I’m too old for this …

I’m too old for this …

“It’s your birthday soon,” they said. “Let’s have a girls night in and make it an early celebration,” they said.

And so we did.

And then wine happened.

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There was something in the middle that involved roasted vegetables,a birthday cake being licked by a vegan, hummus and putting the world to rights …

And then morning

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And the moral of this story is (at nearly 45 years old) JUST FUCKING DON’T!!

I shall mostly be hanging for what remains of my weekend.

Hanging. And moaning.

A lot.

Feel free to send recovery / early birthday gifts of money, diamonds, fast cars, and pizza.

Mostly pizza.

Lots of love

Anna (piss head) J    *hic*

 

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High Maintenance or Self Care?

High Maintenance or Self Care?

In no way shape or form could I ever be described as ‘high-maintenance’. Not even in my younger, thinner, prettier days. The bottom line is I’m just too damn lazy. The second to bottom line is I couldn’t afford it (or justify spending that amount of money on myself). Having children and being married (or as good as without the dress and piece of paper), meant that the bit of time I did spend on myself, kinda went out of  the window. It wasn’t helped by living with a partner who would regularly throw around accusations of affairs every time  I put on some slap and high heels. However, that was then and this is  now. Yesterday I talked about the mirror. So insignificant to most but a huge step for me. My mindset has definitely  shifted recently. A need to self-care again has risen from the ashes. When I look in the mirror I no longer see someone who is beyond help. Not worthy of help. I see a woman with potential; to be better and greater than she was the day before.

My world is beginning to feel quite alien. It’s scary but exciting.

So with this new perspective on life,  and myself, I thought the time had come to try and go a bit more high-maintenance. I awoke this morning full of the joys of spring and with many many plans for today. A transformation from a dowdy 44-year-old to middle-aged glamour puss (*Miranda style turn to camera* “…no sniggering … we all need dreams…”) was on the cards. I have a birthday coming up and it seemed as good a time to start as any.

It hasn’t gone  to plan  and it’s only eleven.

It turns out this high maintenance stuff isn’t as simple as I’d imagined. First disappointment was remembering I wasn’t going to be able to lose 60 pounds between breakfast  and dinner. The second disappointment was remembering that to lose even a single pound there could be no breakfast or dinner. Unperturbed, I whipped out my pencil and paper and commenced creating my to-do list whilst munching away on my fat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free breakfast.

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  1. Dye Eyebrows -Kids have thrown away the box of dye I’d secretly stashed in the bathroom cabinet.
  2. Make hair look lush (Hair colour) -I can’t find the gloves, and no one applies Sebastion Cellophane without gloves. No one.
  3. Tidy up eyebrows – “… ya tweezers fell down the plug hole last week mum…”
  4. Nails –  No nails!! Probably should have stopped biting them last week in preparation
  5. Legs – I still have a pair. Possibly an orangutan sanctuary existing in ‘undergrowth’. (Half way through my shower I remembered new packet of disposables is still downstairs.)
  6. Face mask – Do Avon still do those peely ones? A bit like the glue we all painted on the back of our hands as kids but smelled of lemon. (Remembered I was supposed to do one an hour after my shower.)
  7. Exfoliation of entire body! (I remembered two hours after my shower. Fitness levels probably aren’t ready for this yet anyway. There  is a lot of body and a lot of exfoliation.)
  8. Feet – Urgh, I’m not ready to go there yet.
  9. Yoga work out on the Bastard-Ball –  The day isn’t over yet. It’s still a possibility. *Crosses fingers behind back.*

And so it goes on …

How do you girls do it?!!!

There is so much to think about and plan! It’s like having another full-time job on top of the full-time work that most of us already do! I’m going to need extra pages and columns in my diary if this has a cat in hells chance of working. I probably would also benefit  from a sugar-daddy / crowd-fund / Swiss bank account (full) / trust fund / lottery win. I’m thinking this high-maintenance would be so much less stressful if I could afford to hire a housekeeper to do my chores and look after the kids, whilst I pottered off to see a ‘lady wot does’ to get all the beauty stuff done.

I need to reassess how I can make this happen. Or bits of it at least.

Current High Maintenance Level Achieved: I’ve washed my hair. 😀

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Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall.

 

Going through any kind of trauma presents challenges; walls that need to be dismantled. Brick, by brick, by brick. The journey of recovery is different for everyone. A short skip, jump and a hop for some; for others, much longer. I’ve travelled one of the longer ones. Five years and it’s only  in recent times that I’ve felt brave enough to properly stick my head above the parapet.

Today I took a huge leap.

I bought a mirror. A full length, scary as shit, mirror … And then I looked at myself in it. Something I’ve avoided for more than half a decade. I refused to have them in the house, became adept at ignoring my own image in store windows etc.

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I hated what I saw BUT I did it! 

So many of us spend our entire lives listening to the voices outside and in, continually telling us that we aren’t good enough. Breaking that record is really difficult and I take my hat off to those of you who have already found the courage to do so. Domestic abuse left me afraid of everyone and everything, including myself. I tried so hard to make it all okay, to stop the vileness that ran through the veins of the relationship. To make him stop. But I couldn’t.

‘I wasn’t good enough.’

 Despite my ‘logical-head’ knowing exactly where the land lies, the other part of me … the one that thrives on love, and passion, and warmth, and trust … has still got a way to go. I’m still not finished wrestling with the ‘it wasn’t my fault’ element of the equation. I’m not sure I ever will. And with that self-blame comes the need to avoid. People, contact … emotions.

I’ve spent so many years, walking around, avoiding my own reflection.

Avoiding me.

Myself.

And I.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

I have no clue what lies beyond the looking glass. The thought of stepping through makes me feel sick with fear ,but for the first time in as long as I can remember, there is something else. Buried deep inside that knotted ball inside my stomach.

Excitement. Hope.

 A seed that’s been dormant.

Waiting to grow.

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