‘Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold’
So read the first two lines from a poster I was given at the end of Year 6, more years ago than I care to count. The poster was part of a graduation gift from the staff at my primary school, with a different poster given to each child, each signed on the back by all the teaching staff.
I often wondered whether they chose this one for me because my best friend was about to head off to boarding school. I always took it as a little reminder that I should make an effort to stay in touch with that departing friend, which I did for many years, but the truth is it was probably just the poster on the top of the pile when they got to my name.
Whatever the reason, I can still recite most of the poem all these years later (more than 30 for those who are interested) and it has been particularly going through my mind lately when I have been making a real effort to give attention to old friendships that have faltered in recent years as I have withdrawn from many of my social circles due to health issues. I’ve also been thinking about new friends, as I’m making an effort to step beyond my family routine to focus on people and activities that I connect with personally, rather than as an extension of my family.
Today I unexpectedly had two encounters that represented the extremes of my current friendship experiences – a new acquaintance who visited for morning tea and a childhood friend who unexpectedly called in for a lightning-quick visit while in town on business.
So, can you guess the link between the amazing Andrea from Fox in Flats, designer Alex Perry and my good self? No? It’s sunglasses, of course (wasn’t it obvious?)
Today is the first day of #FABruary, the new style dare from style blogger extraordinaire, Andrea from Fox in Flats. After yesterday’s post about postponing the official start of my year until February 1st and my determination to take better care of myself, I couldn’t help but identify with Andrea’s motivation for creating a month-long style dare for February:
“It’s like January is the front door to the year – where you’re busy shaking off where you’ve been, and are caught up in a flurry of greetings, kisses and sweaty embraces. Which makes February the foyer. That spot where you look around, get your bearings, and prepare to make a dazzling entrance.
So to make sure we’re walking boldly into 2013, we’ve created another month-long Style Dare: FABruary.
The aim? To put the focus back on you, in little ways, to bring out your fabulousness!”
I saw Andrea’s prompt about her #FABruary dare a few weeks ago and decided to join in. I don’t have a great track record at following through with these things (I will finish a Fat Mum Slim PhotoADay challenge eventually, really I will). This time I was determined things would be different, however, because I am determined that I will be different this year.
In the past week, I’ve worn my glorious sparkly red ‘grown-up Dorothy’ stilettos twice. It’s been fun and I’ve enjoyed the comments and, I’ll admit it, the envy from others. They are the kind of shoes that grab people’s attention.
Every time I wear them, I go through a silent and intense debate beforehand. Maybe I’m getting a little bit too old to be tripping about in 3-inch heels, particularly when they are covered in tiny red sequins and have silver glitter on the soles. Surely by the time you’re looking at 40 in the rearview mirror, you should be past such silly, impractical vanities. The words ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ echo in my head.
Perhaps age isn’t the issue. Perhaps I should be more concerned that an intelligent, well-read woman would find such a frivolous fashion indulgence appealing in the first place. What does the fact that I get such a buzz from wearing sparkly red heels say about my self-esteem, my mental image of myself and my general views on the rights of women to wear comfortable, practical clothing that doesn’t kowtow to superficial societal pressures regarding appearance?
So why do I wear them? Why do I enjoy them so much despite the slight ache in my feet at the end of the night and the mental debate before I leave the house?
When it comes down to it, it has very little to do with the actual shoes, as lovely as they are. What they represent to me is not only freedom to be myself, but a willingness to actually stand out and have others notice me doing so. Wearing them is an act of bravery and defiance, not simply because at my advanced years I’m risking doing a hip if I lose my balance,but rather because I am drawing attention to myself and owning my new confidence.
As a responsible, internet-savvy parent, I regularly remind my children about the importance of cyber safety. They don’t use photos of their own face in any avatars and never give out personal information about their age, school or where we live. All location services are turned off and under no circumstances do they ever organise to meet with someone that they have met on the internet.
Last night I attended a local Twitter Christmas party (#NewyTwistmas) which involved meeting up with 60+ people, most of whom I have never met in person. People I have met over the internet who now know my name, what I look like and miscellaneous details about my life. Looks like this is one of those ‘Do what I say, don’t do what I do’ parenting situations, similar to informing my children that it is too close to dinner for snacks, then sneaking into the kitchen to raid the pantry for chocolate. Parenting is a complicated and, at times, contradictory business.
I have very few ‘real life’ friends on Twitter and most of them can’t understand what I see in it or why on earth I would be excited about getting together with a random group of ‘internet crazies who could be axe murderers, you know’.
For me, Twitter has been a lifeline over the past two years. At the simplest level, Twitter has facilitated connection with an amazing variety people in both a social and professional context that would otherwise be beyond the reach of a stay-at-home mum and writer who moves in quite limited social circles. At a more significant level, several of the people I have met on Twitter have offered me unbelievable levels of support and concern as I’ve moved through two very stressful and difficult years. There have been offers of shoulders to cry on, words of friendship and encouragement, Skype calls and DM conversations that have helped to carry me through some very sad and overwhelming days.
This is a long post, but it’s important, so please read to the end. If you want the short version, here it is:
The Starlight Children’s Foundation Australia does incredible work to bring light, hope and joy into the lives of children who desperately need those things. Please, please support their important work by visiting www.starlight.org.au or click on the Starlight Foundation badge on my sidebar to the right.
For those who want to know why I’m so enthusiastic about The Starlight Children’s Foundation Australia (I’ll refer to it as the Starlight Foundation), read on…
The Starlight Foundation is currently fundraising for their Mission: Christmas 2012 appeal, aiming to raise $1 million to grant wishes for seriously ill Australian children. In a shameless attempt to help you connect with this charity, to make their work real for you, I’m going to introduce you to my wonderful friend Ivy.
I’m not going to show you gorgeous photos to overwhelm you with the cute factor, although I could do that because Ivy’s a sweetie and her mother is a gifted photographer. There are cute photos in abundance. I’m not going to show you heart-wrenching photos either, although sadly we have those in abundance as well. Photos in hospital beds with Ivy lethargic and pale, hooked up to machines with a fatigue and world-weariness in her eyes that no child, or adult, should ever have to experience.
Instead, I’m going to give you a glimpse into the life of Ivy and her family, through the eyes of a friend, so that hopefully you can understand why the wishes The Starlight Foundation grants aren’t just something nice for sick kids. They are true gifts to these children and their families that make a profound difference in their lives. They create priceless moments and memories that these children and their families treasure.
I really need to exercise more. My figure is becoming decidedly more pear-shaped than hourglass thanks to too many hours in front of a computer where the only body parts that gets a workout are my fingers. Sadly, having limber, well-toned fingers doesn’t help me fit into the size 10 dress I want to wear to the family Christmas party, so obviously I need to do something a little bit more proactive than write and surf the web.
The problem is, I find exercise excruciatingly boring. I’m not a particularly athletic person to start with and my endorphins seem to have misplaced the memo that informed them that exercise was supposed to send them to their happy place.
Over the years, both pre- and post-children, I’ve tried a few different approaches to organised exercise. Back in the 90s, I went to aerobics classes, which achieved little more than proving that if I try to get my arms and legs moving rhythmically at the same time I’m likely to cause injury to myself and those within my immediate vicinity. The word ‘grapevine’ still gives me nightmares and don’t even get me started on my step aerobics experiences. *shudder*
I’ve had several gym memberships, exercising and/or doing weight training a few times a week. I don’t mind the weight training, but it doesn’t take long for my mind to wander and for my time at the gym to start feeling like a terrible burden that must be endured before I can escape to do something interesting.
A friend visited an exclusive Melbourne restaurant last weekend. When we caught up on Monday afternoon, she couldn’t wait to show me photos of her evening. I was expecting the usual food porn shots, but instead I was presented with an image of the wine list where she showed me the price of the cheapest bottle of Chardonnay ($105) and the most expensive ($4800).
Yes, you read that right. Almost $5000 for a bottle of wine to go with dinner. Personally, I hope that for that price the bottle was plated in gold and delivered to the table by both Brad Pitt AND George Clooney. A chorus of angels singing and a shaft of light shining down from heaven onto the bottle would be a nice touch as well.
I found it mind-blowing that anyone could justify spending that much on so little. I understand the wine connoisseur thing (I actually have family involved in the wine-making industry), but I still cannot reconcile such an excessive cost for something that is a luxury (ie want not need) at $20 a bottle let alone $5000.
I was a bit eye-rolly about it but had more or less forgotten about it until an email arrived in my inbox today from my children’s school that got me all fired up again about society’s attitude about money.
I try to proofread most things that I type. This includes articles and blog posts, of course, but also tweets, Facebook status updates, emails and text messages. If nothing else, I try to at least glance over them and make sure that they are coherent and without the kinds of glaring mistakes that will see them end up on Damn You, Autocorrect or leave me open to the kind of ongoing ridicule that I experience from a friend who received an email where I mentioned our recent Vulvan Mind Meld.
Today, for the second time in less than 3 months, I’ve been reminded that it is important to check not only the text, but the recipient.
My first misdirected text was sent when Miss11 was in Sydney for a school excursion. She had borrowewed her brother’s mobile phone for the trip and had been texting me occasional updates of their progress coming home. When I received a text letting me know what time the coach would return to the school, I didn’t even glance at the sender before replying with the following:
This morning I started my day with a relaxing massage.
Well, that’s not entirely true. This morning I started my day at 3.30am when Mr8 crawled into bed next to me because Mr13 was ‘breathing so loud that I can’t sleep’. I was woken once again at 5.30am when my husband left for work and finally at 6.15am when the alarm went off. I then made sure three children and two guinea pigs were appropriately fed, watered and clothed (kids only for this last one), organised lunchboxes and dropped the kids off at either the bus stop or school gates. Then I drove to a local shopping centre, pacing up and down until the doors of the beauty salon opened at 9am.
Then, thanks to a gift voucher from a wonderful, thoughtful friend, I started my day with a relaxing massage.
I haven’t had a relaxation massage in years. I have recurring issues with the muscles of my jaw, neck and shoulders, so I periodically attend an osteopath for therapy. I have had the occasional remedial massage therapy session for the same problems, but I can’t even recall the last time I had a massage that had no particularly purpose other than relaxation.
So, what does a busy mother do when she finds herself with half an hour to simply be still and do nothing? With the dim lighting and distant sounds of relaxing music, I was a little concerned that I would fall asleep, curl into my usual side-sleeping foetal position and promptly fall off the narrow massage table.
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