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"You're good raw material. Nice legs, great hair, and not fat. I can work with not fat."

Image | http://www.flickr.com/photos/carshamus/

In a post work haze, I browsed the racks in Cue. The yards of taffeta up for grabs were immediately vetoed. Fifties dirndls, nay (these were dirndls made for a six foot model, not a five-two midget) Shiny. So much shiny.

I did find a great dress in a work-friendly grey, with some interesting detailing (tucks, grosgrain ribbon, flattering cap sleeves) - it immediately appealed.
Seeing only size 14s on the rack, and one lonely 6, I decided to go for gold and try the 6. I am usually a size 10. I was horrified to see that it fit. Awkwardly. There was some dreadful emphasis on underarm cleavage. And yet, the rest was fine. Great, even.

I have been a little down on clothes recently, shopping in places where I know what size I am, and don't have to think, or see myself in multiple full length mirrors. And rarely straying from black. I have been utterly convinced that I am now paying for years of not noticing (or caring) what or how much I eat. Don't even get me started on (my lack of) exercise. Am I one of those Skinny-fat people? Perhaps.

But ultimately I blame the labels.

In recent months I have been declared an XS, S, M, 6 - 12. Don't even get me started on jeans, which claim to be beacons of accuracy with intimidating inch measured waistbands.

I hereby declare war on sizing. This is what makes some of the most amazing people I know call themselves fat.

Marking the end.

I've decided it's time to kick a bad habit.
Being a semi-closeted smoker for almost 5 years had been particularly damaging to my health and wallet.

This time it's the end for real.

Pros:
Teeth only stained by coffee. (If at all)
Fresh breath. (early mornings not included)
A saving of 0.48 cents a ciggie, multiplied by 50 per week (yes, I worked it out)
Nails only stained by occasional dark nail polish.

Cons:
I kind of enjoy it.

Why:
I always said this would be a "sometimes" thing.
I never anticipated it would take this long to quit.
But I feel crap, and my body is no longer catching up with me, but rather, dragging behind (a little slowly).

I don't want to be a statistic, but sadly this habit means I probably will be one day.

I used to smoke up to three packs a weekend when I partied too hard. I have visions of myself bopping to drum and bass whilst smoking my obligatory dunhill blue (which then turned to silver, in an effort to "cut down" ... talk about false economy!) in dirty clubs and talking to strangers over our shared weakness for nicotine in the freezing cold outside.

Since I have given up my partying-bingeing habits, there is no reason to smoke any more, when there is rarely any need to "come down" from anything.

This is a good beginning.
I'm nervous but excited and feeling like a fraud ("what if I can't do it and I secretly start again?")

I'm sure I'm as neurotic as the next quitter.

/End.

Life or something like it.

It's been approximately three and weeks since I officially entered the real world - I got my first "real" job, that requires I show up everyday (not just when I'm rostered on), and pays me a salary I don't sneer at.

I'm exhausted all the time. But weekends seem so much more shiny and new.

I'm still not sure this is for me. What I wouldn't give to live the good life of being paid mega-bucks to be awesome, and not much else.

I'll keep dreaming. It keeps me sane.

Onward, Upward (Also known as the "pre-new-years-resolution")

I'm feeling more than a little challenged at the moment.

My university "career" over, it seems, the time is now ripe for me to get a job, a career, or some form of regular money-exchanging for services which;

a) Will continue to feed my growing addictions to increasing the contents of my wardrobe, travel, freedom and well, life in general.
b) Allows me to "do something" hopefully useful with my time. Perhaps even rewarding or stimulating (!)
c) Makes me a real life adult (for real, we're not talking the year I turned eighteen.).

Part of me keeps screaming "wait, it'll happen, just enjoy the ride!" and the cynic that has always been my fallback-persona keeps persistently reminding me that time's a-wasting, and I really need to get a job now, if not sooner.

Did I study art to avoid responsibility? No.
To avoid conventional employment? Perhaps yes.
Do I ACTUALLY want to make art? Sure, but I need money to do that.

In short, I shall consider this post an emotional pep-talk, a public service announcement reminding me, that YES, I need a job.

I'm not a complete fraud, I have applied for two jobs. Perhaps in the near future I will be a cosmetic counter chick or a public servant. Ha. I pick the best careers.

Old(er), Wiser.

Today I walked into the chemist near my work, and the sales assistant who looked like he was about two to five years older than me addressed me as "Madam".

This evening, sitting with J in front of Cafe 130 in Leederville, watching the peroxide blonde surge of girls and their man-bags walking past (or, was that "attempting to walk in four inch stilettoes..") I heard the words "I feel OLD!" creeping out of my mouth.

Old. Me. Aged 21.




I suppose I can say I was probably always "mature" even aged thirteen, but now I can no longer rely upon poor fashion choices and irresponsible public behaviour to reveal my true status as a youngin'. I prefer to do those things in the relative privacy of home, or at very least, where the few who do see it, are well aware of my momentary lapses in concentration that lead to such things.

I don't really like spending time in clubs with strangers because I'd rather be with my friends.

I hate 99.95% of all one-liners that could be considered pick up lines.

I am quite partial to the post-lunch siesta, followed by a gin and tonic in the evening before dinner.


Still, I can't help but find myself questioning whether I'm "acting" old, or whether this is all, indeed, a sign of the times.

In my defence, I don't drive, have a mortgage, a fulltime job, or a wedding ring, but even so, I feel so done with going out, getting wasted and waiting for a taxi on a darkened street corner in shoes that don't fit.

But I think I can just about live with that and not feel too bad about myself.

dreaming

I woke up with a start at approximately 3am, and found myself all twisted.
My feet had met with my headboard, and I had somehow lost all my pillows and sheets.

I remember a dream, but not what it was about.

Things are complicated, I am anxious, and I know that's probably the best explanation.

Nerdlet gets her own back.

I would like to publicly state that whilst I was never made a complete and utter outcast in high school, I did not have a great time I would choose to repeat. Ever.

Yes, there were a few good friends. Many that were merely along for the ride that I will never speak to again (and have not spoken to, for the last four years ...) as well as the unfortunate additions of bad skin, bad glasses and worse haircuts.

When people speak fondly of high school (my high school, I mean), I get the fucking heebie-jeebies. I break out in an imaginary rash so convincing I don't even need to delude myself into believing it's there. I want to run in the opposite direction, after throwing myself in front of an oncoming vehicle.

I know this all sounds awfully dramatic. I don't even know why it is when it's how I feel. Furthermore, I don't know when this happened. I remember the end of school, the summer before my life more or less became what it is today, where we (meaning, me and those people I don't want to think about) spent so much time together. Drank copiously. Went to the big day out, and other overage gigs and venues we managed to sneak into (pre-dating the days of blue lights to check for holograms and thorough door staff).

Then something went off (or on) in my head and I decided I didn't want to be there any more.

I recently ran into a boy I went to high school with (the one I had a massive crush on - because that's what makes this story perfect) while I was at uni. It was strange. Seeing him made me realize I wasn't the only one who (perhaps) didn't quite fit in, and didn't really know how to articulate it. It was nice to realize with some surprise, that people you thought you knew can turn out completely different to how you had them pictured in your mind. He spent most of year twelve not speaking to me, though that wasn't due to lack of effort on my part. This time he spoke to me first, and I didn't even realize who he was until he said my name.

There's something to be said for people who ignored you wanting to speak to you. Something more to be said for that when you know they're "surprised" at the difference (a lack of) glasses makes. I can almost hear an inner voice exclaiming "Wow, you look ... better!", except it's coming from them.

And finally, the nerdlet gets her own back.