...But There's A Hangover On The Horizon

There are 168 hours in a week. 56 of which we should be sleeping if we have our suggested 8 hours per night (honestly, who has time for that!), another 40 is usually spent at work (yet, noone has a basic 9-5 job anymore; we'd all much prefer to have some outside-of-the-box profession demanding 13 hours a day's commitment, and that doesn't matter because we are now a Certified Ambassador to the Central Ideas Institution of Australian Freelancers*). If you're a woman, another 16 hours out of the week is taken up by applying makeup, straightening, curling, spraying....and then another 16 taking it off and washing it out. If you're a man, those 32 hours are taken up by scratching, shaving and eating. A lot. Well, a lot of scratching and eating, anyway. Out of our 168 hours, there are then left a total of 40 hours for ourselves. Just 40 to be domestic, cook, transport ourselves and press the snooze button. Why then, if our remaining hours of the week are so few and far between, must we insist on spending it effectively dying after a sleepless night's effort getting staggeringly drunk? We have given up sleep time in favour of pushing ourselves to the point where inebriation is just a jumping off point for the rest of the evening. We have traded the opportunity to get those elusive 8 hours of rest and going for picnics, or horse riding or some other amazing outdoor activity which involves effort and sunscreen. But for some reason, it is not until we are face first in the pillows or couch cushions that we go "I should not have done whatever it was that I did last night". And then to make matters worse, our bank balances have suddenly shrunk like man-parts in the ocean.

This money could be committed elsewhere, but we spend a good chunk of our slaved hours not put away in savings or contributing to the wellbeing of the community, but on cocktails and shots designed to render us useless for any premeditated activity the next day. Sport, family and even the idea of eating properly are traded in for side lines, hot chips and heads in toilets. But why do we do it? Why do we waste money and stay out till our eyes are ready to fall out of our heads, and when we know that it's only going to end in nausea, headaches and greasy food? "Be young!" they say, "enjoy life!" they say. Well, it's not much of a life if our weekends are spent trying to sleep off the resounding feeling of inevitable death and dehydration. Whichever comes first. Sometimes we even impose bans on ourselves, but there is always one particular friend or workmate who sidles up to you, gives you that grin and says "so, going out this weekend?" "no….no…no…okay". It's not a contract; you can get out of it easily by saying "hey, i've changed my mind, i'll see you on Monday". For some reason, though, the guilt kicks in, and the peer-pressure is back, just like that one time you were forced to drag on that cigarette or have your first taste of boxed wine. And then you have to go out, or you'll suddenly be friendless and alone with your knitting.

*NB: 'Certified Ambassador to the Central Ideas Institution of Australian Freelancers' is not a real job title. Please do not try to pursue it as a career. Or Google it.

...Or Feeling In My Fingers

I like my mornings like I like my eggs - sunny side up. And Hobart mornings are fresh like eggs...before they're cooked and 24 seconds after they come out of the chicken. It's deceptive - look out the window and find that there are clear blue skies, no wind and rosellas in my tree. Beautiful. There is also snow to 200 metres. Aesthetically stunning, yes, but stepping out onto my balcony, my nose, ears and fingertips are suddenly screaming "did you just walk into a freezer?! Goodbye, I'm going to fall off now." And as I make my way down to the bus stop, I look at what I think is the river dividing the two halves of my city. But it's not. Well, it is, but it's covered in a low, low cloud - a fog called Bridgewater Jerry (it is that cold that often that the silly thing needs a name). Every fibre of my being is demanding that I go back home, crank the heater, get into my flannie jarmies and man hoodie and eat clinkers.

The Winter months are notorious for this; deciding that maybe I should leave the house and have some fun - see my friends - and then deciding that hell will freeze over before I go out into that chilly weather (mind you, at this rate it probably will). Sometimes I'll suck it up and go out on the weekend, but I'll still rug up. I'll be the only person in the club wearing jeans and a big ol' woollen jacket - every other girl will be prancing about in teeny dresses and tops small enough to fit in your back pocket. I might look ridiculous, girl, but I'll be the one having a laugh when you're at the cab rank freezing your barely covered backside off.

I know it's not just me, either. My other half often refuses to get up, reasoning that he is simply just too cold, and he'll die if he has to leave the bed and doona. Die, I tell you. And work is slow sometimes, too, and I am pretty sure that that is purely because people are at home going "I don't need to terrorise them today, it can wait until the temperature is in double digits." I myself have been tempted to call into work because 6:30 in the morning isn't condusive to effective...well, anything, really. On those mornings it becomes an argument with myself - would I pay my day's wage in an effort to stay warm? Oh, God, do I want to say no, but deep inside, I know it's a big, fat, yes.

So my social life will suffer, and I'll become pasty and dry skinned from the artificial heat blaring through my loungeroom; my blu-ray player will be my best friend and I'll drink enough tea to drown a navy seal. But sucked in to the rest of you, because even though you might be healthy, happy and living, I'll at least be warm.

...Or Style On The Street

Walking down the street is free, but it's becoming to be as entertaining as if I had spent an inordinate amount of money in an effort to have fun. Blowing the contents of my bank account, however, very rarely leaves me with the feeling of wonder and bemusement at what I have just witnessed - where on earth has all the style gone? I know that living in Hobart isn't quite as remarkable as downtown Tokyo or the cafe precincts of Paris, but people seemed to have forgotten what clothes actually are, especially in the arctic months of winter. As the months get cooler, the clothes tend to become more and more disastrous.
Silly me, I was under the impression that people still wore jeans. I guess they still do - if you're a boy, you wear them so the waist sits in such a way, that only a stride similar to that of John Wayne will keep them from falling to your ankles. If you're a girl, you wear fake ones. They look like jeans - ones that have been painted on. Wearing tights as pants is becoming a bit of a social debate, but this new player tips the whole scale to a big ol' no for me. How do you keep things in pockets if they're just a drawn on outline? (And why aren't you freezing cold?!)
In my job, I often get the chance to do a lot of people watching, and now that winter has rolled around, the dreaded orange tinge of fake tan is slowly beginning to fade. What I'm finding, though, is that now there is more wind in the air, the ladies of our little city are pulling a full on trans-gender John Travolta and flogging the hairspray - they've got long hair that should be flapping about in the air, but it's solid like a queen's guard. And with the first snow (i think that was in March…) came the unique ways that people use to stay warm. Out come the fluffy boots that look like you've collected the hairs of a border collie and glued it to your shoes and hoodies that are about 14 sizes too big and look like they let in more draught than Stone Henge. Trackies move from the couch to the main drag of the shopping centre, and if we're all so very lucky, we might find the odd one or two patrons with a combination of everything.
I work in a place where our heaters are always on, and it inevitably brings people in out of the cold. But surely these people would have a sense of decorum and be a little bit subtle about their hunt for refuge from the cold. I happened across one young couple (no older than 16) who literally came in out of the cold to make out in the warmth of my work place. They looked like they were going to mount each other right there on the iPhone display. I found myself almost staring and thinking "why do you think that is normal?" The girl had a ring the size of a hula hoop in her lip, and I caught myself laughing at the idea of it getting stuck in the boys braces. He looked nice and innocent enough, but she looked a right mess - apparently, looking like you have just pulled yourself out of spin cycle is attractive.
With all these fashion faux pas, how is it that we know what to really expect out of the fashion conscious? What if I were desperately interested in what is and isn't 'in' right now? And what if, god forbid, these fashions are exactly that - fashion? What would a jean-toting, hoodie wearing soul like myself do then? Probably do what I do right now - walk from one end of the mall to the other, smiling because I now have that much more self esteem than I did thirty-four seconds ago.

...Or Clothes In My Wardrobe

I don't usually swim. But when there is an occasion where trackies and a hoodie are socially unacceptable, I find myself doing breast stroke through a pile of clothes taller than a ten year old. So why does searching for something to wear end in frustration and stress to the point that looking good has lost its appeal?
It's not like I have NO clothes - that would be cold, and awkward for the public. But whatever I pick up doesn't seem to do make me go 'yes, wonderful, i look amazing!'. Instead, the clothes make me go, 'you're a mess. stop. get back in your trackies and try growing a beard to match this ensuing hermit-ness'. While finding the correct combination of clothes to achieve an appropriate sense of self esteem doesn't seem too difficult in theory, it's the true test of a woman's soul if she can find something to wear every day, for every occasion and be completely happy with her decision. And this is providing that it's an every day kind of issue, and not the dreaded 'fat day'. If you have never had one of these, you can stop reading because you are obviously not a person. These days consist of the aforementioned trackies - preferably mens ones - and the feeling that anything tighter than that will give you a silhouette similar to one found in the middle of a cow field. And then the lack of clothes in the cupboard are looking less and less appealing, and more and more like a pile of dish cloths. The question I ask myself on these horrible days, is why is today any different from yesterday? Yesterday I felt pretty good - I ate well, went for a ride and my hair looked amazing. Why is it then, that today I feel like I spent yesterday gnawing on meat and cheese on the couch and my hair looks like it's been dragged through an oil spill? What could possibly go wrong in the 8 hours that I spent asleep in bed?! And if this wasn't enough, why do I suddenly look I have replaced my clothes with the child's equivalent? Yet it all seemed so wonderful yesterday…(all my troubles seemed so far awaaaay). The thing that really stumps me, is that no matter how many hours I spend trying to replace the clothes that I apparently don't have, I will eventually become bored and frustrated, thereby hurling myself into a vicious cycle of new clothes/boredom/frustration/hermit-ness. The only thing I find consolable is that wherever I go, whatever happens, I will always have my collection of fat-trackies and hoodies. And if they ever give me a fat day, then I will rescind my right to go out in public and give in to the challenge of growing a beard.

...Or Money In My Pocket

I figured out why there's no Cornetto (or milk, or butter or yoghurt) in my fridge; it's because there is no money in my pocket, wallet or bank account. But I have a job - a well paying job with bonuses on top, so really, I should have a massive amount of money hiding away. They call it 'rainy day savings' - money you have put aside not for any particular reason (although, in an ideal world, my rainy day savings would be too big to spend in one day).
So where, folks, has all my money gone? It has been slowly chipped and withered away until it gets to pay day and i just about scream with excitement. From week to week I find myself handing over the Westpac debit card and thinking that I have enough in my bank account for this small purchase not to make that much of a difference. Turns out, though, that 15 of these small purchases makes a pretty sizeable dent in ones account. And then BA-DING! I'm living off toast for the next week (toast with no butter, I might emphasise).
So what goes on in our heads when we think that trading our money for something we don't really need - or pay too much for - doesn't really matter? How could it not matter?! Toast is not very nutritional for every meal. It would be okay if I were a duck, but unfortunately, I sometimes need vitamins and minerals to keep me alive. Why is it so difficult to think 'i do not need this, it can be $20 to keep in the bank'. Well, maybe not think it - because i sure as heck do that - but actually carry out the action. Is it the prospect of getting more money later? It's always coming in, so what's the difference in getting it now and getting it in two weeks? I'm just going to have to wait for it if i'm only going to get it anyway.
The worst thing is the bittersweet feeling. Getting my new purchases home, dumping them all on the floor and being surrounded by things that are now mine gives a type of euphoric feeling of success and comfort. And then the bitter taste sets it, and I've suddenly just lost a couple of hundred bucks when I didn't have to. Bugger. But then again, I'm not really saving for anything in particular, so why not just spend it now, and take advantage of the fact that I can? You never know what's going to happen - I might lose my job to some crazy sales chick with the manipulation skills and heart of ice that makes the company an extra 2 grand a month.
So what is the right thing to do? Should we save save save just in case, and to give ourselves a head start if we were to ever need it? Or is living life right now and getting what we want because we can an even better way to do it? Whatever we do, we have to live with the consequences. Which, in my case, is having to learn to enjoy dry toast with water for dinner.

There's No Cornetto In My Fridge

It was a beautiful, romantic evening; the food was good, the company was attractive and the wine was better than the two combined, which is all too often the case. Feeling particularly dizzy and satisfyingly warm ‘n’ fuzzy from our anniversary dinner, we bypassed the local supermarket on the way home, and picked up our dessert – four cones of cold, chocolatey slash honeycomb goodness, otherwise known as The Streets Cornetto (“no boring bits!”). I’ll give you the hot tip, that is a most accurate statement – everything is just that little bit more exciting in life when you have ice cream, chocolate and honeycomb all wrapped up into one little glorious cone of joy. As a woman, we appreciate such simple things in life a little bit more than men, which is why it took me 10 minutes to eat mine, and about 24 seconds for him to eat his. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to savour the taste, and in voicing my opinion, he agreed and smoothly inhaled another one of God’s gift to sweet treats. “Wonderful!” Thought I, “I’ll save that other one for dessert tomorrow! Hooray!”.

The next day, I begrudgingly got out of bed and toddled off to work. Part way through the morning, the reminder of the night before struck me and, “Yes! I will have me a wicked treat when I get home”. As sad as it sounds, yes, it was the idea of the honeycomb pieces buried in ice cream that pulled me through the day. (But what else was I supposed to do, I knew I wouldn’t be spending the evening with him, so I needed something!) The rain poured down for the rest of the day, and it was really miserable by the time I got home – perfect couch/ice cream/chick flick kind of weather. Into the trackies and hoodie I go, and then a beeline for the freezer (“Bugger it, if I’m only going to have it for dessert, why can’t I have it for dinner?”). But what is this? A bag of ice...frozen peas...a piece of fish...Mc Cain healthy choice chips (I should get endorsements for advertising here)...but no ice cream. “Oh no.” I thought – where had my lovely gone? Where was my little day saviour?! And why were there too many ice cream wrappers in the bin? “HEY! THERE’S NO CORNETTO IN MY FRIDGE!” “Oh yeah,” says he, “I ate it. And I ate most of these, too” and he held up my rice crackers. All four of them.
I felt like someone had stolen from me. Dangling something glorious in front of me – teasing me – and then going “guess what? It’s mine now!” and laughing in their evil deed as their greed overpowers them and they devour what was left of my soul. Yes, okay, a slight over dramatisation, but we all get the point. And if you don’t, then stop reading this because you are obviously a man.

On discussing this with one of my girlfriends, she so eloquently said “welcome to the long term relationship!” And it’s painfully true – they are the only ones in the world that can take from us, and we swoon. They take our icecream and our ricecrackers and we go ‘it’s okay, I love you’. They take our doonas and bed sheets and we cuddle up to them. They take our virginities and we insist on seeing them again. But it’s all part and parcel of the relationship gig, isn’t it? And I suppose that if they’re going to insist to take everything, than we must stay around to give them things – after all, what would they eat if not for our food? Where would they sleep if not for our beds? And we can’t have a world full of virgins after all, ladies – so we must always give that little bit more, and let them take. After all, that’s why we’re called the ‘better half’.