May the Force be with you

It’s been my great honour to watch a dear friend, and former student, finish her honours thesis this week. Those of you who have been there, done that, will know that an achievement this monumental deserves a Star Wars analogy: this week, a Padawan has become a Jedi.

(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).

Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.

Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).

The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).

Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.

It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.

And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.

What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.

And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.

The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.

Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.

Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.

All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.

So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.

And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:

May the force be with you.

Always.

On Election Day Sausage Sizzles

After several weeks of hard campaigning from all major parties, it’s finally here: today is election day in the ACT.

Now, this isn’t a post where I run my political colours up the flagpole, hoping for a salute. Nor is this a serious discussion about politics in Australia at the moment. I’m a sociologist, not a political scientist, although the two disciplines are kissing cousins.

What I am going to write about is how ardently I love election days. Tune out now if democracy soap-boxing isn’t your thing: I’ll forgive you. Today, of all days, I’m feeling magnanimous.

I love election days not because I want to see the least-worst team get up, or because I have a non-sexual crush the dude who does the ABC’s election analysis (What can I say? I’m both impressed and fascinated by someone who can work a graph)

What I really love about election day is the sausage sizzles.

Election day sausage sizzles are not like Bunnings sausage sizzles that happen every Saturday, or the church-fete ones that usually have an accompanying cake stall (fairy cakes on polyester trays! Oh my!). Election day sausage sizzles are special, because, unlike a normal sausage sizzle, you won’t see the following:
• Pushing;
• Shoving;
• Grizzling from the sweaty person behind the hotplate;
• Moaning about the queue; or
• Angst about spot-holders.

Instead, what you will see, at an election day sausage sizzle, is:
• Patient waiting in line;
• Stepping aside for old folks and people with small babies;
• Cheerful BBQ cooks;
• Pleases and Thankyous;
• No talk whatsoever of politics, but, rather, pleasant conversation about the weather; and
• Tasty, tasty sausages, with onion, if you like it, and self-administered lashings of all the sauce you could want.

So what makes election day sausage sizzles different from the normal slap-some-processed-meat-on-a-hotplate?

I think it’s this: we all know that, by voting, we’ve done a tiny something that, along with the tiny somethings of everybody else, will amount to a huge something - to our government.

Although our government isn’t perfect, every time I flick to the World section of the paper, and read about Syria, or Zimbabwe, I am so grateful that our huge something, our democracy, is made up of all of our tiny somethings.

Of course, no-one talks about this in the queue for sausages at the local primary school. But we all know what we’ve just done, and we all know why we’ve done it. And it’s knowing that which, I believe, makes us behave at our best, and our most civil.

Or, perhaps it’s too much of an effort to be rude on a day when the sun is glorious and our noses are full of the sweet, sweet smell of frying onions on a hot BBQ.

Happy democracy everyone.

Slip Ups

Way back in ’09, I wrote about my blasé attitude to panties. Three and a half years later, I stand by my minimalist approach to foundation garments: but with one significant caveat.

Slips – half and full – are the solid foundation on which the greatest of outfits are built.

I’ll admit, slips have a public relations problem. They’re what our nanas wear. They’re made from flesh coloured polyester. They’re perilously close to those awful spencers our parents forced us to wear under school blouses. In short, they’re not what you reach for when you want to feel pulled together, chic, and ready to kick ass and take names like a mo-fo.

But, I’m a style blogger, and therefore sartorially fearless. The above concerns? I laugh in their faces. I wear slips, in all their nana-ish, flesh coloured polyester, under-the-blouse glory. And, at least some days, kicking ass and taking names like a mo-fo is item one on the agenda.

(Other days, I consider it an achievement to not spill toothpaste on my shoes in the morning. But let’s not dwell)

The great thing about slips is that they perform radical wardrobe extensions. For instance, that woollen sweater you bought five years ago, wearing a little thin but oh so soft? A neutral slip, popped underneath, will allow you to wear that old favourite sweater to the office without giving your colleagues more information than they need about your bra. Or, a vintage dress, viscose rayon, with an unfortunate tendency to crotch creep like an overeager lover? A half slip will keep your dress where it’s supposed to be.

These uses are all fine and dandy, but my all time favourite application of a slip (half or full) is to facilitate floaty floral sundress and skirts on windy spring days. To live in the nation’s capital, in springtime, is to risk disgrace every time you step out in a light, full skirt – our breezes are, indeed, fresh. A slip, under your floaty florals, will mean that you can stroll about our blustery city free from fear of flashing unsuspecting passers-by. Should your skirt be blown completely up (this actually, no-joke, happened to me last month outside the Melbourne Building), all that will be revealed is your tasteful, modest slip.

Which comes in doubly-handy if you’ve had one of Those Mornings, and forgotten to put on your panties.

On Make Up and the OH-REALLY Face

This morning, I woke up to two things:

1) A thumping head cold; and
2) A text message from Clementine Kemp suggesting breakfast.

Lying in bed, texting Clem and making Chewbacca noises through my snotty sinuses, it occurred to me that I was in one of those dangerous, but potentially liberating, not-giving-a-shit moods that often accompany illness and burn out.

The upshot of this mood? I decided to face the world without my face.

You see, make up is a bit of a vexed issue. On one hand, I love playing with it, and the ritual of getting ready. While it is fun getting ready with a pack of girlfriends, as a true introvert, it’s my solo getting ready that I treasure. There is something potent, and, I think, powerful, about that little chunk of time contemplating the mirror. Whether it’s putting on a lick of lippie while listening to Let’s Dance by David Bowie (my old pre-lecture routine), checking for foundation tide marks before a job interview, or tidying up eye make up that’s gone awry between meetings, letting myself be absorbed in the simple acts of powdering, brushing, smoothing and tweaking fortifies me for the challenge ahead. On a more practical level, I love that all it takes is two minutes and three Clinique products (foundation; blush; mascara) to make me look like I’m well rested and fresh, when the reality is that I haven’t slept for longer than 3 hours at a stretch all week.

On the other hand, I resent make up. I resent that I don’t feel or look professional without something on my face. I resent that people, often meaning well, claim to prefer the ‘no make-up’ look, but then pass comment on women with dark under eye circles, or an unsightly spot, because we’ve been socialised to believe that women roll out of bed with an even skin tone, glowing cheeks, glossy lips, and full, dark eyelashes (FYI – they don’t). I resent that women are taught by the beauty industry to look for, and spend their money ‘correcting’, ‘faults’ in their appearance, least someone take offense at their pores.

So, yes, if I was to describe my relationship with make up in Facebook terms, It’s Complicated.

Which is why, this morning, I threw my make up into the too hard basket and went out for breakfast bare faced. I should contextualise this by saying that the circumstances of this morning meant ditching my make up wasn’t a monumental act of bravery. Clementine, like most of my old friends, has seen me without my make up on. We were going to a quiet suburban café, early on a long weekend Saturday, and were unlikely to be seen my many people. And, I didn’t have any major break outs or under eye circles this morning, so I felt like I looked better than normal when I woke up, despite the snot and Chewbacca sound effects. Had I been particularly spotty or dark under the eyes, meeting a less understanding friend, or having breakfast somewhere less low key, I probably would have put some make up on before leaving the house, in spite of not feeling particularly inspired to do so.

While at breakfast, it occurred to me that sometimes, wearing make up or not doesn’t really matter, because nobody, in the normal run of social life, is looking that closely at your face. A little theory that sociologists call civil inattention applies here: people are absorbed in their own business, and even if you did have a particularly amazing pair of bags under your eyes, they probably wouldn’t a) notice or b) say anything about it.

Unless, of course, you encounter a rude person, who decides that your appearance is their business to comment on. In those instances, given their ignorance of the rules of social interaction, you have every right to subtly reprimand them by employing what I like to call OH-REALLY face. (My OH-REALLY face involves raised eyebrows, slightly pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Yours is probably a little different. Isn't variety wonderful?) It’s not a bona-fide sociological theory just yet, but, nine times out of ten, I’ve found it pretty effective in reminding a rude person how to behave in social situations, regardless of whether said OH-REALLY face is made up or not.

You can add Chewbacca noises to your OH-REALLY face if you like. That, however, may push you into Garfinkelian Breaching Experiment territory (SOCY1004 shout out). I guess it all just depends on how many shits you feel like giving before you’ve had your eggs and coffee, really.