The Power of Three

Once, about six years ago, I did a 100 Day Challenge. I scribbled down big hairy goals and set schedules and surrounded myself with vision boards and positive people and worked like crazy to change my life beyond my wildest dreams. It lasted about a fortnight and then my concentration slipped because a new episode of LOST had come back on TV… and then I lost interest in LOST too because I had to trade my vision board for a white board to keep track of the characters and the emerging themes… damned if I know what happened in the end but I do remember I liked Sayid better than Jack who turned out to be a little bit                                                                             dull. I digress.

I have to confess I've always been a bit of a self-development junkie, which is why over the weekend I decided to Google ‘100 day Challenge’ to see what’s new.  In the space of what seems like a few years this 

  topic has exploded, and that’s good, and it still excites me. However, I still seem to have the concentration span of a gnat. The very idea of stepping out 100 days in time to reach a better place in my life leaves me exhausted and I know I’ll not make it: across the river of adversity, down the path of good intentions, through the door of opportunity, past the point of failed attempts or towards the light of never ending spiritual enlightenment without having to pause for some mind-numbing TV or bad food.  

So I figured I’d settle on something shorter and more manageable. At first I thought 50 days, half the time, sounds doable, but no, that’s quite a bit of planning still and a very large to-do list to go with my many and varied goals. ‘How about 30 days?’ I asked myself. Maybe, but I want results people! Successes, heady achievements, I don't want to fade. 30 days is just too long to maintain that much adrenalin-guzzling action, besides, that’s a long time to smile every-god-damn-day! Even a week requires a decent amount of planning and effort. So, I settled on three. Three days. Three days to get it right.

Three days of ‘getting it right’ will provide me with enough heart-pumping action and steely-minded determination needed to reach the challenges I've set myself. Here is my Three day challenge for anyone who has the grit to take it on..

FOR THREE DAYS, PLAN AND IMPLEMENT:

Plan three days’ worth of meals and shop for groceries = No going to the shops for three days, hooray! No having to find a car park;  No kicking the cat out of the way because you forgot to get the damn cat food

on your way home; No snide remarks required when your husband or significant other (see former comment about cat) asks ‘what’s for tea?’ No eating rubbish because you’re hungry and have to eat Tim Tams while deciding what to have for tea.

Plan three outfits to wear over the three days and hang them ready to wear. To increase the degree of difficulty of the challenge, accessorise outfits = No running from the shower to the laundry in the nuddy to find underwear; No stumbling around in the mornings looking for your running shoes and having to turn on the bedroom light at 5am. ‘Soooo sorry my darling, did I wake you?’; No arriving to work with top inside out; No mismatched earrings; No wearing the same outfit with tomato seeds on the

collar for three days in a row; No dressing in something that startles the cat.

Plan three work-out sessions = Feeling pretty damn proud and energised; No excuses; No mediocrity and No feelings of guilt about the Tim Tams.

Plan three must do projects for work = No regrets; No last minute scrambling to reach a dead line; No having to look for a new job.

Plan three projects for home and personal life = No thinking something else is more important right now; No delaying the dream; No need to wait until you’re on holidays, it’s a long-weekend, the family are visiting, the tax cheque arrives in the mail. Make it simple and preferably nothing that requires paint brushes.

Plan to watch only three programs on TV= only three EPISODES not three SERIES

Plan for three ‘fun’ activities = No martyrdom; no bitterness, no resentment, no stopping to check your work E-mails or whether your last study module submitted has been marked yet. Just have fun!”

So that’s it, my three days are pretty much planned for and achievable. It will be a challenge and if I'm successful I might really stretch myself and try for four days sometime in the future. It’s all about the journey…speaking of which, what did happen to Oceanic Flight 815?

Grey expectations Chronicles of My Hair - Part 1

"There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It's called a guillotine." PG Wodehouse.

I'm experimenting with the idea of going grey. It’s a complicated, thorny topic which shouldn't be. A subject loaded with social constructs, ageism, sexism and self-worth.

It’s been a long time since I've seen my virgin hair. For 27 years I've been hiding my natural colour. There’s probably been a whole decade in which I couldn't tell you what that colour was.

At twenty I would race home from work on a pay day with a packet of Clairol ‘One Shade Lighter’ and armed with sheets of newspaper and a pastry brush I would set up a salon in the bathroom. Oblivious to the persistent interruptions of others knocking on the door and the life-threatening vapours emitted from said product, I would transform my dull mouse-brown, dirty blonde hair into something more vibrant. And so it began…

To many, a woman’s hair colour defines her. Grey equals old age. Youth is such a valued commodity in our society. There is an endless quest to look 25, right through to 85. As the years creep along dyeing your hair becomes creepy.  For some, going grey is akin to a medical condition, one to be avoided at all costs and sometimes to the extent of looking absurd.

Now, I want to go natural. Why? I'm tired of being a slave to my hair and the maintenance required. There’s something liberating about not having to worry about dyeing your hair, about being authentic, being the real me. Importantly, reducing the amount of time and money I spend on my hair is in line with my ideal of minimalism.

I know going grey is a result of time and genetics, but there’s a feeling of entitlement, having arrived at this moment and I'm inspired by the increasing number of women who have let their hair go grey with beautiful results.

I think I'm ready for this. My hairdresser has become my accomplice and assures me that with the use of highlight and lowlights, the transition to grey will be relatively painless (it’s that medical condition again). I trust her completely and recognise that I may not be as alone as I first thought in my endeavour to go grey. We will do this together the artist and I.

And if I don’t like it? It’ not irreversible, it’s a grey area.

After visit 1 in which I embrace my roots.

Meals on Wheels Ladies are Doing It… the Zest for Vests

I've been kept awake for too many nights now, tossing and turning in my Peter Alexander pyjamas, and I have to ask the question...when did we become so risk-adverse that we allowed high-visibility vests to become part of our daily fashion? It seems no one leaves home these days without adorning themselves in these hideous luminosities.

Once upon a time, these garments were the necessary attire reserved for people working in high risk areas such as  building construction sites, atop skyscrapers, drilling deep holes in the road, crossing raging rivers, railway yards with large locomotives and racing to the scene of an accident. Now however, it seems that every man and his dog are wearing them… and chickens too!  Forget ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ now it’s ‘when a chicken crosses the road, be sure to dress him in a ridiculous high- viz vest”

 Are we such an accident prone nation that leaving home without glowing is just not an option anymore?These ugly, shapeless and over-represented garments have stealthily worked their way into the very heart of our community… we have become a high visibility culture.

It’s disappointing that in recent years even the Boys in Blue (or khaki) have dropped their dress standards. Now the hot young cop that directs you into the RBT station has taken on the appearance of an upright squid jig with a gun.

At footy and netball, appointed stewards can be found prancing around the grounds, directing the crowd and giving orders, bolstered by their vests. Council workers grab you eye like a line of Bollywood dancers as you drive down the street, surrounded by witches hats, that were once considered bright but now dull in comparison.

On a recent visit to Adelaide I was helped into my taxi by a cabby wearing a fluorescent vest, protecting himself no doubt, from an hysterical crowd of holiday makers or a stack of runaway luggage trolleys.

 

This week, I nearly had a small accident myself while driving home from my very safe office job. I took my eyes off the road for just a second, no make that several seconds, distracted by a sight that I can only describe as absurd. Imagine my surprise when two of our lovely local Meals on Wheels Ladies, carrying their baskets full of warm goodies, stepped out of their vehicle wearing…. you guessed it…. high visibility vests! Please... explain to me... what perilous situation could threaten and put in mortal danger the lives of these community icons to such a degree that they have to wear retina-searing fluorescent! Were they expecting space debris to fall on their heads?

What’s next? Is it just a matter of time before Bikies have to wear high viz vests and use fluro flags? Good luck with that one… What about Undertakers? Should they be wearing them? … After all, it’s a job that involves high emotion and a deep holes.

Now it seems the ever-present risks have entered our city buildings, the lady at the target entrance and now cleaners everywhere are wearing hi-viz attire. Why would they do this? What’s going to happen? Why don’t I know of the impending doom that lurks in every corridor, waiting area and shop entrance?  

I can understand the need for cyclists who use the roads wearing high-visibility vests, they’re already wearing lycra, so there’s really not any more damage they can do to their sense of style, but at least it alerts others to their presence.

The burning questions that keep me awake are:  where will it end? When will we get to the point that so many people, animals, buildings are draped in neon that everyone looks the same? When will Doctor Who have to wear one…?  

Superman is that really you?

Have Giddy-Up Bra... Ready to Run!

‘Ask me, ask me anything’ she murmurs, we are close now, really close, and I’m conscious of her firm breasts and oh-so-supportive lycra-ensconced body… I look anxiously around to be sure there is no-one listening. My husband is only metres away on the other side of the flimsy curtain. I hesitate, and then blurt out in whispering tones ‘I… I … I don’t know where they should be!?’ She smiles and scrutinises my mature breasts and nods knowingly…. I know nothing….

She swishes past the curtain and returns with what looks like the inside of a tyre but with sparkly bits… ‘This will stop any movement… things will stay right where they should’. I smile nervously and begin to undress… I pause, waiting for her to leave but she is waiting with the sparkly tyre bra thingy in hand. And there’s not just one, she is holding an assortment of constraints… pink, blue and pretty, others look more…challenging.  

In an attempt to alleviate my slight nervousness I focus on the fact that she is a highly-trained- fitness-and-exercise-garment-consultant, and that she has no interest whatsoever in my fifty year old attachments, other than their geographical positioning.

… There is no way to describe the inelegance, the exorbitant amount of energy and the skill level required to put on a sports bra…. All I can suggest is that you picture a dog that has a sudden and compelling itch and must contort his body or squirm on the lawn to find relief….a similar amount of grunting and leg kicking is necessary to get into a sports bra.

The first bra was too small, obviously, and squeezed my cleavage until it resembled a scrunched up brown paper bag. The life-threatening tightness of the said bondage gave me a head-ache and slightly bulging eyes. The competent sales assistant misinterpreted the tears in my eyes for disappointment.

‘Slip out of that one and we’ll try the next’ she smiled. SLIP!?!?!? 

If I thought putting it on had a high degree of difficulty it was nothing compared to taking it off. I pulled and heaved and started to break out in a sweat…. I must have cried out at one stage as a smaller version of the highly-trained-fitness-and-exercise-consultant popped her Barbie-like head around the curtain and asked if everything was okay. ‘It’s fine!” I hissed… as I grappled with the pain of what could only be a shoulder dislocation. “Here, I’ll help” she offered sweetly and positioned herself behind me. I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror; she had taken the stance that is used to deliver a calf from a cow, while I looked like a Japanese wrestler as I poked back the flesh that was squeezing out wherever it could, like icing in a tube.

But… if I had been physically and mentally squashed by the first bra, the second delivered me from hell. I couldn’t stop admiring and touching my newly shaped and re-defined breasts. They were marvellous! I do not use the term flippantly, as if by some lycra miracle, I had been transformed into cat woman.   

I preened and pranced around the change rooms like a pony! The gorgeous and ever so helpful highly-trained-fitness-and-exercise-consultants applauded en masse. I was stricken by the grandiose idea that I was now an official athlete, because only we athletes could look and feel so good with our perky breasts. My elation knew no bounds “I’ll take two and one of those pink, tiny tank tops too!” The stunning and incredibly talented sales assistants tossed their golden heads and flittered around me like Greek goddesses, sporty and athletic Greek goddesses, who had probably been in an Olympic event or two at some stage and, like me, knew the benefits of a good sports bra.

So, now all that’s left to do is run 12 kilometres sometime in September along with thousands of others. But I’ll be sure to stand out in the crowd, as I prance along in my giddy-up bra, tantalising onlookers with the sparkly bits.

Swinging From the Money Tree

“We realise we can’t have everything, and so begins the mad scramble to have everything else.”- Robert Brault

For the first time in many, many years I have started my annual holidays with money to burn!... money to travel, money for accommodation and lovely meals, money to spend on going out and seeing the sights and to buy new clothes along the way, money to bring home a trinket or two, money to spend on whatever I fancy!... but here’s the irony … I don’t want much of any of it.

You see, the very changes I’ve adopted recently which have freed up so much of my cash, are life-changing, behavioural shifts that have made me come to realise that I already have most of everything I need and probably could ever want.

 It’s simple really. I have enough.

It seems to me that the endless cycle of desire, buy, remorse and eventual long term guilt, relieved only by more buying is now more debilitating to our health, our relationships, and our lives than ever before. Our over consumption has become the norm. There was a time when we were able to recognise poverty for what it was, the lack of resources, now it appears, we believe that poverty is not being able to have what we desire at a particular time.  As a society we have lost our perspective on what we need to survive and have adopted a sense of entitlement in its place. I have been guilty of saying “I work hard, I deserve this” when I should have been thinking about how much I already have. Until recently I have not put a lot of thought into how an item was produced, and what would happen to it once it had lost its appeal to me.

So, deciding what is ‘enough’ for you will mean that you are aware of your needs and that you can recognise when something is a ‘desire’. Knowing ‘enough’ will give you the tools to make tough financial decisions that will impact on your hip pocket and your responsibility as a consumer.

I have not always been so saintly in this area, I have had my share of money worries, lying awake at night doing sums on the ceiling and struggling week to week.  I know what it means to spend with no controls in place. My point here is that whatever our current money situation – it’s the choices we make and the reasons behind those choices which will lead us out of the money pit. It will be the changes in how we think about what is ‘enough’ that decide whether we swing from the money tree like a princess or swing from a noose!

I’m not alone in my newly developed disdain for over-consumption. Environmentalists and the social welfare faction have been railing their contempt against the ill effects of our over consumption for a long time.  Irresponsible consumption is not only laying waste to our planet but is destroying our homes and families and the lives of the forgotten women and children forced into deplorable working conditions by our need for instant gratification.  

We need to focus on the gaps between our pay days, the time when we make a judgement about how we spend our money, or question if we need to spend money at all.

 

My own efforts in exploring what is ‘enough’ have restored a sense of gratitude I’d long forgotten. It turns out our parents were right (I may need to stop and take a deep breathe admitting to that), we probably already have what we need if we just stop and look around.

So, my next challenge, to myself (and to you), is to look at how much ‘stuff’ I have, how much of it I really use and what could I throw out (recycling expected). Then with what I have remaining, decide how long I can survive without going shopping? A day? A week? A month? …. Maybe longer?

“The hardest thing is to take less when you can get more” – Kim Hubbard

more food for thought? visit these blogs for some inspiration

www.andthenwesaved.com

www.missminimalist.com

Size Matters

Small rooms or dwellings discipline the mind; large ones weaken it. Leonardo da Vinci

"I want one of these" I tell my husband as I swoon over images of tiny houses.  He gives me the same look as when I announce I want to sell our car and buy a Vespa or rescue a Shetland pony from an animal shelter... followed by a sigh that only those living in prolonged suffering can truly appreciate.

I adopt my most informative voice "Do you know that Australians have the biggest houses in the world? The average Australian house is 243 square metres...and... on average, only 2.6 people reside in each dwelling?"

This time a raised eyebrow.

Recognising I have lost my audience I go outside to sit under the pergola... 8 metres by 5 metres... to dwell on the issue of dwellings. It's true that I have become besotted with tiny houses, but I am genuinely alarmed at the costs associated with maintaining a large, or average, Australian home. I'm worried about the impact  big houses have on the environment and that a big house has become the norm. Above all else I shudder at the prospect of how much stuff we fit into these houses.

My eyes wander to the shed... the very big shed... the 'big enough to house a small African nation' shed... and I imagine a cute, teeny, weeny little house sitting in its place...

Our house is too big for us, it seemed fine for a while but with grown children moving on it has now taken on penthouse proportions! The rooms seem endless and clearly under used.

The dog and the cat now have their own bedrooms, thoughtfully decorated with bone-embossed wallpaper and mouse-hair matting (for the discerning cat). All that's missing is a kitty-litter en suite and an outdoor kennel/ shed so the dog can sneak out the back for a quick fag.

Our house is too big for us. Without other people, i.e rowdy under twenty-fives, who check in and out intermittently, making various encouraging remarks regarding the laundry system and the current menu... well, the space seems cavernous!

Big houses have different time zones... I know this for a fact... a half hour in the shed, as in "I'll turn the music down in half an hour" or "I'll just pop out and have a quick beer in the shed with Duncan, I'll be half an hour" does not equate to... say... a half hour in the kitchen.

Big houses pose different levels of risk and access requirements. For example, the upstairs area, where my son reigns, requires visa entry (and possibly some sort of vaccination)... the sofa is the domain of all males, including the tom cat... the laundry is a high risk area, known to render a man weak on entry and unable to grasp simple concepts such as dirty socks, undies and used towels belong in the dirty linen hamper.   

Coincidentally, the external door to the laundry is only used by myself and the dog... who is a bitch.

Now, a small house would not entice clutter, would not require negotiation as to what areas are in and out of bounds, would not be subject to different time zones. A small house would be functional and accommodate only those things that were beautiful and appreciated. It would be a centre for calm and be pleasing aesthetically... not a shed in sight.

I close my eyes and 'Om' deeply... I'm almost there... 'tis just me and he, sitting on a tiny porch, taking in the beautiful vista before us... no interruptions... just the sound of our laughter and the clink of glasses as we drink the wine, which we poured in our tiny kitchen... we make our way inside to sit beside the tiny fireplace... ah the serenity...

The moment passes and I'm back to reality... it's dark now as I head out the back door, crunch across the gravel with a Big Jim flashlight in hand and holler above the barking dogs....

"TEA'S READY!"

photos:  Porter Cottage

Mutton-sleeves to go with those lambskin gloves? Or are Ewe just looking?

Recently I went shopping with my lovely 19 year old daughter, she wore a beautiful white blouse over skinny jeans.... I wore.... a cloak that made me invisible!

I wanted to buy something that would carry me between seasons, a light-weight knitted top perhaps or something from the new season's colours to add to my recently organised wardrobe. 

Buoyed by the anticipation of making a purchase, I smiled my most charming smile at the fresh young saleswoman, as she approached us. Still smiling I said hello but she seemed to have spotted someone over my shoulder and asked 'hi! can I help you with anything today?' Perhaps she has an eye aversion or an astigmatism I thought, and was really looking at me... but no, her sight was apparently quite okay, it was just me she didn't want to see. 

On the other hand my daughter was most certainly a visual target. The saleswoman fluttered around her making suggestions as to what may be a suitable item to try on, while I stood awkwardly clutching my purse, looking, I suspect, like Mary Poppins in a strip club. 

My daughter, who was not interested in this particular shop, wandered off and the salesbeeeech seemed to suddenly become aware of my existence. 'Just looking?' she sort of asked as she closely examined a life-threatening smudge that had developed on her over-processed nails. I gave her a weak smile and left the shop. I only wish the change rooms were the Tardis and I could have evaporated into thin air....with the Doctor....who looks fabulous even though he's over 200 years old.

Now I'm not suggesting all fashion outlets respond the same way to the over 50 shopper, and certainly I've had some great experiences in our local area where the assistant is more than happy to indulge my fantasy-self in trying on all sorts of garments, suitable and maybe not so suitable while giving some very worthwhile advice. But I do wonder if there are some rules regarding what women 50 and over should or shouldn't be wearing. 

For instance, is there a time when scrunchies and other hair adornements should disappear? (I'm thinking ten years of age) and when should women of that certain age forget about navel exposing tops? (this is an important consideration as an over-sized fifty something wearing a muffin top can have a life long detrimental impact on unsuspecting viewers, requiring years of therapy).

  I"m not suggesting we should stay at home in front of the TV in our onesies....(though there are times when that holds a certain appeal)...but there must be rules of engagement regarding shopping for fashion.

However, this may yet be another lesson as I simplify my life, maybe I need to learn how to admire something rather than desiring ownership every time.

There are some very inspiring older women who are comfortable in their own skin and take great care of their bodies and minds. Take the time to look at the video link below to see Maia Helles and be touched by this beautiful video by Julia Warr (you may need to copy and paste into your browser)

And if you have ideas about the fashion rules for women I'd love to hear them....

http://vimeo.com/31733784

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/mutton-dressed-as-lamb-caroline-peacock.html