Sure, of course

people noun/ˈpiːp(ə)l/1. consistently offering life advice, preferably disregarding your personality, passions and weaknesses in the process; “I know you hate feeling isolated, but what about signing up for Mars One?”2. in spite of everything, who we wholeheartedly turn to for life advice

[sureofcourse]

I expected many things when moving my life across the country, but this was not one of them

Having just moved interstate, I have quickly learned a thing or two.

Number one in NSW: carry a screwdriver.

But, for those who watch the news, not for the reason you might think.

There’s some debate about the top stresses in life. Depending on which article you read, it could be divorce. It could be marriage. Death of a loved one is distressing. Imprisonment isn’t a holiday. Major injury. Losing your job. Moving. All listed as the most stressful situations you can put yourself through.

Now, as I planned to move from the sunny coast of Western Australia to the big smoke of Sydney, I surprised myself in feeling relatively calm and organised in light of my divorce-imprisonment equivalent.

Sure, I was going to miss family and friends – I had been away from Sydney for more than a decade, I now knew what a perthonality was – but the excitement of a new adventure took over and my highly systematic post-it note preparations had me feeling rather smug. Definitely no sense of stress.

I knew what I had to do. Removalist. Unpack new unit. Settle into work routine. Find a church. Find a gym. Change over car registration. Actually join ‘found’ gym. Stop telling your new colleagues why you haven’t yet joined the gym.  

You know what they say about smugness. It comes before serious sickness and needing a screwdriver during your lunch break.

Two weeks into my new job, I was throwing up on the way in, almost fainting in one of the manager’s offices, unable to eat more than chicken soup for two weeks and falling asleep as soon as I’d get home.

Not well? Not a problem. The perfect excuse to continue delaying a gym membership.

After almost three months, I’m beginning to think the removalists are not still looking for that one item they never delivered.

I can’t join a gym at the moment. I’ve got an entire company of email addresses to hunt down and send a reminder. They’ve obviously just forgotten and will get right back onto that asap.

Somehow, unpacking my bedroom is still pending. ‘For a moment’, some boxes may have ended up in the guest room and my washing routine between machine, clothesline and basket is on a good run.

Can’t find gym clothes. Can’t join until you can. It’s science.

I chose a church and now there were only two tasks to go – watching money disappear down the gym drain or the paperwork pain of transferring interstate car registration.

I was pretty proud of myself for overpaying to get a gym access pass, the car on the other hand…

If you live in any other Australian state or territory right now. Be really happy you don’t need to do the following, starting with updating your car insurance info: 

Them: “That will be double what you paid in WA, mam.”

Me: “But it’s the same car and the same driver.”

Them: “Yes, that’s right. You now live in a different place.”

Me: “Yes, I told you that. But a double what I’ve been paying kind of place?”

Them: “Certainly. Our claims department predicts you’re now twice more likely to die than before, so it is our privilege for you to pay more. Say nothing of it.”

Maybe, the conversation has a smidge of creative licence.

Me: “OK. Then double my insurance for the exact same product.”

Them, with too much lilt: “Already done, mam. And would you like a CTP quote while we’re at it?”

Another joy NSW has – separate (aka expensive) Compulsory Third Party insurance.

Me: “Sure, what will that be?”

Them: “$730.”

Say what?! Minor aneurysm. Deep breath. Sigh.

Me: “OK, sign me-“

Them: “Already done, mam. Now, do you have your blue slip.”

Me: “I was told I need a pink slip.”

Them: “Yes, you normally need that each year but for the first registration you need a blue slip.”

Me: “And the blue slip would be-“

Them: “Double of the pink slip, mam.”

I was not going to let his chipper attitude crush me.

Them: “You will need to take your car to get a blue slip, where they will most definitely find extra problems you will need to address immediately-“

Me: “Let me guess, double the blue slip?”

Them: “That’s the attitude! Welcome to Sydney, mam.”

I am now living on the #SurvivorAu meal plan (minus the opportunity to win half a million) but I got all of the paperwork together to go and register my car at Service NSW during my lunch.  

Them: “Hi mam, how may we help you?”

Me and my smug air reunited: “I have my blue slip, my CTP, have paid my criminal insurance cost and suped up a 13-year-old vehicle that wasn’t worth the suping…and I understand I can double it all and get my rego!”

Them: “Not a problem, do you have your number plates?”

With a dramatic wave to right outside the door, I introduce the most expensive thing I now own – my car, sporting shiny WA plates!

Them: “And, do you have a screwdriver with you?”

Me: “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Moving is not one of the top stresses in life.

I would now rather move to prison than register my car in NSW, which means I have a great reason to start going to the gym - I need to beef up.

***Disclaimer: the expense of this city is everything you’ve heard but the excitement and opportunities are why we find ourselves here. That and we sort of can’t afford to leave now. 

[sureofcourse]

Summer edition #2 2018 | The healthy diet determination

One of these years, the January ‘healthy lifestyle change’ is going to stick.

Sure, I don’t have the track record to back up that bold statement but then when have I ever let reality get in the way?

Years ago, when I was home for Christmas, I convinced Mum ‘The Dukan Diet’ was the way of the future – after reading about four pages of the book. Dr Dukan believes in taking you back to the basics of eating, starting with unlimited protein consumption to attack your fat, followed by…I have no idea because it had me at bacon.

Honestly, as great as eating bacon, eggs, chicken and steak sounded in the book’s blurb, the reality was much harder to stomach.

You can imagine how impressed my dad and youngest brother were when Mum and I came home with a shopping load full of our new lifestyle products.

“What’s this?” Dad asked, his nose scrunched up, to which I excitingly announced: “We’re just eating protein for two weeks!”

Hooray!

They sighed but shrugged, probably knowing it wasn’t going to last anyway.

And who was the first to regret this decision? Me, of course. But, bravely, not the first to admit it. I was now stuck in a protein prison (and it may have only been three days) that I had actually locked myself in, for what I feared was going to be the duration of my holiday.

It was a glorious day when someone else broke and we all waved goodbye to Dr Pierre Dukan.

I also partially read the ‘The Fast Diet’ that encourages you to eat whatever you want for five days a week and fast the other two days, only eating 500g of food – removing the arduous task of counting calories. Author, journalist and GP Michael Mosley spoke about how our bodies have been used to fasting in the past – they’re actually designed for fasting and feasting – and the modern age of feasting and snacking is the relatively new way of life that’s not doing us any favours.

So, needing to fit into a bridesmaid dress in 2015, I didn’t think I had anything to lose.

And, it actually achieved weight loss. But as soon as I said adios to the wedding deadline, all of a sudden two days of fasting felt overly dramatic to me. Regardless of Mosley’s research also showing ‘intermittent fasting improved blood pressure and cholesterol levels, and insulin sensitivity’. Of course.

Now, I don’t jump on board every ‘diet’ – I don’t have the money, patience or desire. Quite simply, I know I’m fickle. But I do enjoy experimenting with some crazes (Apple Cider Vinegar, anyone?) that continually pop up in my news feed or something recommended in response to my flippant rhetorical: ‘I would love to be really healthy’.

The thing is, like many of us who did not appreciate enough how quickly our bodies bounced back and consumed food with little pushback in our twenties, I really would love to be mentally and physically healthy and I know the obvious ‘eat well, exercise regularly’ lifestyle is how to achieve it.

But try telling that to my post-9pm chocoholic alter ego. She would be perfectly happy if she died in a diabetic coma of Cadbury Marvellous Popping Candy.  

Despite constant failure in the past to enact a sensible plan (and, I don’t want to speak too soon), this January, I’ve surprisingly stuck to a better routine. One may even call it ‘healthy’.

The key? Finish the book.

Oh yeah…and find better motivation than bacon and bridesmaid dresses.

[sureofcourse]

Spring edition #6 | That’s, literally, never happened to me before!

Who else has failed a personality test?

Pfft, you can’t fail them?!

Apparently, you can.

And I did.

“You’ve fallen in an uncommon category and we’re going to get you to sit it again – a manual version this time,” the personality expert informed me over the phone.

It seems I broke their computer with my ‘lack or abundance of personality’ and only a pen and paper would be able to determine once and for all if I did, indeed, have a chartable personality.

It’s all very confusing. But until I resit the test I hope you enjoy the ramblings from a computer glitch.

Or is it a glitch?

Unfortunately, it’s not the first time I’ve elicited that reaction – but when you grow up with fire drills as your family entertainment and your Dad has stuck a ‘Cops are tops’ sticker on your first car, maybe it all makes sense.

Take me with planes…

You know when the flight attendant brings around the 1.25L water bottle and a stack of plastic cups? Well, I took the cup from one host and held it over my lap in what I thought was a perfectly normal position before he proceeded to pour almost the entire bottle over my seat – at the beginning of the flight.

“That’s, literally, never happened to me before,” he said amid uncontrollable laughter. Possibly his response was out of embarrassment but my laughter was because if it’s possible, it will, literally, happen to someone in my family.

I’ve been knocked hard in the head by an air hostess who didn’t even acknowledge it, been the reason for an entire flight needing to reset the entertainment system (FYI, it takes about eight minutes) and watched a toilet sink overflow because the tap was stuck to ‘on’.

Sporting equipment and ‘getaways’ are other areas of common ‘uncommon’ mishaps for me.

Setting: a group of guys playing soccer an entire football field away from where my friend and I are walking after having just bought a smoothie.

Mishap: the ball flies through the air and smacks my smoothie clean out of my hand.

Setting: my parents haven’t been down to Margaret River in about two decades and it will be my proper break from work in about two years.

Mishap: they’ve flown over from the other side of the country and we’ve driven south four hours, we settle into our hotel, the next morning we find a café for breakfast and before sightseeing, I go and use the public toilet. Somehow, I find myself sprawled on the road, my handbag contents everywhere (and 90% of my worry is focused on the condition of a new notebook), my hands are bloodied, a woman has come to help, I phone my Mum and all I hear is her repeating “wait!...Just wait!” (I find out later her phone was stuck on loud speaker in a quiet gift store) while I watch my Dad obliviously walk straight past my commotion (sidebar: the good Samaritan and myself were the only ones in the street) so I start yelling ‘I think that’s my Dad…Dad! Dad?!’. Good Samaritan lady has good reason to believe my parents are using this ‘holiday’ to disown me and the only sightseeing we do is the inside of four hospitals for surgery on what one doctor describes as a ‘completely smooshed elbow’.

Setting: visiting a friend’s farm, they ask if I want to see the chicken house, which ends in a) not getting to see the chicken house, because b) we get chased by two roosters, that c) “has never happened before”.

Now I’m not saying my personality has made all of the above happen, it’s more that when these kinds of things become common place for you then it can possibly make for an adaptive personality that apparently doesn’t register too well on personality tests.  

But I believe these things happen for two reasons:

1. God has the best sense of humour and made us all with quirks to keep life interesting.

2. Everyone needs resilience training and grounding, and this is how I’m brought back down to earth.

And I don’t think I’m unique. My family is blessed with always finding a great parking spot…but challenged with a surplus of: lack of coordination and ‘odd events’.

So, whatever your personality, celebrate the quirks and laugh at your mishaps because in the best possible way you’re not unique either. You’re the product of a creative and funny God who is building your resilience and if you look around you, different crazy stuff is happening to others too.

I am not claiming responsibility per se, however, before this year, I had never bought tickets to a major superstar’s concert before…and, well…

Here’s praying he gets to play.

What one person says has ‘literally, never happened’ to them before, another replies ‘sure, of course’ this is happening to me.

We’re not alone – in what we might feel only happens to us.

[sureofcourse]

Spring edition #5 | Warning: I don’t need a book with my medicine, thanks

Do you know the best time to give a non-medically trained person an eight-column list of ‘do not’ instructions for a particular medication?

When they’ve come staggering into your chemist, complaining their throat is closing over and for you to please pass on ‘I love yous’ to their family. Obviously.

OK. So, I can be endearingly dramatic. And, I know it’s not the pharmacists fault. In fact, the one who gave me the anti-inflammatory throat spray was so lovely, if I could have talked, I may have asked her to be my new bestie. After all, she would bring a lot to the friendship. *cough* free drugs? *cough*

But, once again, with the change of season comes an unchanged reaction – catching everything!

I mean, what is the point of an immune system if it’s not immune to anything?!

(I may have played a minor part in developing a shotty immune system a number of years ago while backpacking in the US and enjoying the ever-so-hygienic hostel lifestyle. Hey, when you’re in your twenties and you’ve heard rumours of American health services costing a mortgage, sometimes the decision to trust your travelling buddy’s “just grab a bottle of something that tastes like methylated spirits and drink twice a day” advice just seems wise.) 

Back to the throat spray instructions and paragraph two:

Keep this leaflet with the medicine. You may need to read it again.

I’m going to have to stop you there, instruction writers, purely on your use of ‘again’.

Hands up, how many of you have ever read medicine instruction manuals, yet alone decided to walk around with them for that ‘park bench and second reading momentous occasion’?

I only discovered the instructions as I was throwing out the box. I just thought, ‘wow, that’s a thick folded piece of paper, what can they possibly have to say for themselves?’

Do not use this product if you have….heart failure. Hmm? Even without a medical degree, I know you need your heart pumping in order for you to care enough about purchasing throat spray.

STOP TAKING this medicine and contact a doctor immediately if you develop:…swelling of the face, tongue or throat causing difficulty in breathing… You don’t sound like you have much faith in your own product if 1) YOU YELL AT US; and 2) you’re worried it’s going to cause the very reaction it’s supposed to fix.

Always use this medicine exactly as described in this leaflet… If I ever need it again, I…almost…certainly…probably, but not…will.

I do take the blame for getting sick in the final week of winter and it lingering into spring. You see, I was one of the smug ‘healthy’ ones, rejoicing a little too early in this year’s efforts of exercising, eating well and taking vitamins.

I also had the flu jab.

The pharmacist gave me a form to fill out and when it came to the following question, I left it blank and hoped he wouldn’t notice:

Do you have a functioning spleen?

He noticed. And asked: “Well, do you?” while shooting me a look that also suggested: We’re all waiting…

You know what, I don’t really know what a spleen is. I wasn’t even positive I had a spleen, yet alone a functioning one. If I didn’t have a functioning spleen then those educated in its functionality were yet to inform me otherwise.

Medical personal, please stop assuming I have any medical knowledge when I come to you and, as a writer, I won’t assume you know things like...grammar.

Either use full stops in your bullet points or don’t. But the inconsistency is now the reason I won’t be keeping your leaflet for bedtime reading.

Sure, of course 😉

[sureofcourse]

Winter edition #2 | Stop, drop and tell me we weren’t the only ones?

Mother, I would like a public word, please.

I’ve just discovered it possibly wasn’t normal for families to run fire drills in their homes during childhood.

As my friend was about to jump into the bed I had set up for her in my lounge room, I couldn’t tell if it was the late hour or my explanation causing the confusion that had spread across her face.

Tbh, I had thought offering her a plan A and a plan B fire evacuation rundown was sufficient for a peaceful night’s sleep.

But as I walked to my room, I thought maybe my overly cautious friend had expected a plan C as well?

No worries, I decided I would review the process for further visitors.

So, Mother, you can imagine my confusion when I debriefed with her the following day.

“You know, you’re totally strong enough to kick my front screen door down,” I said.

“Huh?”

“There’s always the window to jump out of but, if you had to, adrenaline will give you more strength than you think,” I elaborated.

“Oh! You were serious about that last night? I couldn’t tell if it was the wine or you were trying to be funny,” she answered.

“Fire safety is a serious matter, my dear friend…didn’t you do fire drills when you were growing up?”

*silence*

“NO!” she replied in hysterics.

Mother?

When me and my brothers were told to drop to the ground and crawl down the stairs to the front door upon hearing ‘FIRE’, this wasn’t a common practice in other households?

And I’m guessing other homes didn’t mount fire blankets and extinguishers above the ‘tea and coffee’ area in the kitchen?

Next, I’m worried I’m going to find out other families didn’t mute every ad break so as not to become susceptible to advertising but instead sit in three-minute quiet contemplation until the show’s return.

I’m also afraid to ask if other kids, on road trips, used their pocket money at their ‘mum’s canteen’ – a cardboard box stocked with all of our favourite snacks from the supermarket and sold back to us at inflated prices. (Forget free trade, we were only allowed to buy the snack which had been allocated to us at the one time of day the ‘canteen’ was open for business to ensure stock levels didn’t plummet.)

Well, you’ll be happy to know your ‘stop, drop and roll’ legacy lives on.

I do have a plan C for the next visitor but I’ll advise them during the muted ad breaks while we have time to make a cuppa from the kettle that now has a sensor light installed above it…

Oh, no other household has that either?

Now I’m just thinking other families haven’t been focused on practicality at all.

Nice one, Mum 😉

[sureofcourse]

Winter edition #1 | MMMBopping late on a school night

“What’s SNID 89?” I asked my other 30-something friends as we entered a Perth Club I had never even been inside at an age when it was considered acceptable.

As I approached the entry door, I could see security and their stamp production line – and, as only someone who is clearly way beyond 18 does, I got excited they were going to ID check me.

But then excitement immediately turned to confusion…

“You’re reading it upside down,” one of my friends laughed. “It says 18 plus.”

That was the beginning of what we realised was how 30+ women ‘rock out’ – the curious commentary can be just as entertaining as the event itself.

We had bought tickets months earlier to the quintessential concert for our age group.

#teamtaylor

The room was full of like-minded 30-something women reliving their 13-year-old selves with a few notable differences.

Beverages

Self-service water jugs scattered along the bar were constantly being replaced by staff. The club had probably never served so much water in its lifetime.

And while we were all making sure to ‘stay hydrated’ in anticipation of the next few hours of dancing and sing-a-longs, one of our sensible squad members was kind to warn: “you’re going to need to wee so be careful…space out your water”.

Support acts

They are a deterrent to 30-somethings attending concerts, period.

We don’t need to be pepped up, we need to stay awake for the main act.

It’s amazing how only a decade later and you can go from leaving your house at 10pm earliest for a night out to requiring an afternoon nap in preparation for staying up ‘so late’.

While we clapped the support act with more vigour at 8.30pm for simply being over and hopefully getting Hanson on quicker, we watched the stage guys set up and wondered how long they’d make us wait.

“What time are they supposed to be on?” I asked.

“Not sure, probably 9pm.”

“9pm! So late. We’re in our 30s, don’t make us wait.”

Moshing? Dancing?…Moving

“I think I’ve done something to my knee,” I said to anyone who would listen, which was no one because the reality was we were all ‘adding injury’ to any body part we were moving beyond the three-hour mark.

And when the trio with their now ‘dad bods’ said their next song was to get us “all fired up like we didn’t want to go home”, even the bubbliest 30-something in our squad yelled back: “yeah! But a little bit we want to go home”.

Play an encore, just don’t go backstage to make us wait again for you to come back on

Don’t let the zombie look fool you. It was one of the most fun concerts of my 30s so far but, at some point throughout the night, your body kind of shuts down so you stand still, stare at the band and put all of your energy into the only remaining sense – your hearing.

As soon as the last note was played, the entire room clambered up the stairs, clinging to the railings as though someone had rung the fire alarm.

The next morning, my feet burned in the way I imagined they should have had I crossed a desert without shoes on – not as a result of one late night.

I tried to scrub off the door stamp, wondering if clubs had upgraded their ink and would I have a ‘SNID 89’ tattoo forevermore?

Either way, venues probably don’t need to refill their stamp pads for 30+ concerts any time soon.

[sureofcourse]

Summer edition #1 | All fun & games until someone sounds a shark siren

When a shark siren goes off on an Aussie beach, you find out what kind of friend you are.

I think everyone hopes they’ll be brave or helpful, or at the very least not get in the way of others being brave and helpful.

Now, I’m the absolute worst when it comes to blood, which is ridiculous because my mum has always been a nurse so the blood banter in our household was high.

When I was about 13, one of my younger brothers slipped on my razor in the shower.

Our parentals were out for the evening.

Not only was I standing a corridor away and never saw the blood but the neighbours who came to take ‘brother three’ to the hospital could have been forgiven for thinking it was me in need of medical attention.

Unfortunately, I have decades of similar pathetic stories.

The fact I’m writing about blood and haven’t had one unconscious moment…that I know of…is kind of impressive but perhaps one incident, a few years back, gave me confidence ‘my kind’ could be somewhat brave and helpful, too?

At work, I was one of the officially trained senior first aid officers.

Take your pick: *LOL*, *crickets* *facepalm* (if it helps your decision, I had to close my eyes during the blood section of First Aid training).

OK, we good? Great.

So yes, I was a first aider at the time a colleague had a seizure, fell to the ground and bit his tongue, and while my history suggested I too would fall to the ground and probably split my head, competing for aid attention, I remained calm.

Actually, I jumped into help mode. I certainly wasn’t amazing but I wasn’t a second patient either.

(I’m happy to discuss a brave citizen award later but back to the beach.)

When it comes to our country’s ocean backyard, we’ve grown up taking the realistic dangers for granted.

One of my favourite authors, Bill Bryson, writes about Australia being a natural killing field in his travel memoirs Down Under.

Everything wants to either eat us, burn us, or sting us. Or perhaps all three.

Yet, while a great deal of those creatures call the ocean home, we are forever found frolicking in the waves without a care in the world.

An English visitor once confessed he didn’t want to swim because of the sharks and as we walked along the beautiful white sand I shrugged of his concern with a “nah, you’ll be right, we’re more likely to die in the car when we leave by a driver who can’t merge”. (You can watch this very patronising State Government video here for context — a surefire way to get adults on board.)

That was years before I heard a shark alarm while neck deep in Perth’s idyllic waters.

Admittedly, the dangers of Australia’s sun and surf are feeling more real lately than ever before.

Last weekend, I spread out my towel, pitched the umbrella, grabbed my book and lay down looking up at the gorgeous blue sky with scattered clouds.

Ah, such peace.

Until the ‘shark spotting’ helicopter approached.

The lifeguard-controlled drone buzzed through the clouds.

On the horizon, a yellow and black buoy, part of Perth’s new sonar detection technology trial (aka a constant Jaws reminder) swayed.

Side note for the beach protection committee: maybe don’t let everyone know your backup for when the $500,000 sonar investment goes ‘offline’ is to have the public phone in any shark sightings to the Water Police…via a landline!

Anyway, despite my ‘swimming pack’ pact with myself — stay with the masses for better odds and always make sure there’s at least one piece of food person further out than you — it’s hard to swim blissfully unaware anymore.

When that siren sounded, instead of finding out my courageous and supportive rating, because, sure, of course, it’s like white goods, right? Everyone has a rating, even if only half a star?

Wrong.

The only thing I found out was how fast I could swim back to shore, leaving my friend for dead and just short of screaming “take her, I’m not worth the drama with the blood!”

But only because I was using my breath on a record-breaking water escape.

Now before you get all judge-y, there’s two take-homes: a) I’m not who you want next to you on the battlefield, but b) I could surprise you and be good next to you on a battlefield…

You don’t know until it happens.

If it counts for something, even with my wealth of unwanted shark awareness, I plan on giving up beach swimming as much as I plan on calling the Water Police’s landline — never.

And I’m still trained in First Aid.

In the same way doctors get to specialise, everyone just knows I only cover ‘Panadol and band-aids for dry cuts’.

[sureofcourse]

Spring (almost Summer) edition #4 | A 30-something’s party prowess

Mid-Sunday morning, I’ve popped two Panadols and made a mental note to ‘keep up the fluids’.

Because 1) I’ve had a big weekend, but 2) I’m also responsible.

That’s the 30s life.

By ‘big weekend’ I mean I binge-watched the highly-anticipated (for 30-something women, and at least two of my brothers I apparently forced to watch this during childhood – they’re now married to women who are forcing them to watch it in adulthood, hehe) worldwide release of Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life on Friday night, followed by a full Saturday at the beach with intermittent cycling.

This morning I received two messages by fellow 30s friends.

>I partied it up last night and woke up at 6.30am >Ps. I pool partied, that gets me extra points, doesn’t it? Then came home and watched Rage. +10 points?

>Had a 60th and said ‘I’m leaving at 10.30pm’ but next min I was on the d-floor until 1.30am >Bolted upright at 5am.

In case any millennials are accidentally reading this, Rage is this music program on free-to-air TV (oh, and free-to-air TV is a service you can access when you’ve plugged in your antenna [an antenna is…ah, forget it]). #streaming #ftw

Myself, I woke up at 5am. *dramatic crying emoji*

The joys of a 30-something’s ‘hard partying’ can include any or all of the following:

* more than one hour at an event where you’re required to talk to people, stand or dance; * any event with a starting time after 6pm; * if you’re away from your home for a full day, i.e. breakfast, lunch and dinner; * if you feel the urge to tell ANYONE how late you got home; * you’re out post-10pm but cautious of messaging anyone ‘in case they’re asleep’; * no matter how late you go to bed, you can not – for the love of sanity – sleep in; * you start awarding yourself points as you cross each new benchmark throughout the night: speeches at a celebration +5 points, cutting of the cake +10 points, a Netflix series complete +20 points, etc.; * without any alcohol intake, it takes between 2-3 days to recover; * and, you’ve got children or errands or appointments to take care of the following day…because you’re ‘responsible’.

The thing is, from our 30s our skin cells get a bit ‘lazy’, i.e. the cell turnover slows down and collagen production declines.

The most abundant protein in the human body…the substance that holds the whole body together…found in the bones, muscles, skin and tendons, where it forms a scaffold to provide strength and structure…

THAT basically STOPS AT 30!

I’m sorry, world, why?! The Australian life expectancy is about 80 years, according to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare!

In my 20s, my Dad told me your mind never stops feeling like you’re in your 20s.

I heard what he said in the sense that I literally heard the words but I never really listened because in my 20s I could stay up until 3am and sleep ‘til noon. I could eat whatever I wanted. I was producing things like…oh, I don’t know…vital collagen for my body’s strength!

I guess it’s something you just have to experience.

And yesterday, when my BFF and I decided to hire bikes to cycle around some beaches on zero fitness levels – that is, we don’t own Fitbits and count our steps – I experienced, once again, this 30-something’s body partly inhabited by a 20-something’s mind.

20-something: “Riding a bike will be ‘like riding a bike’.”

30-something: “Gosh, is this incline an acceptable emergency to call 000 yet?”

20-something: “Ah, a day of relaxing by the beach.”

30-something: “It’s hot. Why did I leave the house again?”

20-something: “This is the life!”

30-something: “Was that splash a shark?…Is this the end of my life?!”

I think this mix may be the rest of my life, and I’m OK with it because I want the encouragement of my 20-something’s voice to replace the lack of collagen reality.

Anyway, I’m off. Need TP.

To party?

Gosh, no! Toilet paper.

Another note for the accidental millennials, my mum also taught me the efficiency of buying in bulk.

“Sure, of course”, I hear you say.

And to you, I’ll raise a water glass (because of “keeping up those fluids”) – here’s to hearing but not listening.

[sureofcourse]

Spring edition #3 | Riot act(ing)

The Girl on the Train. Allegiant. How to Be Single. Me Before You. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

All bestsellers. All turned into major movies this year.

Bar one story I’ve heard religiously read lately and I will be very disappointed if I don’t see a trailer for it soon.

The Riot Act.

Basically starring everyone “reading it” to anyone who’s bugging them.

I’ve never heard the act mentioned more since our nation’s fearless leader “read it” to a few ministers who skipped out of class early last month.

I mean, gosh, it always looks so engaging, I can’t see why they’d want to leave early.

Look at Barnster there deep in Depp-dog *mic drop* memories, and Pyne not quite giving it "his all" for the design and tech headwear assignment.

Like the time I picked ten pin bowling for Year 7 sport, some subjects are just acceptably cruisy, they don’t really affect your life for better or worse.

Except, it wasn’t class for Turnbull’s troupe. It was the country’s governing body making decisions for its people and they lost the vote to the equivalent of the kid in front of me who took one of my bowls and didn’t knock over a single pin – aka NOT the person in charge of the task at hand.

So to regain control, our PM reads his wayward students the riot act.

Enacted in Great Britain in 1714 during a time of civil disobedience, the act was originally applied to 12 or more people who were ‘unlawfully, riotously, and tumultuously assembled together’.

The act read:

“Our Sovereign King/Queen doth command and charge all persons being here assembled immediately to disperse themselves and peaceably to depart to their own homes. God save the King/Queen.”

If they did not ‘doth’ then it was very possible they dith(?) found themselves dead.

Fast forward to twenty-sixteen’s buzz phrase and it just seems like the emptiest of threats for bad behaviour.

The PM said during a radio interview: “I’ve read the riot act to them, their colleagues will all read the riot act to them. They’ll get the riot act read to them more often than just about anyone could imagine”.

Well, the PM doth underestimate one’s imagination.

While I think three ‘riot act’ mentions in two sentences is a tad excessive, my imagination can expand pretty far for how many times someone could have it read to them.

This is where I think your main movie plot line comes in.

Imagine a country’s leader gathers the people and announces they’re now solely focused on ‘reading the riot act to accidental government rebels’.

A proxy steps in while they sleep. There are flashbacks to all of their lives pre riot act readings. It goes on until one of them wishes the penalty was still death. 

Hey, I didn’t say it was going to be a great movie.

But it’s clearly another bestseller.

A month earlier, the Australian Olympics boss Kitty Chiller confirmed, ‘yes, I read them the riot act,’ in relation to the men’s sevens apparently staggering back to camp after a Copacabana night out.

Maybe Ryan Lochte could have done with a little more riotous bedtime readings and a little less riotous reality?

Last week, a teacher friend said she had ‘read the riot act’ to a high schooler and I can also imagine how ‘peacefully’ that kid departed to their home. “God save the school!”

My bootcamp leader was away during my first session and asked on the following morning if the stand-in instructor had read me the riot act?

Um, no need. I don’t have time to riot during BC. As last week’s post explains, my entire focus is split between taking in air to stay alive and keeping stomach contents down.

But since ‘empty riot act readings’ are the latest superfood of the vocab world – i.e. been around forever but everyone’s jumping on board now because it’s a fun pretend power to have until we find the next one – I have a few of my own to read.

To my local council: for putting up a four-way stop sign in a quiet backstreet. You did this in a city that struggles to understand the simple laws of merging. Don’t be surprised if you return to the scene of the crime and find four cars permanently parked there because they don’t know who’s meant to go first. You only have yourselves to blame – you’ve been read the riot act.

To everything living in my BBQ: Perth’s weather is uncommonly cold and wet for October so you can almost be forgiven for not realising summer’s coming but winter’s over punks and you’re not paying rent – disperse immediately or the riot squad tear gas is coming your way.

To my beautiful family: I get it, I screwed up a simple dish. My potato mash took two hours to cook and I knew full well I didn’t even own a potato masher. I also understand garlic bread can only tie everyone over for so long. But no one was getting all precious during the Great Depression. So if lumpy potatoes were good enough for them and they had to wait all day to eat them, then laugh time is over for us – this is your riot act reading.

And to everyone who’s overusing the reading of the riot act AND not even literally reading the riot act – you have now officially, in the unread sense, been read the riot act.

I might have just ‘out riot acted’ our PM.

And, will my readings have the same effect as his?

Sure, of course they will.

[sureofcourse]

Spring edition #2 | The bootcamp betrayal

Bootcamp is like the lottery.

The mere thought of buying a ticket triggers your ‘jackpot allocation’ mode.

A lavish holiday. A house in Spain. Of course, your family will get some, you’re not a monster. Oh and you’ll need a new car. Just a modest one. But with a chauffeur? And I’m totally hiring a live-in hairdresser so I never have another bad hair day again.

Well, signing up for bootcamp is also the ultimate IOU to your future self.

I have never been comfortable in a bikini (I tried one in my late teens but thanks to a mix of British and Baptist roots found the whole ordeal incredibly stressful), however, try telling that to my bootcamp brain that’s decided by the end of this four-week program I will be ‘bikini-ready’. 

And, the dresses – one or two sizes too small – that I’ve held onto for years, well, I can’t wait to wear all of them this summer.

It’ll feel like a whole new wardrobe without having spent a cent. 

Bootcamp is practically saving me money.

This is my year!

Somehow, in ‘my year’, I find myself five minutes into day one plotting a Shawshank Redemption escape plan, complete with Morgan Freeman narration.

Sergeant Bootcamp orders running on the spot, interchanging between “knees up” and “feet to glutes”.

*Deep breaths, B*

Gosh, I’m already tired. And I haven’t gone anywhere.

“Warmups over.”

That was just the warmup?! Please can I go home. I definitely feel like I got A LOT out of those five minutes. Maybe even too much. If I stay, I’m kind of ripping them off.

Sarge BC proceeds to take us through three circuits of 14 reps, “to be repeated three times each: push-ups, chin-ups, planking-knees-to—your-elbow thingys…”

Honestly, I had stopped absorbing any English during the first set of push-ups which was cutting off oxygen to my brain.

Now that I had made it to the main act of this bootcamp biz, my next mission was a fully-focused attempt on NOT throwing up in front of everyone.

Stealing some sneaky glances around the park, there was a tree, a hockey goal and the lake.

I guess the lake would be the logical choice?...Lol. You optimistic, recruit, you! You’re not making it to the lake in one piece.

Sarge BC: “Now jog back and forth between the cones, hit the deck when I say and then continue jogging”.

WHO SENT YOU TO EARTH TO PUNISH ME?!

This image is clearly only a representation of bootcamp and not my experience as the female pictured is still conscious.

“Hit the deck.”

If by ‘hit the deck’ you mean collapse in the foetal position and have all first aiders in a 1km radius start recalling their DR ABCD training…then, NAILED IT!

Who cares if I’m that girl who doesn’t ever come back after the first session? I don’t need to be fit. I don’t need confidence for summer...or in life.

Then light from heaven projects down on me – or the sun begins to rise, I still wasn’t in any position to be deciphering details.

It had stuck around for the better half of the hour but the nausea was subsiding and I hear the three little words every girl wants sweetly yelled at her: “warm down time”.

I guess it wasn’t that bad. I can make it through four weeks. And then the beach bod to flaunt around my Spanish summer home in a different dress every day can still be a reality!

Sure, of course.

[sureofcourse]

Spring edition #1 | The gardening blue thumb

We’ve all had the following exchange with someone.

“No, I couldn’t do that…actually, I don’t even like it.”

Only to be assured: “oh you definitely can — you’ll love it!”

That’s the funny thing about people. 

Listening is hard work but not listening can lead to more work and yet we’ll knowingly choose the latter.

One cold but beautifully sunny Sunday in Perth, the non-listening patrol was out in force at my place.

My beloved mum and auntie.

I’ll admit I asked for help to weed my backyard. It was a rental so buying up big on gardening renovations seemed a little excessive.

Oh, and I’ve killed every living plant I’ve fostered since I can remember.

I’m surprised the gardening centres of Australia haven’t revoked my greenery spending licence already!

But, what started with “can you help me weed my backyard?” was heard as an Angry Anderson style reconstruction challenge.

I was incredibly grateful for the help but it was when I saw the green glint in their eyes and was told: “we’re just going to pop out for a moment” that I’m sure the ‘gardens defence' department at Better Homes and Gardens would have been immediately alerted.

“Please don’t be going to buy plants,” I vainly yelled to the car’s smoking hot exhaust pipe.

A moment later, and I have to give them credit for their shopping speed to buying ratio —  incredibly fast and high, respectively —  they had returned with a National Park in the boot.

“Why did you buy SO many plants?” I sighed.

“They’re natives, you can’t kill them,” they replied, nonchalantly waving one hand at me while already digging holes in the dirt with the other.

OK, I may have used ‘help me garden’ rather than ‘help me weed’.

But ‘garden’ 100 per cent means weed to anyone who knows me.

Native plants usually renounce their native-ness as soon as they find out I’m their groundskeeper.

The neighbourhood willie wagtail surely gathering evidence for my impending trial against nature.

Here’s the stats for my gardening prowess.

When I was young and living at home, my mum bought me a rose bush.

I completely forgot I owned a rose bush and as the proverb goes when one forget-eth plant ownership, water doth not follow to sustain its life.

Fortunately for my debut plant, it ended up gaining a protection visa at my Nana’s.

Although sadly, future flora didn’t live to soak up much light and tell the same tale.

Kangaroo Paws. A Lucky Bamboo. An optimistically named flower – Survivor.

Notoriously stoic or not, mi casa is not so plant casa.

Actually, I apologise, there has been one type of vegetation that not only lives at mine but thrives…weeds.

Which was why I was in this killing-grounds mess all over again. 

It took about four hours for my mum, auntie and me to mostly rid the small 10x5m yard of weeds on that sunny day.

And standing back, admiring our efforts, I was actually really proud of how it looked.

Native plants with colourful flowers lined the fence, the weeds lawn was smelling freshly cut and there was water for everyone!

It was a real happily-ever-after moment for foliage.

Then the spell was broken.

“Now B, you can keep these ones alive,” mum said.

“And, don’t give them too much water,” my auntie added.

Oh, I don’t think there’s going to be any danger of that.

“Sure, of course.”

[sureofcourse]

The weight may have changed but the times haven't. Only 11.8kg to carry around so you never had to miss another life-changing daytime show again.

[sureofcourse]

I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count.

Jack Dawson, 1997