Unfinished business 

I started writing a book about my dating adventures over two years ago.  I still haven’t finished it.

I started writing a screenplay three years ago.   I’ve done about 30 pages.  It’s still not finished.

In my spare room, I have 23 old frames which I had planned to put photos of friends and family in, and line my hallway with memories of people I love.  I haven’t done one single frame yet.  Not finished. 

I’ve realised recently that there are a few (!) projects that I started and am yet to finish.   I read somewhere that it’s a classic trait of my personality.  I get all excited and start something …. I work on it with gusto for a few weeks or months … then I get bored and drop it.  It happens a lot for me.

Is this something that I’m proud of?  Not really, but it’s also not a trait I’m ashamed of either.  I think it merely highlights that I have a lot of really good ideas … I’m just not good at sticking to stuff.   (Ironic if you look at how long I’ve stuck it out in shitty relationships.)

A few years ago I was bored in my job and looking for some inspiration, so I did a short course with a creative coach.  She was great and put me back on track encouraging me to just write for 30 minutes a week.  I can do that, I thought, and sure enough, I found my writing zen and the pages flowed out of me.  For about two days.

When I explained to my creative coach how I lost my mojo over just one weekend she asked me a tough question, “Why do you need to be the one to write it?  Could you just come up with the idea and delegate the writing to someone else?”

What?!  Was she mental?  Of course I couldn’t get someone else to write MY book.  It’s MY book.  MY creative project.  I don’t want another person to do that.  That’s my job.  My role.

Then I thought about it.  Maybe I can just be the ideas person, and I can surround myself with other creative types and get them to do the heavy lifting.   I can pitch ideas, give directions and let them write according to my brief … and then I proof read, correct and make it my own.  How brilliant is that?  Why had I never considered this before?  I pay people to do stuff for me all the time that I’m not good at – like fix broken toilets, service my car and cut my hair.  Why can’t I pay someone to write my book for me? 

Anyone know a great ghost writer who can channel a single girl who went on a dating rampage for three years and is in the middle of writing her memoirs about 13 of the men she went out with?  Give them my number.  I might have a job for them.   


Rolling with the punches (and ankles)

In a few weeks Natty Nat and I are going hiking.  135kms of coastal joy in sunny Perth.  I can’t wait.  It’s going to be my favourite type of holiday – exercise, adventure and wine. 

The only issue – just a tiny one – is that a few days ago I rolled my ankle.  

I was walking to dinner with T Girl in the hipster part of town.  The area where you can’t get a park unless you own a scooter or a council permit.  After a long search, I found a space down a long sidestreet.  Fine.  I can use the walk to get the steps on my Fitbit up.  Hurrying along the dark street, I didn’t see the pothole  – in my ankle went – rolling onto the cold concrete.  Bang. 

Ouch.  I hobbled for a bit and shook it off.  By the time I sat down at the uber cool Vegan restaurant with T Girl, it felt better.  I’ve done this before.  I’ll be fine. 

After a dinner of Vegan Mac’n’Cheese (a bit powdery), weird potato tortilla (my choice, my bad) and the world’s best bean dip, I headed home to finish some work.  Changing into my PJs and ugg boots (don’t judge me), I sat down and turned on my laptop.

Boom.  An intense pain shot up my leg from my ankle.  I actually yelped.  Moving my foot around I tried to shake off the pain but the throbbing increased.   Holy shit, that really hurts.

I attempted to stand up and nearly fell over.  There was a lot of therapeutic swearing repeated over and over … including F*CK, that hurts, F*ck, that HURTS!   The shooting pain took over my whole foot and most of my leg.  Excruciating.  It felt like someone had taken a carving knife and was stabbing me in the ankle.  I wanted to cry – I was a little girl who wants her Mummy. 

Ice it, my Sports Doctor’s voice told me.  I grabbed my well worn ice pack and raised my ankle covering it in the blue semi frozen liquid.  The pain barely subsided.  It just made my foot cold.   I tried to move it around.  More pain shot up my leg.  F*ck, this is really killing me.

After 20 minutes of icing – and me trying not to cry – nothing seemed to work.  I abandoned my inbox of emails (I’m committed to my job, what can I say?).  All I could think about was my throbbing ankle – and the anxiety of knowing I had a plane to catch the next day.

I popped two pain killers and prayed that my ankle would heal. Hopping up and down trying to get into my PJs was, I’m sure, quite a funny sight, but my sense of humour had long disappeared.  Sliding into the sheets, the fabric felt like sandpaper on my leg.  Wow, this is really bad.  I might have to get it amputated.  No more marathons for me. 

My flatmate Twin Kat came home.  I heard her moving around in the hallway and feebly called out her name.  She didn’t respond.  I tried again but nothing.  My Mum is right.  I will die alone and my cat will eat me.

Throughout the night I tossed and turned, checking on my ankle.  The swelling seemed to be reducing but I was still in a bit of pain.  Come on God, I need to see my kinesiologist tomorrow.  Then catch a plane.  Then do some hiking practice.  PLEASE fix my ankle. 

In the morning I tentatively slid out of bed and put my feet on the floor.  I stood up slowly and only a tiny bit of pain pulsed through my bad ankle.  I took a few steps forward and it felt tender, but okay to walk on.  Hallelujah, it’s a miracle!  I showered – on one leg like an ungraceful flamingo – and felt nervous, but fine.  

An old ankle strap / bandage provided additional support and I jammed my foot into my flat slipper shoes.  No heels for me this weekend.  I was off …

Jess my Kinesiologist did reiki on my leg, warming her hands to move the energy around.  It felt better.  She gave me a bottle of Warrior essence (yes, I’m not joking) and some other exercises which I won’t talk about or you’ll think we’re both insane.  Which we may be, but she fixed my ankle so who cares.    

The flight was fine – I somehow managed to get three seats to myself on a packed plane.   I did consider stretching out and putting my foot on the spare seats, but was worried about being attacked by other passengers.    My foot swelled up a little more but the pain has subsided, now only a dull ache. 

My ankle is still a little tender.  I don’t think I’ve done any permanent damage, but I guess time will tell.  (Or my Osteo when I see her later in the week).  I think the hike is still on.   Going to try out my new boots this weekend.  Wish me luck.   


Get Dr Pinot on the phone 

I’ve been sick for weeks.  It’s really annoying.  Nothing too serious, just a headcold that won’t go away.  I’m not sick enough to take more than a day off from work – but just sick enough to feel like crap. Constantly.  I’m not alone as several people have also been whining about the fact they’ve been ill this Winter.   I feel your pain, co-whinger.

Last weekend, in an effort to finally shake this bug I cancelled everything I had planned to do.  I didn’t go to my charity board meeting as my head was pounding and I partially lost my voice.  I managed to get to salt therapy but avoided leaving the house on Saturday.   That night was spent on the couch drinking herbal tea, green juices and consuming healthy salads.  Kale is my friend.

The next day I stayed in bed and slept until 10.30am, forfeiting the opportunity to take part in Run Melbourne’s 5km run.   I shopped and bought a stack of fresh vegetables and made super food salads and a plethora of healthy meals.  I went to bed early, crossing my fingers that I’d punched my headcold in the face.

Monday morning rolled around and I felt just as crap as ever.  I was so tired I could barely drag myself out of bed. This is bullshit I said to myself as I popped a Codral and took my quinoa based salad off to work.  I sacrificed my whole weekend just so I could get better and feel like shit in an office.  Life is not fair people.

I struggled through the week as best as I could.  Rain and cold days didn’t do much to help my spirits but I tried hard to be positive.  No drinking.  Early nights.  No events.  Salt Therapy.  Lots of healthy salads and vegetables.  Herbal tea and green juices.  I did everything I could to feel better.   None of it seemed to help.

I needed a new strategy.

On Saturday I met with the awesome twosome chicks for brunch.  We sat outside in the cold and I ate my way through corn fritters, eggs and soy lattes.  We laughed and told stories about the shit things that had been happening in our lives.  It was perfect therapy.

That afternoon I rugged up and walked 3kms to the MCG, meeting GFM and his family for a day of footy.  Five glasses (plastic cups) of red wine, water and seeing my Pies win did wonders for my spirits.  I barely felt the cold with three layers of clothing, thermals, a beanie, gloves and a coat.  The 40 minute walk back to our hood was peppered with laughter and funny stories.  I was wrapped in my red wine blanket.  I didn’t feel a thing. 

GFM and I fell back into our local pub habits easily.  Order a bottle of red.  Curl up in a booth near the open fire.  Indulge in burgers, hot chips and way too many sides.  Talk about how cool the hipsters are.  Order another bottle of red.  Remind each other how we’re not hipsters, but still cool.  Drink red. Talk about how much we love and miss each other.  Confess to being drunk and tired.  Walk home. Pass out. 

When I woke up the next day – post five glasses and a whole bottle of red – I felt great.  My headcold was a distant memory.  I didn’t feel tired.  I felt energized.  A little dehydrated but pretty much okay.

I did personal training in the sun.  APT told me he was impressed that I had my boxing strength back.  I felt good.  Like the way I am meant to feel.  Happy.  Content.  Positive about life.

Got a cold?  Feeling shit?  Put away your kale salads and green juice. They’re of no use to you. Grab a bottle of Pinot Noir and drink away your illness. In fact, even if you’re not sick, start drinking anyway.  Why jinx getting sick this Winter?  Cheers.


Wanting the elusive 

They say that you always want what you can’t have.  I’ve been thinking about this a bit lately, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s true.

I had lunch with a good friend last week and he asked about my recent dating experiences.  I quickly ran through details on the world’s fastest and most boring date (coffee and 1/10 of cronut) … abusive messages from a douchebag (read my Granny Puss blog) … meeting a really nice guy but not quite clicking ... trying out a new app (and failing miserably) … and my ongoing stupidity / bravery at my quest to find a partner.

Sighing, I went into a rant about how disappointed I am that, after so much hard work, slogging it out in the dating world, I still couldn’t meet a decent guy.   Reeling off all the things I do / have tried, I lamented that (on a bad day) it didn’t seem fair that some people met their plus one with little or no effort, however I continue to ‘put myself out there’ with no luck.  I’m not just sitting around waiting for a hot pizza guy to ring my doorbell, I’m putting in the hard yards with zilch results.

He looked at me and smiled.  “I’m the same”, he said, “in finding a job, but what can you do?”

Ah, lightbulb moment.   This amazing guy has been looking for a job for almost two years with no luck.  He’s smart, funny, passionate and a good person.   Any company would be lucky to have him, but he can’t find a suitable role.  

Like me, he’s not sitting around doing nothing.   He volunteers with a charity, teaches at a Uni (sharing his skills and experience) and has taken on other roles to keep busy and pay his bills.  He exercises and stays positive, trying not to feel sorry for himself (unlike me and my occasional pity party).  No matter how many interviews he attends, he never lands the gig.  More disappointment, more self analysis, more wondering “Why can’t I make this happen?”

I have friends who are desperate to have children.   They look after themselves, take vitamins, follow orders from doctors and natural therapists.  Some of them have even been through IVF (Hell, I’ve heard) with no result.   Countless injections, invasive tests, procedures and cash, and still they can’t have children.  These people would be great parents, but for whatever reason, it’s not happening.   To make matters worse, they see young Mums ‘accidentally’ get pregnant and produce healthy, happy babies – whether they want them or not.  Heartbreaking. 

Why does this happen?  Is it to teach us that what we think we want, isn’t actually that good for us?  Sure, I can concede that I’m great alone / solo, but for people who want jobs and babies and good health … how does that work?

Is it that when we finally get what we’ve been asking for, there’s less chance we will take it for granted?  That the harder you have to work for something, the more you really appreciate it?   A lesson to count your blessings for all the good things we do have? 

Maybe it’s all of these … and also the fact that sometimes, life just isn’t fair.  Bad shit happens to good people and no matter how hard you work, some things just aren’t meant to be.   I’d like to think it’s also a reminder to stay strong, be positive and always follow your dreams, because you never know what’s around the corner.   Then when we do all get what we’ve been searching for, we’ll look back and be thankful that we never gave up. 

(And no, I am not going back to online dating …. Yet).


The What If Girl 

I’ve had an epiphany.  A realisation about myself.  More self awareness.  I’ve been spending time looking at my habits and patterns (good and bad), trying to work out what I want next in life.  I blame a stack of Facebook and Instagram posts encouraging me to Follow My Dreams and not settle for less.  Dammit. 

Part of this came about after another hilarious (read hideous) dating experience.  I wondered why I keep torturing myself, talking to men who are either damaged, f*ckwits or both.  Why could I not just give up dating for good?  Was I a sucker for punishment?  Did I have a hidden issue from my childhood?  Am I afraid to be alone? 

Thankfully the answer is No to all of those questions.  The answer is that I’m a What If Girl. 

My head is constantly poking me with the statement “What If?” It happens in lots of areas of my life, particularly dating.  What If this guy that I talk to / text / go on a date with is the love of my life?  (I say next as I’ve been lucky enough to have had a few loves in my life.)   What If he’s just awkward online but when we meet, we have an amazing connection and it’s on?  What If I’m being too fussy?  What If I give up dating and my next big love passes me by.  What If?

I have the same issue when it comes to stuff.  I have a lot of stuff.  Some people call it clutter.  I call it memories.   I have a hard time throwing things out.  You never know when you will need something, right?  What If I get invited to a fancy dress party and the theme is double denim with a Brazilian dancer head-dress?  What If someone asks to borrow a book I’ve read?  What If I forget that I finished the New York marathon because I threw my runners out?  What If?

Then there are the quirky little habits I have that I’m not prepared to drop in case I jinx myself or something bad happens.  What If I don’t say Drive Safely to someone when they leave and they have a crash?  What If I don’t call people when they pop into my head and something happens to them?  (This has actually happened to me so I’m going to let this one go).  What If I don’t tell the checkout boy that he gave me too much change and I get bad karma?   What If?

Being a What If girl isn’t all bad.  It actually has a really positive upside.  It means I also wonder What If for good stuff.  What If we created this amazing event at work and everyone loved it?  What If I started a blog as a way to feed my creative juices?  What If I trained really hard to run the New York marathon (and three others)?  What If I chose to see the best in people and do what I could to have a happy life?  What If? 

I’ve decided to wear my What If Girl badge with pride.  To not use it as an excuse to torture myself with clutter and crappy experiences, but to embrace it as a girl who sees the world full of endless possibilities.   To use the term What If as a challenge to do more, be better and embrace that Follow my Dreams meme I saw.  What If I never saw those inspirational quotes on Facebook?  What If indeed.   

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