Summer Challenge # 2

Last summer, as those of you who are regulars here know, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck.

Did I achieve my summer challenge? The blunt answer is no. There are still a few of Steinbeck’s books that I didn’t get around to reading.

I did, however, read just about all of them. And thoroughly enjoyable reading it was. I, for one, consider this a challenge met and mastered.

As our days are warming up, getting longer and fuller of parties, Christmas things, and long walks up big hills at dusk to catch the sunset, I’m thinking it’s time for another summer challenge.

But, what should this summer challenge be?

The obvious answer is finishing the first (exceptionally rough) draft of my PhD. I don’t think that qualifies, though, as summer challenge material. Firstly, with a bit of luck and a whole lot of power ballads, finishing the draft is on track to happen by Christmas, leaving January and February un-challenged.

Furthermore, the whole point of a summer challenge, to my mind, is that it’s got to be a teensy bit ephemeral, a little esoteric, and otherwise unrelated to everyday work/study activities. Thus, the PhD, and associated business, is not suitable summer challenge material.

Also, this year’s summer challenge needs to be compatible with finishing a PhD draft, working full time in a new role, and generally getting on with life. Which means it needs to be a flexible challenge, the sort that I can pick up and set down as need be.

Finally, it goes without saying, this year’s summer challenge needs to be fun, preferably a whole lot thereof.

Any suggestions?

Flat

There are moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• Spice Girls nostalgia;
• Looking forward to staying in on Friday nights, not because I’m looking forward to getting my nerd on with Ulrich Beck (look him up), but because I’m going to have a bath, re-read a particularly beloved book (Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, read it), pop a Restavit and head to bed by 11pm;
• Rocking clothes I have owned for almost a decade;
• Chats with friends who are long-standing enough to remember ALL TWENTY of my uni hairdos, but kind enough to forget a few; and;
• Driving a brand new grown up car.

There are, however, moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I most certainly do not feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• The Wrinkle of Incredulity, mentioned eighteen months ago on this blog, has not gone away. Rather, it has increased, because numpties are always with us and there will always be a daily something or someone that makes me pull my incredulous face;
• ‘She’s So High’ by Tal Bachman, the song my first ever boyfriend declared to be my song (his taste in love songs was almost as good as his taste in women), is played late at night on Mix 106.3, Canberra’s Golden Oldies station;
• I can wear dresses I wore when I was eighteen, but, in doing so, my breasts are forced to occupy a totally different postcode than they usually do;
• I have superannuation in seven different accounts, which need consolidation; and;
• I can no longer wear high heels every day.

It’s this last realisatory moment that’s been making me feel a little flat, literally and metaphorically.

It all started the other week, when I was shaving my legs in the bath (I’m. Just. So. Classy. It. Hurts). As I extended my right leg to remove the last outcrops of winter undergrowth from the back of my calves, I heard an odd ripping noise. I bent my knee, extended; there was that noise again, the noise like ripping wet cardboard. As I wasn’t in any pain, I decided it was just one of those Body Things that will resolve on its own.

Two days later, however, I noticed the noise as I descended the stairs in my building, and, again, while there was no pain, I know enough of my family’s medical history to know that You Don’t Mess Around With Knees. In my family, knees are as serious as abandoned packages in airports - serious enough to make me take the advice my friendly neighbourhood chiropractor has been gently giving for years; abandon the high heels in favour of flats.

It’s hard, forcing myself to reach for the lower options as I get dressed in the morning. Surprisingly, it isn’t the height I miss – I’m five nine in my stocking feet and already feel myself too tall – but the enhancement to the shape of my legs that a heel, even a little one, gives.

A gym instructor once told me that heels, when worn consistently, activate different muscles in your leg than normal shoes. While activating these muscles stuffs up a whole lot of other musculoskeletal processes, repeated wear will give you that classic curve from ankle to calf. In other words, heels give you killer legs, when you are wearing them and when you take them off.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say my legs are killer without heels on, I do know that I feel my legs look better, more curved, more graceful, in heels. The drunken old men who hang around the Melbourne and Sydney buildings, at very least, make their appreciation plain (or that could just be the metho talking, I can’t be sure).

Being a little stumpier in the leg department, though, is something I can – grudgingly - accept in return for what I hope will be a longer period of my life where I can stroll through my favourite cities, run for rudely early buses, and climb the stairs to my apartment. One day, when I own a penthouse with a rooftop garden and sunken pool area, being able to climb stairs will be a most handy thing.

Or, hope against hope, some clever lady will invent an innersole for ballet flats that activates the same muscles as a pair of five inch stilettos, building that graceful curve of muscle without buggering knees and backs.

A girl can, and does, dream.

A Very Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year

Well, people, the 2011 blogging year is drawing to a close for me. Long story short, I’ve decided that due to work commitments this will be my last post for 2011 – but I will be back, all engines running, the first Monday in January to keep on sharing my thoughts and ramblings with y’all.

I suppose, then, that it’s appropriate to reflect on 2011 as a year. The more I speak to people, the more I realise that 2011 has been…well, if 2011 were a student, and I was talking to her parents at Parent Teacher Night, I’d probably say something along the lines of:

‘While I’ve really enjoyed having 2011 in my class, certain aspects of her behaviour have been…challenging. Problematic. Disruptive. Hurtful to me and the other students. Why can’t 2011 just leave me alone? I don’t understand!! I want my classroom back!!!!!!! I want my life back!!!!!!!!!’ (exits, sobbing, to the staffroom).

I’m not alone in feeling this way about 2011. Everyone I have been speaking to about this in the last few weeks has been looking forward to putting this year to bed and welcoming a new one. Change has seemed to be a pretty major element of what people in my life, and what I, have had happen in 2011. The kicker is, it’s not been easy or exciting change. Believe it or not, I normally like change. Shake it up, baby, turn and face the strain. What’s made this year’s changes that my crew and I have experienced non-easy and non-exciting is that they’ve been hard changes, changes that required leaps into the dark, naked without a parachute. Changes that, for some, involved painful choices to separate from significant others. Changes that involved for others giving up on some dreams. Or moving houses and lives, or just taking on a whole lot of hard hard hard work with the end in sight but a long way off. My year included all those things, and TWO bouts of the worst food poisoning I’ve ever had in my life, within a month of each other. If I’d have known what was ahead of me, gastro wise, in 2011, I would not have laughed so hard in the food poisoning scene in Briedsmaids. Just saying.

What I’ve learnt from 2011, other than sushi is always a seriously bad idea, is that people are made of pretty tough stuff. Because, in spite of 2011’s better attempts to break our spirits and run amok, we are all still here, still talking, still living, still believing in each other, and, most importantly, still hoping for a brighter 2012.

It’s in this spirit of hoping for a brighter 2012 that I’m sharing with you my wishlist for 2012. I stole this idea from Kitty Gilfeather, who, rather than making new years resolutions, writes a wishlist of what she hopes for in 2012. It takes away the threat of failure implied by resolutions, and instead replaces them with the warm, happy glow of anticipation. Here’s what I’m working with so far:

• Read more good books.
• Wear matching underwear at all times.
• Buy a fabulous thing for my apartment each season (I’m thinking my summer purchase might be a cowhide rug for le boudoir– thoughts?).
• Kick corporate wardrobe butt.
• Update my CV every 6 months to reflect awesomeness.
• Keep fresh flowers at my desk.
• Listen to albums in full, rather than skipping to singles.

And, most importantly, I feel:
• Drink mojitos, with lots and lots of ice, on my balcony, watching thunderstorms.

So bye for now, lovelies, and see you in 2012. Which, might I just say, already looks pretty swell.

Too Hard, Too Soft, Just Right: A Sparkling Interview Outfit

As I might have mentioned a couple of times here lately, there have been some job interviews happening. I’m not going to jinx anything by naming names here, suffice to say that if we were in a Harry Potter novel, I’d be the witch beavering away at finishing her OWLS, hoping to join one of the Ministry of Magic’s departments at the beginning of next year.

Having not had any sort of job interview in 4 years, I’d lost my bearings regarding appropriate interview wear. Whilst I like what I wear and do a good job being professional in my current context, Professor Professional simply won’t cut it for an interview at the Ministry.

If I were a boy, (cough, young man, cough cough), the decision would have been made for me – suit, clean and ironed shirt, tie, haircut. Maybe cufflinks, but probably not.

I am not a boy, or a young man - I am a woman. And so interview attire, like so many other things in life, becomes considerably more complicated.

I did think about going the LadySuit route, but was turned off by the price tag, and the lack of suitably fitting top and bottom parings within even the upper echelons of my budget. Another consideration is that I tend to be a nervous fidgeter. The combination of Jacket, Blouse, Skirt, Tights and Shoes would present one’s fingers with too many irresistible fidgety temptations. I just knew I’d spend the better part of the day running to and from the bathrooms checking that all the components were sitting right.

And even if they were sitting right, am I the LadySuit type? I think there’s something a little too hard about all that matching suiting fabric, firmly tucked in and buttoned up. Those of us who have done our fashion history homework know modern suiting is mainly influenced by military garb, and I am not sure that I am the ship-shape-and-bristol-fashion type.

Another option was the skirt, blouse and cardigan combination. Theoretically, I thought this was a brilliant idea, a kind of softly-softly response the LadySuit. Trying on various permutations of this look during my fashion montage a couple of weeks ago, however, gave me a new insight into the problems faced by many a soviet nation: theory is good in theory, not so much in practice.

Like goldilocks, I was placed in a situation where two extremes were presented to me, neither appealing – the LadySuit too hard, the skirt, blouse and cardigan too soft. What, I wondered, would be Just Right?
I thought about the two and a bit years that I have been writing this blog, reflecting on what clothes and style mean to me. What do I always return to, without fail? What garments do I feel most at ease, and most myself, in?

The answer was simple. The Dress.

Like Australian politicians reverting to knee-jerk reactionism (but I digress, this is not a political blog…) dresses are what I rely on when everything else it too hard or complicated. From my Miss Honeys, to my Ms Buttroses, my favorite summer frocks, to my jersey farmers market throw-ons, dresses are what I wear the most. Why would I abandon my signature look for this exciting new enterprise?

The field was successful and swiftly narrowed to one particular dress – a Mimi Goss cast off, black, sleeveless, modest yet figure defining, with a charming folded-fabric detail at the collar. A cardigan, for warmth and to cover the upper arms (which apparently are ‘unprofessional’ – who knew?) would complete the look. After a moment of hesitation, I decided on a cropped, three quarter sleeve, charcoal grey number with subtle but sparkly beading at the collar.

I wondered – is it appropriate to be just a teensy bit sparkly in a job interview? But then I realized that’s the whole point of a job interview - to sparkle. And I was Just Right.

Author’s note: At the time of writing, my favorite interview dress is half way around the world, with MamaK and PapaK, to serve as a template for several duplicates they are generously having made. Before my interview dress and I are reunited, I have two more interviews – so I guess it’s back to the drawing board for me!

It's Happening.

A couple of months ago I blogged about the random urges to chop my hair that I sometimes experience.

Readers, it is happening again. And this time I have booked an appointment.

Recent life events (prospective job interviews, some sad endings of important things) have inspired me to do something, ANYTHING, about my hair situation.

The only thing is, just as I hung up the phone after booking my appointment for tomorrow, I realised I have no idea what I want done.

Hmmmm...