Can You Handle The Truth?

I seem to be going through a rough patch. It doesn't matter why. I mean, it does matter why, but for the purposes of this post it doesn't. Suffice it to say that it's not about the price of fish (which was quite a popular saying when I was young. I suspect it isn't anymore, but that doesn't matter either).

I am probably not tremendous fun to be around at present. I tend to do a lot of sitting and staring into space, alternated with bouts of running furiously to hard-core rap music. (And when I say 'furiously', I mean really, really slowly, and with tremendous pain. Also for no more than six minutes at a stretch, but considering I could only run about 90 seconds three weeks ago, I consider it progress.)

Much of my support system is temporarily out of action. Two of my besties are away and by god I miss them. And my parents go away tomorrow and I will miss them too. Happily there is such thing as email and Skype but it is not the same as coffee and phone calls. Or hugs. Hugs are good. I like hugs, too.

The other day on Facebook someone commented that I was a bit of a downer at the moment. She didn't mean to upset me; it was just an observation. She said it was a bit draining reading my posts. And yes, I suppose it is. I spent many years being riotously funny (or so someone told me. She was a friend of my mum's but I trust her opinion implicitly). Lately I have not felt so funny. And so I may be a bit of a downer. For that I am sorry.

But you know, such is life. We can't all be up all the time. And we can't all be down all the time. If there is one thing I have learned in this long, long life of mine (that sometimes feels super short; it just depends on the day) it is this: Everything passes. EVERYTHING passes.

Joy passes. Sadness passes. Fear passes. Worry passes. The only constant in life is everlasting, ceaseless change.

I will be funny again. This too shall pass. And then, no doubt, somewhere along the line I'll be a downer again. And that will pass eventually, too.

That is the truth. For me, for you, for everyone you know. Whatever you're feeling now will pass. So if it's hard, don't worry. Good times shall come again. And if it's good, hang on to it and enjoy every second. These are the moments to savour.

That doesn't mean you have to stick with me, or with anyone else who is a downer. Life is too short to be pulled down into someone else's quagmire of misery (and yes, I have waited four and a half years to use that word in a blog post. 'Quagmire'. Oh! It is a thing of beauty.) But if you do stick with me, or with whoever else in your life is going through a rough patch, know that it will pass, and that the happy times will come again.

And know that they - we - will appreciate you hanging in there till it does.

(And for the record, this is my favourite running song at the moment. This is the sanitised version. VERY sanitised. The actual song contains the lines 'Till the sweat runs down my balls'. It is so completely ridiculous it makes me laugh. EVERY TIME. No matter how down I am.)

Pushing Through

This morning I went for a run. I have just started running and it is hard. I have to force myself to don my joggers and my pitiful excuse for running gear (torn leggings and an old singlet) and get out the door. I have to force myself for the sake of my mental health, to run off some of the tension bubbling away inside of me.

 

But it is hard.

 

It is hard getting through a run like it is hard getting through the days. And that is hard because life is hard. I have the most beautiful kids in the world, and I live in a lovely apartment, and my parents are unbelievably supportive, and I have a handful of amazing, loyal friends who keep me buoyant. I love my work and I love my cat and I am lucky enough to have relatively good health.

 

I am lucky, but it is hard.

 

It is hard being a (newly) single mother of three kids. It is hard dealing with the myriad of financial challenges that presents. And it is hard coping with the dozens of other hurts and sadnesses and worries and confusions and fears that are too personal and private to write about, but that you would all relate to, because we all go through them.

 

Yesterday I heard some terrible news. An online friend lost her husband, a vibrant, healthy young man. He died suddenly and tragically. It is awful, just awful. It is not my tragedy. It is not my family. But it devastated me. It brought back home the fragility and unpredictability of life. I am so sad for my frined. I am so sad for my own parents, who lost their daughter nearly six years ago now. 

 

It is hard. It is all hard. But this morning, I went for my run. It started to rain when I was about five minutes into it, and the water was hitting my face, and I had to blink away the raindrops, and I was cold and wet and my legs were hurting. But I pushed through, because I had promised myself that I would. And then one of my favourite songs came on my iPod* and I suddenly got that rush of endorphins, and I surged forward, and I felt good, really good. I finished the run and I am sitting here now, tired and hungry and wet, but with an enormous sense of accomplishment. 

 

And that is what I will continue to do, today, tomorrow, and every day. I will push through. I will push through as you will all push through, because that's what we do, because that is life. And there will be good moments and bad moments and absolutely fantastic moments and moments that are really fucking awful. But we will push through them all. 

 

Wet and cold and tired, but with an enormous sense of accomplishment. We will push through.

 

*My Life (50 Cent feat Eminem & Adam Levine). Awesome.

Rehab - Part 2

continued from Part 1...

I climbed into my bed at Lilianfels and had a little nap. The bed was so comfortable and the pillows so soft and the lack of children so indisputably evident that I almost wept (again). And when I woke up I made myself a nice cup of tea then got back into bed and read about 17,000 books.

Okay, I read only one book, but it had a lot of pages.

The soup and crumble from lunch was still making its presence felt, so I decided I needed some exercise, and went out for a little walk. Five invigorating minutes later, I was suitably spent, and headed back to the hotel, and got back into my bed.

There was a knock at the door. It was a man. He was bearing a tray of chocolates. THIS tray.

ALL THE CHOCOLATES

"Would you like to choose a chocolate?" he asked.

JOKING! "These are all for you!" he said.

Seriously?

"Yes! All of them!" He put them down on the table. "Enjoy!"

Moments later there was a second knock. It was the lovely Sue from reception.

"So, did you find a man to give that second key to?" she asked with a bawdy wink.

JOKING! "We'd like to offer you this complimentary bottle of wine," she said.

I *may* be drinking in bed

OH! How divine. Really?

"Yes! Enjoy!"

My god but I was having a good day. It was clear what I had to do next. I took off all my clothes, did a little happy dance of Oh-My-God-I'm-Alone-With-Wine-And-Chocolates, and hopped into the bath. And there I sat, reading my book and scoffing chocolate strawberries and drinking cab sav and feeling a bit like Paris Hilton.

If, you know, she ate. Which she probably doesn't.

It was heaven.

I was in there. For a long time. Sigh...

After about six hours, when I was pretty much percolated, I was ready to do something energetic. So I got out of the bath and got into my pyjamas. That exhausted me, so I got into bed again. Eventually I found the strength to reach for the room service menu, and after a few more hours, I managed to crawl over to the phone. I ordered my dinner, then collapsed, panting, on the bed. It had really taken a lot out of me.

There was a knock on the door and my meal appeared on a tray. It was tiny and very disappointing.

JOKING! Look at it!

Now THIS is a burger

I ate it in bed watching some rubbish on TV and making little snuffling piggie noises as I delicately crammed my burger and chippies into my face. Awesome.

And then I went to bed. Except that I already was in bed, so I moved into a somewhat more horizontal position, and closed my eyes. With blobs of tomato sauce still on my chin, and the odd chip in my hair. And I fell asleep. I slept for a long time. A looooong time.

When I woke up, it was morning. And Day 2 of rehab began....

TO BE CONTINUED...

Managing Anxiety, Part One: Force

As many of you will know, last year I released The Little Book of Anxiety; Confessions from a Worried Life.   Since writing the book I have been toying with the idea of releasing an ebook entitled Beating Managing Anxiety; Advice From a Worried Person. However, I don't know the first thing about releasing an ebook, and besides, I don't want to charge anxious people for advice. We all deserve as much help as we can get, and I want to share what I know for free.

And so, without further ado, here is Part One of my new series. Parts Two to Until-I-Finish will follow shortly.

Let me tell you this one little secret - anxiety hates nothing more than company. Anxiety likes to live alone, dwelling in the fertile lush pastures of the empty mind. The very best weapon against anxiety is to keep busy. Anxiety needs to be driven out with force.

When I am anxious, my natural instinct is to fret. I become completely useless to myself and everyone else. I wander around in circles, I pace, I bite my nails. My heart races. My mind goes cloudy and I can't focus. If all I need to do is make the school lunches or write a blog post, I can't function. I can take an hour to put a sandwich together. I can sit at the computer and not make any sense.

Still, I've noticed something strange. If I am in this state and a producer from a radio station calls, and asks me to go on the air in five minutes, I will pull myself together. If an editor calls me and asks me to urgently write a piece, I will manage to do it. And for the entire time I am on task, I am focused and lucid and positive. I feel good. I feel strong. And when I finish the interview or column I feel better. It helps me to find my feet again.

Now, obviously I'm not advocating guest spots on the radio or calls from editors as the cure for all anxiety (but if radio producers or editors read this, please call me, I'm yours). What I am advocating, however, is that you find your own equivalent, something that works to get your mind off yourself and on the other. It is different for everyone, but we all have something, a task that will haul us out of our introspection and focus our attention elsewhere.

So what works for me? Well, my list is varied. It includes:

• Doing radio or TV;
• Doing any kind of public speaking;
• Meeting a close friend for a coffee;
• Writing to a deadline;
• Attending a meeting, whether about my children or work;
• Clearing out a cupboard or sorting through clothes;
• Going for a walk with hip hop music blaring through my headphones. (It has to be hip hop. No other music calms me);
• Organizing my handbag;
• Browsing through online stores to choose something I need. (It doesn't work when I'm window shopping in real life - I can spend hours walking around Westfield in a haze of anxiety. But put me on the net and I immediately concentrate. All hail the online world.)  

Your list may be completely different. The key is to identify what works for you, write it down, and then turn to it when you're feeling anxious. 

Maybe you feel focused when you're cooking, or attending a spin class, or painting your nails. Maybe you are able to concentrate when you're planting tomatoes or running a seminar or drawing up a spreadsheet. Maybe you're about to become immersed in The Bold And The Beautiful or in the works of Dostoyevsky or in the Fifty Shades Trilogy. 

Whatever it is, use your strategies. When you are feeling anxious, pick one of your activities and do it. Keep busy and drive the anxiety out, even for a half hour or so. And the more respite you get, the stronger you will feel, and the easier it will be to drive it out in the long term.

Let me know how you go, and I'll see you for Part Two.

Coreless

It is official.

I have no core.

You know how some people are inexplicably missing a finger? Or have only one kidney? Or no cartilage in one ear*? Well, I was born with no core. It's true. I have tried to find it and it is not there. I am core-less. If I was an apple you'd be able to eat all of me with no wastage. If I was an argument I wouldn't be very effective. If I was the earth we'd all be floating into space. If I was a nuclear reactor then the engineers would be in considerable trouble, because I have no core.

I tried to find my core years ago when I was having serious back problems and my doctor referred me to Pilates. After a series of private lessons, in which the instructor and I got increasingly frustrated, I decided that I was devoid of a core. As I wrote at  the time, being asked to move my core muscles was like being asked to move my sixth toe - bloody impossible, because I have no sixth toe.

I DON'T HAVE ONE OF THESE

In despair, I gave up Pilates for a while ever, and decided I would just have to live without some phantom muscle thingy that everyone probably lies about having anyway. Until just last week, when I was forced back into physio after I was unable to manouver my body into that very complex position known as 'standing'.

Well, Matt the Physio was very charming, but kept insisting on trying to find my core. He wouldn't listen when I told him I didn't have one, nor was he impressed by my clever apple metaphor. He stood there, hovering over me, as I lay on the floor with a hopeful expression, squeezing everything from my pelvic floor muscles to my tummy muscles to my thighs to my fists**, but unable to squeeze The One.

Matt gave me a series of exercises to help me find my core. I was crap at the first one, but gradually got better as the session went on. Except that I DIDN'T, at all. I got WORSE as the session went on. I thought I maybe glimpsed a shadow of my core.... and then it slipped away, never to be seen again. It was woeful. Poor Matt. And poor me.

And yet I plod on, lying on my back, bracing this and pulling that, in pursuit of the corporeal goal that hovers - for me to be whole, at one, to have my very own core.

Or, if that fails, perhaps I could borrow yours. Do YOU have a core? Do you know where I can find one?

*okay, that last one would be me
**in frustration

What I Really Did At The Health Retreat

On the weekend, I was invited to the Golden Door Elysia Health Retreat as a guest speaker. I went with my friend and fellow author Kylie Ladd, who is already about as healthy as they get, but for her rather alarming problem with chocolate, hot chips, more chocolate, some more hot chips, another slab of chocolate, and wine.

This post is not sponsored in any way, I just wanted to let you know what I got up to on the weekend. But I will say that the Golden Door is beautiful, the food is fabulous (even without sugar, salt or oil), and the setting in the Hunter Valley is magnificent (even if the irony of a dry resort in the heart of wine country wasn't totally lost on me). If you can afford it, go, and tell them I said hi. Maybe then I'll get invited back.

So.... What did I do on my break?

I DIDN'T go to the seminar on Setting Wellness Goals. I thought it was an extremely worthwhile subject, but frankly, being away from the kids and The Architect and the laundry, and having my bed turned down and my food cooked for me, had already made me feel Well.

I DID think a great deal about coffee and alcohol and chocolate and hot chips and salt.

I DID drink green tea till my bladder burst in the hopes that I could convince my body that it was drinking coffee.

I DIDN'T convince my body that it was drinking coffee. Not even a tiny bit.

I DIDN'T do Tai Chi at Dawn

I DID have a massage. It was 50 minutes of heaven. I may have dribbled on the table.

I DID wish I could have slipped the masseur a billion dollars to keep massaging me for ever.

I DID go for a walk with Kylie down the very long, steep driveway and to neighbouring resort.

I DIDN'T make it back up the drive. Kylie had to find a hole in the fence that bypassed the very long, steep driveway so that I could sneak through again on the flat.

I DID give a talk to the assembled guests in the lecture theatre on the Saturday night.

I DID begin my talk by telling the audience that I was going to discuss The Benefits Of Bran. They looked only slightly dismayed, and not at all surprised.

I DID break the rules of the Golden Door resort. I took a second carob slice for morning tea on Sunday, when I'd clearly been allocated only one. I feel really bad but I honestly couldn't help it. It was VERY NEARLY CHOCOLATE!

I DIDN'T miss home very much.

I DID wish I could stay another week.

I DID just lie. I really wanted to stay another year.

I DID check my room for belongings before we left.

I DID suddenly remember that I had left my beanie behind when we were already outside. Kylie offered to go back and check. I hadn't left my beanie behind, but I had left a pile of dirty undies in my rom.

I DID feel bad that Kylie had to touch my dirty undies.

I DON'T feel that bad. I'm way too zen after my break to feel much of anything at all.

Have you ever gone to a health retreat? Would you? Could you?

The Force Was With Us

Today has been absolutely exhausting. We have spent most of the day sitting on our balcony watching the City To Surf, the annual fun run from Sydney's CBD to Bondi Beach. Watching people jog and sweat has really taken it out of me. I should have done some training.

The race began with a trickle of runners, the serious sportspeople who would fight it out for the win. It was terribly exciting and the kids and I ran outside to cheer them on. We clapped, we waved, and I tried to go 'Woo hoo!' but had to stop after my son told me I was an embarrassment.



The Balcony Scene

Across the road, Boo's best friend, the delightful Sarah, appeared with her mum and dad, having walked up the hill from their home.

'There's Sarah!" cried Boo. "I want to play with her!"

"Okay, let me just get your coat," I said. I rushed inside and rushed out again.
"Alright, let's go."

Er... no. Slight problem. In that 30 seconds, about 20 billion people had flooded the road. They had come out of nowhere (actually, they had come out of the city, but that's just semantics), and were pounding the pavement, panting and grunting in a pumping wall of humanity. And there was no way we were getting past them in one piece.

"Sa-RAH!!!" my three year old wailed, reaching out pathetically across the road. It was tragic. So near, and yet so far. I tried to explain that we could simply not risk being trampled to death in the name of a playdate, but she was inconsolable.

Then beside me, an elderly woman appeared, dressed as if for church. She looked to her right, looked to her left, and then ran, ducking and weaving through the sea of joggers in her skirt and  hat like a pious Pac Man. It was inspiring. That, my friends, is what Faith will do for you.

Over the couse of the morning, we saw a number of interesting competitors. There were Smurfs, Super Marios, and a blue Avatar person. There were Spidermen, Supermen and a limping Batman ("I guess I'm not invincible after all," he told me sadly). There were a couple of wrestlers, many Bananas (some peeled, some whole), and a Colonel Gadaffi (don't ask). There were Lego pieces, a Stig, aliens, and an awful lot of tutus. And there were a couple of Wonder Women, looking more than a little tired. ("Wonder Woman! All the world is waiting for you!" I said. "Well it'll have to wait a bit longer," one of them replied.)

Can you see Elmo?

About half way through the race my daughter posted a sign. KEEP GOING! it commanded. And then the sign fell off.

"Do you think I should play my violin?" she asked.

"Well that will certainly make them run a lot faster," I told her.

My husband and I brought out stools, sat down and continued to shout out encouragement to the passing masses. "Less talking, more running!" I yelled to a chattering group of girls.

"Less sitting, more running!" one of them yelled back. I guess I deserved that.

"Go ducky!!!" I shouted to a runner in a duck costume.

"For god sake, Kerri," said my husband. "You're embarrassing me."

"Why?" I asked. "I'm allowed to cheer!"

"Because it's a chicken," he said, and rolled his eyes.


Still, by the end of the race, it was my husband who was embarrassing me.  "Disqualified!" he started calling out at random (although happily, no-one took notice). "Give up! There's no point! You'll never finish!" he said. And I dragged him into the house. 

Eventually, the sea of runners trickled to a stream. We went inside, and watched the end of the race through the window. But the best was yet to come. A huge group of Star Wars Storm Troopers marched past our house in full costume. It was awesome. It was almost spiritual. I hoped the church lady had seen them.

May The Force Be With You

Later in the day I got to thinking. If I started training now, I could run the City To Surf next year. I too could be one of those joggers. I could be a Smurf, or a Batgirl, or a Banana. I could be an Elmo, or a Star Trooper, or a Duck. (I could even be a Chicken, but then I'd probably get confused.)

But it looked like really hard work, and even writing this post has made me tired. I think I'll just stick to the balcony.

BASTARD

As conscientious blog readers will know, I set up an Elliptical Fucking Trainer in my office the other day. Aside from worries about whether I would ever get it assembled, and whether - if assembled - I would ever use the damn thing, my primary concern was how my husband The Architect would respond.

The Architect is a man of vision. Our home resembles a clean, white spaceship (or at least, in his vision it is. In reality, it's more like a messy white spaceship with Spongebob memorabilia scattered on the concrete floors, and Nutella smeared on the Improbably White Couch).

The Architect designed both the exteriors and interiors, and is very specific about what he will 'allow'* in the house. Minimalist white furniture is encouraged, despite the presence of three children and a bunny. Clear plastic stools are celebrated. A futuristic pod takes pride of place in the corner. And the dining table is made of steel and glass. Practical, I know. Sigh....

Wall hangings are few, and carefully chosen, and decorative items are sparse. At the beginning of our relationship The Architect even tried to limit the number of photos I could display to five at a time. Of course, I completely ignored him, but he really did try.

So given his delicate aesthetic sensibilities, how on earth would The Architect accept an Elliptical Fucking Trainer? It has no beauty, or designer features. It's a machine, and an ugly one at that.

But I wanted my EFT. I wanted it bad. And so I hatched a cunning plan. I decided to smuggle it into my office when The Architect wasn't home, assemble it myself, dispose of the packaging, and when he inevitably noticed it, pretend that it had been there for months. Sounds absolutely infallible, right?

I shared the cunning plan with the two older kids, and enlisted them to help. We practised saying "Dad, it's been here for months, are you going mad?" for a least a week before the EFT arrived. And on the day I brought it home, we practised again whilst waiting for The Architect to walk in the door. We were primed. We were ready. It was time to take him on.

"Hi," said The Architect, walking into my office and kissing me on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"Daddy!!!!" cried Boo, who had been standing on the EFT.

"Hi Boo!" he answered, and picked her up and swung her into his arms. "I missed you!"

Er... HELLO husband??? Are you BLIND???

"So what's going on?" he asked me again. I just shook my head blankly.

"Daddy, I been exercising!" said Boo. "On the machine!"

"Great!" said The Architect, leaning against the EFT. "So what's for dinner?" I scanned his face. No hint of recognition. No hint of surprise. NOTHING.

The big kids bounced into the room, ready to do their part. "Hi Dad!" they said uncertainly, waiting... waiting... nothing... nothing...

"Hi kids! Let's go play!" he answered. I couldn't take it any more.

"DO YOU NOT NOTICE ANYTHING?" I yelled.

"What?" he asked.

"THE THING YOU'RE LEANING AGAINST."

"You mean, our Elliptical Trainer? We've had it for months, right?"

I looked at him hard. And I had to admit. He got me. He got me GOOD.

I hate that Elliptical Fucking Trainer.

*I use inverted commas to represent his illusion that he is actually in control.

Kerri Vs The Machine: The Tears, The Triumph

Yesterday my elliptical trainer arrived*. Unfortunately I wasn't home to receive the package, so I trooped to the Post Office with notice in hand to pick it up.

"Oh no," said the nice lady behind the counter, followed by a lot of things I couldn't actually understand as English was clearly her fifteenth language. "No no. Not heeya."

Through a combination of sign language and despair I intuited that the package was too big and had had to be rerouted back to the holding centre, which of course was out in Woop Woop**. After contacting the holding centre and failing to agree upon a time at which they could redeliver it (because I am busy and they are inflexible) I decided to schlep out there and pick it up myself.

Luckily my car is the size of a small town, because the elliptical trainer, described online as being 'compact', was in a box the size of a large house. I drove it home, dragged it inside, and proceeded to open the package.

Or at least, I tried to open the package. The damn thing was sealed in industrial strength cardboard and stapled together with metal clasps the size of my foot. It took every piece of kitchen equipment I had just to tear the damn thing open. I had to rest for about an hour as my whole body was shaking with exertion. Exercise equipment indeed.

Then it was time to assemble the machine. Well, the instruction manual provided with the equipment made the lady at the Post Office look like an English professor. It referred me to the 'Explosion Drawing', which was appropriate as the sight of it made my brain explode into a million tiny pieces. Much like the elliptical trainer on the floor.

Still, I made progress. I got the first two bits into the main thingamyjig without too much trouble. But then I had to insert the spindle bar through the connecting tube with a sharp washer and a spring washer using a hinge screw and a chain wheel shaft without damaging the crankshaft, and I completely lost my mind.

After sobbing in the corner for several minutes I continued my quest. I struggled through but was hindered by typos and spelling mistakes and ommissions. Was the Right Connecting Tube number 40 or 49? It was labelled as both. What on earth is a D Sharp Washer?*** And perhaps it would have been helpful to tell me to put piece 1 in between pieces 17 and 24 before I found out by myself and had to dismantle the whole thing and start again.

However, after a mere 147 minutes, my elliptical trainer was assembled (with only one slight crack on the footrest after I put it in the wrong way and broke it on my first pedal). And it's great. Not that I ever plan to use it.

Quite frankly, after the morning I've had, I never want to see that little fucker again.

 *(the one I bought online without informing The Architect, who, as many of you will know, is a Minimalist and lover of stark white furniture, a category into which 'eliptical trainer' does not fall).
**(You know. Far away.)
***Turned out to be a D Shaped Washer. Sigh....

For New Year.....

So it's time for New Year's Resolutions. I generally make a few. I don't usually keep them for more than a day or two, but as we all know, effort, not quality, counts, in 2011 as in any other year.

Now, I usually keep my private life intensely private, hidden from all but my closest confidantes, my blog followers, my Twitter followers, my hairdresser, my babysitter, the guy who delivers my shopping, and pretty much anyone who sits next to me in a cafe, stands behind me in a queue, or enters a lift with me on any given day.

However, today, I shall overcome my natural reticence to share, and will disclose to you my New Year's Resolutions for 2011.

Just please, keep them to yourself,

1. I resolve to keep my house clean from now on. This won't be easy, as my house is very white, and very beautiful, thanks to an architect husband who believes in form over function, and has a thing for very white, very beautiful sofas. But I'll do it, godamnit, even if it means banishing the children to my parents' house and eating on the lawn. Except that I won't, of course. I'm not very good at housework. But I promise to put a new bag in the rubbish bin when I take one out. Will that do?

2. I resolve to get the kids to school on time. I haven't quite worked out how I'll do this yet, as I already wake up 90 minutes before leaving time and I've never yet got us all ready by deadline. But I'll figure it out. Or move the kids to a school that starts at 10am. That would definitely work.

3. I resolve to get fit. Somehow, over the past couple of years, my exercise regime has degenerated from 'regular' to 'sporadic' to 'I'll do it tomorrow'. And it's not like I don't enjoy exercise. I do. I just enjoy other things more. Like sleeping. And eating. And reading the paper. And ironing. And stabbing myself in the eyes repeatedly with a blunt object. You get the idea.

4. I resolve to be an ideal parent and wife. Which is completely ridiculous, of course. I will never come close to being an ideal parent or wife. No-one can. So let's just say I resolve to be the best parent and wife I can possibly be. That's all anyone can aim for.

5. I resolve to write my second book. My son tells me this is premature, as "Your first book might be an epic failure, Mum, so what's the point?" But I shall forge ahead nonetheless. One has to take risks, and one needs a bit of faith. And if my first book is an epic failure, then at least it will set the bar low, so I can achieve a personal best on the second. Right?

6. I resolve to laugh as much as possible in 2011. Life is hard, and full of pain. Life is unpredictable, and full of unexpected dips and turns. Life is short, sometimes unbearably so. But life is also full of joy and wonder. I think of my sister and I ache. I think of the terrible suffering experienced by so many people I know, and even more people I don't know, and I want to scream at the injustice of it all. But I look at my children - my heart-wrenchingly beautiful children - and I cannot believe how blessed I have been. I think of my husband, and my parents, and my wonderful friends, and I feel intensely grateful for all the love I have in my life. I don't know the meaning of life. I do believe, however, that we need to laugh and love and celebrate the good stuff as much as possible. Otherwise, what on earth is the point?

So to all of you, my friends and readers and commenters: THANK YOU. You will never know how much it means to me, to log onto my computer and see how many of you have read this blog; to read your comments - sometimes touching, often hilarious; and to feel your ongoing support and your caring. THANK YOU. I am grateful for each and every one of you, and I look forward to seeing you all around here next year.

I wish you all a 2011 filled with joy, good health, and happiness and I am sending big virtual hugs and kisses to you all.

Kerri

My Sixth Toe

So imagine this. You're lying on a mat, and your instructor is standing over you.

"Deep breath, breathe out, and move only your sixth toe," she says.

You breathe out and try to move your sixth toe.

"No," she says patiently, for the dozenth time. "That is your fifth toe. Move your sixth toe. Now deep breath."

You like your instructor, and you're paying lots of money, so obediently you try to move your sixth toe. You don't have much luck. Problem is, you can't actually feel your sixth toe. In fact, you're pretty sure you don't have a sixth toe. Still, your trainer is insistent. Apparently you do have a sixth toe, you've just never used it before, and she'll work with you for as long as it takes.

Welcome to Pilates.

Okay, you're not really asked to move your sixth toe. But it's almost as tough. 

Before Pilates, I thought I had one set of stomach muscles, and I did sit-ups to make them strong. I was proud to demonstrate my muscles to the instructor. I was sure she'd say I'd be a brilliant student. 

I was wrong.

You see, apparently I have a few different stomach muscles, and the ones I've been using aren't the ones I should be using. The ones I should be using are hidden under the ones I shouldn't be using. Problem is, they all feel the same to me.

"Breathe out, and draw in," the instructor says. She is lovely and serene and has her fingers wedged near my hipbone.

I draw in.

"No, see," she says as she presses down on my pelvis, "feel the tension here? You're using the wrong muscles. Let's try again."

I feel the tension all right, but it's not in my stomach. It is like being asked to bend spoons with your mind.

"Breathe out," she repeats ever so calmly. "Concentrate on the corset of muscles in your centre."

"But HOW?" I wail. I feel petulant. I can't feel the corset, I'm not sure I believe in the existence of the corset. How can I draw something in when I don't even know if it's there?

"It takes practice," the instructor says soothingly. "In the meantime, just keep sending it signals. Eventually it will catch on."

So I send signals, corsetry signals, out towards my mid-region. I concentrate fiercely. So determined am I that I nearly chip a tooth.

"No," she says gently, and I want to weep. "Let's try again."

So on we go, the instructor and me, on our search for my elusive corset. It may take a while, and I'd better be careful. Wouldn't want to stub my sixth toe.