hazelnut brownies.

I also lost my terrine virginity with a smoked salmon and asparagus terrine, which I think was my favourite thing of the weekend (anything with salmon in is going to get my vote, obv), and an elderflower posset with home grown raspberries. I'm genuinely sad that I wasn't aware of how GREAT elderflower tastes until now - I think the only time I've ever tasted it is in Copella, but that doesn't really count. Anyway, I'm going to google lots of elderflower recipes and make up for lost time. Maybe a sorbet...

(Can anybody tell I've been watching Mary Berry cooks?)

All in all, a very productive weekend. AND with minimal hangover time. YAY.