STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her 

Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all here. Personally, there is little I care about less.

But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?

I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.

It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)

I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.

But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.

Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?

Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.

And we also don't need the inevitable 'Bouncing Back from Heartbreak' stories or the 'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'. But trust me, people. They are on their way.

Ageing: Are You Ready To Finish Your Slice?

Sometimes when I am pottering around my house I interview myself. Some people would call that 'talking to themselves' but it's far more formal than that. I pose myself questions, think about them, and then carefully articulate my answers.

If that makes me weird, well, wait till you hear about my faux cooking-show demonstrations.

The other day, during one of my probing interviews, I asked myself how I feel about ageing. After all, if I was a celebrity I would get asked that question all the time. Any female celebrity over the age of 30 is asked how she feels about getting older. Male celebrities aren't asked until they hit 50, but hey, I've interviewed myself about gender inequality many times and it's really not at all surprising.

So how do I feel about ageing?

cake: a metaphor

Well, I'm glad I asked.

At 46, the physical stuff doesn't bother me too much. Yes, I have wrinkles, blah blah blah. Yes, I have stretch marks, blah blah blah. But what do you expect at this age? Quite frankly, I get more upset about my occasional pimples than I do about the Visible Signs of Ageing.

And yes, I feel more Comfortable in Myself now than I ever did as a younger person. That all is true. I feel much more me than I did as a younger person. I am more confident, less concerned with what other people think. I know how I want to live my life, and am making that life happen.

But you know what I don't like?

I don't like the fact that time is running out. I don't like the fact that I am half way through my life. I feel keenly the sense that my years left on earth are limited. I know that we all have limited lifespans. I know that a twenty year old isn't going to live forever either. But I didn't feel my mortality at 20. I didn't even feel my mortality at 30. It hit me for the first time at the age of 45, and I suspect it will get stronger with each passing year.

I know it's not fair to feel this way. I have lived 46 years already, and many of them well. I am like a child with only half a slice of cake left, resenting the other kids who haven't started theirs yet. We all get our slice, I am halfway through mine, and I mustn't be greedy.

But I am. I want more cake. I like eating it and I don't want it to be over anytime soon. Or even in another 46 years.

I've interviewed myself, and now it's over to you. How do you feel about ageing? Will you ever be ready to finish your slice?

Things I Should Have Sorted by 40, But Haven't

I am 46. That is closer to 50 than 40. (And yes, you probably worked that out yourself, but I'm still coming to terms with it.) By now I should probably have worked out this Adulting gig. I've been doing it for a long, long long time.

But there are still things I haven't figured out, despite my advanced age: things I should have sorted by 40, but haven't.

1. I am still searching for the ideal hair and skin care products. I have not yet accepted the reality that it's not the products that are imperfect, it is my hair and skin.
2. I still let paperwork pile up in huge mounds around my house. I have tried 758,000 filing systems over the past three decades, and not one of them has eliminated the mounds.
3. I still sometimes eat my feelings.
4. I am still a sucker for clothing bargains and am forever purchasing non-returnable items on sale that I hate the minute I bring them home.
5. I am still incredibly trusting, and get fooled by liars time and time again.
6. I still bite my nails. Even my acrylic nails.
7. I still run out of bread and milk all the time.
8. I still confuse sex with love.
9. I still don't have a formal exercise regime. Or even a casual exercise regime.
10. I still lose my temper with the kids and regret it afterwards.
11. I still don't know the capital cities of many countries in the world, despite really, truly trying to memorise them.
12. I still don't have a signature dish. I don't even have a signature drink.
13. I still fret if I don't get enough sleep.
14. I still assume people are dead or angry with me if they don't text me back straight away.
15. I still need therapy.

What about you?

Evil VS.... Something Else. Where do you stand?

Evil is a strange thing. We all have different definitions of it. I think most of us can differentiate between bad deeds and bad people; we all do bad at times, but most of us are fundamentally decent.

I know people who have stolen, people who have cheated on their partners, people who have hit their kids in a moment of anger. I know people who have run red lights or driven whilst over the limit or cheated on their tax returns. You do too. And you probably don't think that makes them 'bad', at least, not if they are mostly kind and honest in the rest of their lives.

But what happens when someone does something so bad, so shocking, that it completely defines them? Something like pretending to have cancer to get money, or murdering their children, or sexual abuse? Can we separate them from the act? Can we say that they did something bad but are not actually evil?

And if the act of evil is so monstrous that we cannot believe a regular person could do it... what then? Because this is where people tend to fall into two camps. Some people - like me - believe there are evil people in the world. I believe Hitler was evil. I believe Martin Bryant was evil. I believe men who kill their families out of revenge are evil. I believe that if you can distinguish right from wrong and perform an act of great horror, then you are evil.

Other people conceptualise it differently. Other people like Lana, for example. It is something we have debated frequently, and do so again here. And we'd love to know your thoughts. So watch and let us know.

Gratitude is a Commodity, and I'm Not Sold

Gratitude. Do you remember what it used to mean?

It was that feeling you had when you were nearly hit by a car as you crossed the road but it missed by that much (also linked very closely to 'relief').

It was what you didn't actually experience when your grandmother gave you a birthday present that was way too young for you and you were really disappointed (see 'ungrateful brat').

It was the emotion that rushed through you when your boyfriend arrived at the door and looked really cute and you felt hugely lucky to have him (also known as 'I can't believe he's mine!').

It wasn't a movement. It was a sensation. It was something that came from the heart, or didn't.

But gratitude has been packaged and commodified in our social media age. It is something that you 'practice', not feel, as part of a Way of Being.

It is something to be cultivated and shared, and expressed in public forums.

What are you grateful for today? people ask.

Today I am grateful for my cat, my hot coffee, this new assignment, they respond.

Gratitude is memes and blog posts and apps and Instagram pics. It is a way to live, to overcome depression, to ease anxiety, to enhance positivity. It is a panacea for all sorts of mental and emotional distress.

And yet... I'm not sold. I feel grateful when I'm grateful, which, admittedly, is a lot. I live a fortunate life. I have much to be thankful for. But when I'm anxious or distressed or in pain or sad, forcing gratitude for what is good can't fix my woes. Gratitude for my children or cat won't palliate my grief for my sister. Gratitude for my friends or parents can't heal a broken heart. Gratitude for having had two books published can't ease the anxiety over the third.

But many people I know practice gratitude, including someone unexpected. We discuss it below. And I would love to know your thoughts. Are you a 'grateful' person? What are you grateful for? Has it changed your life? Am I missing something?

Single or Attached, This Is How You Need To Feel

This morning I made myself a coffee from my beloved coffee machine, walked downstairs to sit at the desk I chose for myself, and did a few hours of work.

And then I paused, and looked around at the bedroom which is mine, in the apartment which is mine, in this life which is mine... and I felt happy. Really, truly happy, in this moment.

I don't always feel happy. Life as a divorced mother is often challenging. I can feel lonely. I go on bad dates. I spend many a Saturday night alone. I feel overwhelmed by the responsibilities of sole parenting for much of the week. I wonder if I will ever take an overseas holiday with a partner again.

But today I feel happy. Today I feel a sense of ownership of my life, a sense of control and peace that I have rarely known.

I often worry that if I speak of feeling content in this life that it will be taken as a slight to my ex husband, and this is not at all what I intend. I have enormous respect and affection for him, and I always will.

But I really never lived alone until now. I moved straight out of home and into my then-boyfriend's home. After we broke up I moved back in with my parents for a while, and then lived on my own in an apartment for only a few months before I moved in with the man I would marry.

And from then on there was joy and there was travel and there were children and there were the infinite highs and lows of married life. But I never had the opportunity to learn my own tastes or desires or preferences independently of my partner. Or rather, I had the opportunity to do so, but I didn't take it. I chose my own path, but didn't understand it's impact until now.

This home is the first home I have decorated myself. My last holiday was the first holiday I have chosen alone. This desk was the first desk I have bought without consulting another. I choose my friends, the men I date, the work I do, the places I go. It is an incredibly empowering feeling, to make decisions about your own life.

To me, this sense of ownership of one's own life is fundamental. Whether you are in a relationship or single, you need to be in control,  of your decisions, your choices, your path. Relationships are about compromise - hell, life is about compromise - but that sense of ownership is vital. If you don't have it, then take the steps necessary to do so. This is the only chance at life you're going to get.

Whatever your situation, life will be challenging. But life is about moments. It is about those fleeting snatches of happiness.

And for me, today is one of them.

#FaithInHumanity

I woke up this morning to news of journalist James Foley being killed in the most horrific way in Syria.

I'm not going to dwell on this story. I am not going to exploit his tragedy on my blog.

What I will say is this:

In recent times, the news has been more and more horrific. The Middle East. Iraq. Syria. Children in detention. Ebola. The suicide of a beloved comedian. The list goes on and on.

And life on a personal level is challenging. Of course it is. For you, no doubt, as it is for me.

I need an antidote. I need to restore some kind of faith in humanity. I need to remind myself that there is wonder and beauty and goodness in the world. I need to tip the balance.

And I need your help.

I am hoping you can share with me - and with each other - some positive stories. Just a line or two. Events or people who reminded you that there is hope for us all, that there is light and love and happiness and the potential for peace. You could share them in the comments, or share them on Twitter or FB or Insta or on your own noticeboard at home with the hashtag #FaithInHumanity.

Maybe we can remind each other the world isn't such a bad place.

I will start:

Several cafes on the main road in my suburb feed a homeless man. People regularly stop and offer him clothing, food and shelter. He is respected and cared for by the community. #FaithInHumanity

Triggered

I don't cry very often these days. I spent a long time crying an awful lot, and I think I used up a lot of my lifetime quota.

What's more, I am keenly aware of my good fortune. I am deeply, profoundly grateful for my children, my parents, my wonderful friends, and my good life in this country. I do what I love, I live in a beautiful part of the world, and I am luckier than 99.9999% of people who exist on this planet.

But sometimes I do cry. And when I do, it is like unleashing a beast. The floodwaters break, and I cry tears for every grief and loss I have ever known.

Last night I had an argument with someone very important to me. In the scheme of things, it wasn't particularly significant. It was the kind of argument that we have had many times before. But I was tired, and took it badly, and when I was alone again I started to cry. Not the kind of gentle tears I cry when watching One Born Every Minute or when someone amazing performs on The Voice. No, these were great racking sobs that shook my whole body and turned my face into a squidgy red puffy-eyed mess.

And I stayed like that for nearly two hours.

When I cry, it triggers the deep well of pain I still have within me, the pain I will carry for the rest of my life. the pain of missing my sister, which is buried in a place only accessed by the key that is my tears.

On a conscious level, I remember how much I miss her when I am feeling sad, because she was always there to comfort me when I had a problem or needed support.

But on a far more primal level, sobbing unlocks that grief, like picking a scab off a wound will cause it to bleed. And the only thing left is to cry it out until the tears have passed once again, and the grief retreats back into that safe place in which it lives in my heart.

This morning I woke tired and low, hungover from a night out on the sobs. So then I went back to sleep, and started the day again a couple of hours later. And now all is restored in my world, and in my equilibrium.
We can endure. We can be happy. We are stronger than we think. We need to feel what we need to feel, when we need to feel it.

And then life begins, anew, in all its fortune and wonder.

In The Chest - All The Special Things

For my 18th birthday, my parents gave me an antique wooden chest. I had always loved chests. (The kind you put things in, not the kind that grow hair and nipples [though, you know, they're good too].) This one had several compartments, including a secret drawer and a hidden shelf. It was magnificent.

Over the years, I put all my special things in that chest. Love letters from my boyfriends and future husband. ID badges from my jobs. The program from the Young Talent Time concert I went to with my sister. My Brownie Guide Manual. The edition of TV Week I featured in after my short lived career as an actress. Broken watches and pieces of jewelry and notes from my friends and a dozen or more handwritten journals.

My life was in that chest.

This is not my chest (or phone, or plant, or truck) but it's very similar indeed

The chest followed me wherever I went. Once I was married, I pretty much stopped adding to it, but the chest lived contentedly at the end of our bed, often covered with clothes or blankets or a pile of books.

When I moved out of my marital home last year, the chest moved with me. There was no room for it in my current bedroom, so I put it out in the lounge room. But the idea of my most personal, private possessions being out in the lounge room made me feel too intensely vulnerable. The thought that one of my kids or their friends could rummage through that chest, sifting through my woeful poems and diarized confessions and proclamations of unrequited love was just too agonizingly hideous to contemplate.

It was time for the chest to give up its contents, and be put to use for some other purpose.

I transferred all my papers and books and treasures into an air-tight plastic wheelie, which now lives in the back of the store room. The chest is now filled with DVDs and strange power cords and random fragments of technology that I am too scared to discard. It is a platform for Lego and My Little Ponies and pillows and the cat, and is battered and weathered and chipped.

But I love that chest, and it will always be with me. And one day, I want it to live on in the home of my eldest daughter.

As for the wheelie bin of memories, well, the idea of someone looking at them is still too hideous to contemplate. Then again, there's an amazing Young Talent Time program there that someone will really love... and an ID badge from David Jones that's kind of cute... and some airmail letters from my ex boyfriend R that are really very special...

Think I'm just going to pop down to the storeroom for a while....

The Anti-Oracle

If I could have just one superpower, it would be the power to see into the future. (Actually, that's not quite true. If I could have just one superpower it would be the ability to sing really well, because I have these recurring fantasies about singing in front of a room full of people and breaking their hearts with the beauty of my song. But given my woeful singing voice, the power to see into the future is actually far more plausible.)

As an anxious person, I like to have certainty. I do not like the endless cliffhangers that come with everyday life. I like to know, roughly, how things are going to turn out. Whether that job is going to come through. How that problem will be resolved. What decision that person is going to make. Whether everything will work out okay in the end.

Artist's Impression Of Me As The Oracle

And so because I like certainty, I create the answers where there are none. Anxiety loves a vacuum (meaning, 'a space devoid of matter', not 'a vacuum cleaner' - ain't nobody got time for those) and so my mind will rush in, writing the end to the story when the story hasn't actually finished yet. I compose entire scenarios in my own head that are as real to me as anything that has taken place in real life.

The problem is, they are nearly always wrong.

I am the Anti-Oracle. I am the Soothless-Sayer. I am forever deciding what will come to pass, and am forever being stunned when it doesn't happen.

In all of my forty-five years, I have virtually never accurately predicted the future. (Okay, so that's not completely accurate; I totally saw the whole Gwyneth-Chris split coming, but I am far less clairvoyant in my personal life.) I predict disaster when a happy outcome is around the corner. I predict good fortune just before everything goes to shit.

But that's okay, because I am constantly surprised. Life never follows the script in my head, and - as challenging as that may be for an anxious person like me - it does tend to keep things exciting.

I think a quote from Pretty Woman just about sums it up (and let me tell you, I never expected to quote from that particular film so I really am walking the talk right here):

Edward: It's just that, uh, very few people surprise me.
Vivian: Yeah, well, you're lucky. Most of 'em shock the hell outta me.

What about you? Are you good at predicting the future?

The Hurted

Do you ever get hurt by people? Oh. Of course you do. You're human. (Unless you're a sociopathic human, but I suspect sociopaths wouldn't have a particular interest in reading this blog.)

But what do you do when you're hurt by someone? Do you confront them? Talk to them? Send them an email? Cry alone in your room?

I'll tell you what I do. I simmer. I ruminate. I get hurter and hurter. (And yes, I know 'hurter' is not a real word, but it is the most accurate non-word there is.) And then I concoct wild stories in my head in which the person who has hurt me does something really terrible, something so utterly, horrendously vile that I can scream and yell and make an absolute scene and impart something poetically withering that conveys without ambiguity just how hurted I am.

But I don't, of course, because it never happens. And so I just sit on the feelings, and eventually they pass, sort of absorbed into my system, or perhaps into the air. And then I let it go. I never hold grudges. Anger simply feels too uncomfortable to hold on to.

I'm not like this in romantic relationships. I never had any trouble expressing my feelings to my ex. Nor do I hesitate in conveying hurts or upsets to my parents, no did I with my late sister, nor do I with my kids.

It's friends that are hard. So ridiculously hard.

A couple of years back a very close friend sent me an email. She'd been hurt by something I said, and she wanted to clear the air. I was so happy she had sent it, and I was mortified by having distressed her. It gave me the opportunity to apologize, and we moved forward, and all was fine.

On another occasion I actually did confront a friend, after a very long series of small but significant hurts. But I didn't do it nicely, in a thoughtful email. I ended up yelling at her for pretty much nothing at all, which left me feeling far worse than if I'd addressed the issues in the first place.

I'm not sure why I can't express hurts when they occur. It's not that I'm not assertive. I think it's fear of total rejection, or uncertainty about my right to feel hurt in the first place. Either way, it gives rise to some quite bizarre fictional scenes that would play beautifully in some movie starring Meg Ryan and scored by Taylor Swift.

So that's a little insight into the complexities of my brain. What about yours? How do you deal with hurt?

It's Impossible. It's Intractable. What Is One To DO?

Here is the main problem with my life. It does not fit in with my circadian rhythms.

I am a Night Person, a Woman of the Dark. I function better in the evenings. I have never been a Morning Person - or if I was, it was so long ago that it has faded into the Eternal Night of my lost memories.

I do not jump out of bed perky and fresh in the mornings. I struggle into consciousness, blinking and foggy, and pull myself into a horizontal position by sheer force of will. I climb the stairs and check the kids are awake for school, and then drag myself to the fridge where I get out an orange and collapse again at the table to eat it*. If a child attempts to speak to me at this point, they will get a grunt. Perhaps a begrudging wave. I do not speak before I have had my coffee. At least not willingly. Or with any semblance of sense.

A problem of the ages (pun intended)

After my orange, I have my coffee, and then I am able to converse. But my brain doesn't warm up for at least another couple of hours. I can tidy and pay bills and maybe write a nice, light blog post, but I can't do any work of substance until later in the morning.

Sadly, though, it's when night falls that my powers of creativity really kick in. After eight, when the little one is asleep, and the big kids are watching TV and playing Minecraft doing homework, that's when it hits me. When the dishes are piled up on the sink and the school lunches are waiting to be made and there is a pile of laundry to be put in the machine... suddenly the genius idea strikes. I need to go to my computer and write.

And then I'm on fire. From eight until way after the kids go to bed, I am surfing the web and tweeting working like a demon. I feel energised and inspired. I could go all night.

Until it is midnight, and I realise I cannot see straight, and that I am never going to be able to get up in the morning. And then I fall into bed, and two minutes later the alarm goes off, and the whole maddening cycle begins again.

It's impossible. It's intractable. There is no solution.

Can anyone else relate at all? What is one to do?

*I always eat an orange first thing in the morning (see this old post, here)

Chicks

Tomorrow is International Women's Day. And to mark the day, I'm thinking about all that is important to me as a woman. A girl. A chick. A person with a vagina. A mother. A daughter. A sister. A friend.

• My daughters. I want to raise my girls to live lives of their own choosing, to be in control of their careers, their finances, their homes. I want them to know how to compromise, but how to stand up for what they believe in. I want them to have the freedom and power to follow their own particular paths to fulfillment. 
• My son. I want him to have everything he wants for himself, whilst encouraging the women in his life to do the same. I want him to be an excellent partner to a nice, feminist girl.
• My parents. I want to love them and support them as they have loved and supported me. Life is about nurturing those we care about, and being nurtured in return. 
• My friends. My friends boost me up. They share in my joy. They feel my pain. And I feel the same way about them. I would be lost without my female friends. I want to give to them as I receive.
• People in need. We need to notice other people. We need to be alert to signs of distress. We can't take responsibility for everyone in our lives, but we can extend ourselves for the benefit of others - as long as we don't stretch ourselves too thin in the process. We need to be kind. To friends, to family, to acquaintances, and to complete strangers (and yes, refugees are 'strangers in need').
• My body. My choice. I want to have control over the number of children I have (three is enough, thanks). If I want to let my hair go grey, I will. If I want to get my ears pinned back, I'll do it (actually I did). If I want to get a facelift and boob job, well, I'd be fairly surprised, but hey, it would be my choice.
• My career. I want a career. I also want to work from home and be available to care for my kids. That is my choice and I have been fortunate enough to do it. But there is nothing objectively 'right' about my choice. It is simply what is right for me. 

And that, for me, is the key to feminism. It's about fighting for choice. I want women to have choices about their bodies and their careers, about their relationships and their finances, about their family responsibilities and their futures.

Women deserve choice, just as men deserve choice. Choice balanced with care. Choice balanced with love.

Happy Chickies day, people.

Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky (Or Not)

Normally I subscribe to the 'Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky' rule. Okay, there have been some notable exceptions (during which I have got involved in ridiculous arguments with anonymous morons on Twitter), but for the most part I stick to my guns. Nothing good can come of posting when you're shitty. Your defenses are down, your emotions are heightened, and it is very, very easy to say things you will later regret.

Well, today I am hideously cranky, and I am throwing caution to the wind. I am on my third day of tonsillitis/ear infection, and am OVER IT with a capital everything. I am taking anti-biotics for my disease, pro-biotics for the anti-biotics, and Roses Chocolates for the depression that descended late last night after two days in bed.

On top of it all, I am pre-menstrual, which would be wonderful if I planned to have any more children and needed my stupid ovaries, but I don't, so perhaps they could just dry the hell up already? (And yes, for all those menopausal women out there, I'm aware menopause is no walk in the park either, but I'm cranky, so just ignore me and trust that when my time comes I'm sure I'll be complaining about that, too.)

So what else? Well, my inbox keeps filling up at the most ridiculous rate. No sooner do I delete all the junk and see to all the vital correspondence than I have another 30 emails waiting for me. About 10% are important, another 20% are important if you want to read about minute changes to the school canteen menu and what the kindergarten kids did at Assembly today (and seeing as my kids are in years one, seven and nine quite frankly I don't, not even slightly), and the other 70% are rubbish. I get emails about penis enlargements (and I don't have a penis - the still functioning ovaries would be a testament to that), vampire facials (because who the hell wouldn't want to take blood out of themselves just to inject it back in again), offers of large amounts of money in exchange for my bank account details (which I'm sure are, like, totally valid, but who has the time to write back?), and requests to link with people on LinkedIn for no reason whatsoever because LinkedIn has never done anything for me but generate emails (having said that, all requests will be accepted, because if I'm going to be on LinkedIn, I'd rather have heaps and heaps of connections than none).

Also I have bills to pay, laundry to do, a book to write, fleas to kill (yes, the cat has fleas and has spread them all over the house and the kids keep complaining [which seems completely unreasonable, I mean, when I was their age I walked to school barefeet in the snow....]), dinner to prepare, paperwork to fill out.... and I should probably also shower at some stage, too.

So that's it. I'm cranky. And if you're cranky too, now is your time to share it. I am declaring this Day of the Crankypants, and all cranky submissions will be accepted.

And if you're not cranky, well, you can comment too, but don't expect sympathy. And YES. I know you won't need sympathy if you're not actually cranky. You don't have to point it out! Bloody hell. Everyone's giving me a hard time today....

I Think Therefore....

Existentialist: I think therefore I am 

Excellentistentialist: I think therefore I am awesome 

Exhaustistentialist: I think therefore I sleep

Vexestentialist: I think therefore I worry 

Xanaxistentialist: I think therefore I take drugs

Intoxistentilist: I think therefore I drink 

Pecsestentialist: I think therefore I lift weights

Excerstentialist: I think therefore I work out

Ingestistentialist: I think therefore I eat

Sexistentialist: I think therefore I bonk

Textistentialist: I think therefore I message

Netistentialist: I think therefore I blog

Any others???

How You Can Tell Me Who I Am

As a writer, the best part of my job is also the hardest. I work from home. And whilst I love working from home - particularly the part where I can have a nap after lunch - it can actually be quite isolating. Apart from the baristas at my local café (who I visit most days for their cuteness coffee), I can go for days without seeing anyone. I have to make a concerted effort to see friends and meet people, so as to save myself from falling into a slump in which I forget the powers of speech and can only communicate by typing on a screen.
And so I frequently reach out to acquaintances and online friends, inviting people I have exchanged tweets or emails with to coffee or lunch. As a result, I have shared innumerable cappuccinos with people I barely know. Some have been celebrities, some ordinary citizens like myself, but all have been friendly and interesting in their own ways.

But what is equally as fascinating to me - beyond what I have learned about other people - is what I have learned about myself. Because, as I have discovered, the quickest way to learn who we are is to see ourselves through the fresh eyes of others.
I think with our longstanding friends and our family we fall into familiar patterns of interaction that make recognising ourselves difficult. Being with a new person allows us to have a clean slate, start anew, be whoever we want to be. There is no history and there are no expectations, there are just fresh reactions. And in these fresh reactions we can see who we really are.
And of course, every person brings out something different in each of us. I always thought of myself as anxious, until I began meeting people who believed that I am courageous. And I always thought of myself as being fairly conservative, until I met people who brought out my wilder side.
As counter-intuitive as it may be, I think that the key to learning about ourselves is, sometimes, to stop looking inwards, and begin focussing on others. Get out amongst the people. Socialise. Make friends. And without effort, without conscious thought, amidst all those interactions, your true self will begin to emerge.
Try it. And let me know.

How Old Are You?

The other day I was chatting to my friend K about dating.

"What age man would you consider?" she asked me.

"I don't know," I said. "I guess up to fifty... fifty two?"

Later on K confessed to me that she had thought that was really old. "Until," she said, "my fifty-one year old husband wandered into view."

K, like me, is forty-five.

Yesterday, my friends J and J came to visit me. J (the female) is forty-five. J (the male) is fifty. I know he is fifty because I was at his birthday party. But I have known J ever since he was in his mid-twenties. And whilst I don't necessarily still think of him as twenty-six (even I can perceive the difference in his hair), I cannot possibly comprehend him as being fifty. He will always be hovering in his thirties to me.

 

I'm not sure what age I see myself being, but it's certainly not forty-five. I know that I don't feel stuck in my twenties, because being around twenty-something's makes me feel about one hundred. But the word 'fifty' seems utterly preposterous, an age I can't even begin to fathom.

My parents, who are actually 69 and 70, are, in my head, around 36 and 37. Now this is odd, because that would place me at around 12. And I know I'm not 12. My eldest child is 14, so my being 12 would involve a level of time travel I can't quite wrap my head around.

Even more confusingly, I'm pretty sure I see myself as somewhere in my mid-30's. And how this works when my parents are the same age is a bit beyond me.

Now, this has nothing to do with maturity or mental age. Believe me, I have lived a thousand lives in my 45 years. Sometimes I feel far, far older than my age. At other times, I feel as naïve as a teenager. That is normal, I think. I suspect I'll feel that way till I die.

But I do believe we freeze frame ourselves somewhere in the middle of our lives. I believe that life moves quicker than our brains, and that it takes us a while to catch up. Perhaps when I'm 60, I'll feel 45. Perhaps when I'm 70, I'll feel 52.

For now, I am the same age as my parents. And that's not a bad age to be.

How old do you feel?

The Emotion Quotient

It's been a big year. 2013 will go down in my personal history as the year of Everything. Some fabulous, some really shitty, and a great deal of change.

And I have experienced pretty much every emotion a human being is capable of. Grief, joy, excitement, loneliness, anxiety, hope, fear, pride... they've all washed through me at different periods and left me stronger for being there.

But now it's the end of the year and, quite frankly, I'm exhausted. And I've noticed something interesting. I don't seem to be capable of intense emotions right now. I feel quite disconcertingly calm, a sensation I am not really used to. (It's nice, by the way. I recommend it.)

Artist's Impression Of My Brain This Year

I have marvelled at my serenity, and come to a logical conclusion. I've used up my emotion rations for the year. There are none left. There is nothing to do but be chilled.

This is what I've learned. I think we all have an emotion quotient, an intensity and range of feelings that can be experienced in any given period. And once we use them up, we just naturally shut down a little - go into emotional hibernation, as it were - until we recharge.

And no doubt our emotion quotient runs in cycles. It is probably normal to wind down around Christmas time, when the pressures of the year have ended, and we can focus on our own wellbeing.

Of course, for many people Christmas is extremely emotionally loaded. For those people, the emotion quotient might not be drained until the new year. But for people like me, for whom Christmas is just another day, it has well and truly started.

So here's to recharging my emotional batteries, and you recharging yours. And getting ready for another exciting and challenging year ahead.

But perhaps not quite as exciting and challenging as this one has been. I may need another decade or two for that.

The Resolution

So I made my New Year's Resolution. I wasn't going to, but it came to me in a mighty burst of inspiration.

Next year, in 2014, I am not going to make a single mistake.

Yes, it is true. I actually made that resolution. No more mistakes. I will do everything right. My world will be in order. My decisions will be sound. My reactions will be measured. I will think before I speak.

I will be absolutely careful in all areas of my life. And thus I will shield myself from pain, I will envelope myself in good fortune, and I will be bathed in light and joy and laughter from here to eternity.

And as you lie on the floor laughing at the insanity of my resolution, know that an hour after I made the resolution, I figured that out for myself.

Not make any mistakes. Not. Make. Any. Mistakes. Can you imagine? How on earth can I stop myself from making mistakes? How can any of us stop ourselves from fucking up?

I have made a thousand mistakes over the past 45 years. I have smashed my car, yelled at my children, worn a pink drop-waisted dress with puffy sleeves. I have said some ridiculous things in public, and even stupider things in private. I've disclosed way too much to the wrong people, and held back from speaking up when I should have had a voice. I've shed buckets of tears for people who weren't worth it, and taken way too long to discover the people who were.

I've misjudged and over-reacted. I've spoken without thinking and under-performed. I've acted on impulse and overthought and done pretty much everything in between.

I've been wrong a thousand times or more and it has led me right to here.

But here is not a terrible place at all. Here is quite a lovely place to be. And even if it wasn't nice it wouldn't matter, because I can't stop myself from making mistakes. I will never be perfect. You will never be perfect. Life will never be perfect, for any of us. All we can do is plough on and lead the best lives we can, day by day by day by day.

And stop making utterly ridiculous resolutions. Now that's one mistake I won't make again.

SURPRISE!

This is the first (and, I suspect, the last) time I open a post with a quote from Pretty Woman. After all, I didn't even like that movie (after the, er, fourth time I saw it).

But here it is.

Edward (spunky lawyer): It's just that, uh, very few people surprise me.
Vivian (prostitute with red hair): Yeah, well, you're lucky. Most of 'em shock the hell outta me.

I love that line. I just adore it. And the thing is, I'm with Vivian. Most people shock the hell outta me, too.

Vivian. Being Shocked.

I consider myself to have reasonably good insight, and yet I am constantly surprised by the things people say and do. I'm incredibly trusting and am always taken aback when someone does something to hurt or disappoint me. I never see it coming. EVER. And when they are repeat offenders, I am repeatedly shocked. It takes me a long time to accept that not everyone is kind.

Even having been in social media for four and a half years, where you get to see the worst of human nature (revealed, as it is, under the cloak of anonymity), I am still frequently shocked by how mean people can be. Or how thoughtless. Or how lacking in generosity of spirit.

And yet, on the other hand, I am even more frequently thrilled beyond belief at how awesome people can be. I have been stunned by the kindness and generosity of my friends. I have been amazed at their humour. I have been astounded at their insights. And I am constantly surprised at how many fabulous people are out there.

I am also surprised by the unexpected ways in which people behave. Strangers and new friends fascinate me, because every individual has different hopes and goals and fears, and different people's minds work in very different ways. Everyone reacts differently in a crisis; everyone has different trigger points for anger; everyone has different secrets and different dreams. And the more I get to know someone, the more layers are revealed, and the more I am surprised. They so rarely react the way I expect.

Unlike Vivian, however, I quite like being surprised. I like knowing that people are unpredictable. I like knowing that life still has the potential to shock me. That anything can happen tomorrow - maybe painful, but maybe fantastic.

And to be perfectly honest, I still shock the hell outta myself. After all, I never would have thought I would start a post with a quote from Pretty Woman. I didn't even like that film!

Do people surprise you as much as they do me???