...or size 8's in my cupboard.

Body Image. It’s a bit of a bitch, isn’t it? And it seems to creep up on us at the most inopportune of moments. Like those rare days where we think ‘I’m just a stunner’, then on your way to work with your hair flowing naturally and that healthy glow, there’s someone that makes you feel like you look as sexy as a bucket of mashed potato. And just as lumpy. Hot.

The thing that I wonder, is if I felt good in the morning, why can’t I continue to feel that good until I get into my glam jarmies and settle in for some beauty sleep? What gets in my way in the 14 odd hours that I’m presentable for the public? It might have something to do with the abundance of media that is just about everywhere you look – posters, magazines, newspapers, film, TV, internet. You get the general idea. Images everywhere depicting what is and isn’t attractive, and anything that falls outside of that is just downright horrendous and flat out socially undesirable.

But why? Why is my not size 8 wardrobe less appealing than the exact same clothes in a smaller size? They look exactly the same, they cost the same and funnily enough, they go in the same places – jeans on legs, jackets on torsos, tops on tops etcetera, etcetera.

I’ve not always looked at it from this angle; I’d love to tell you I’ve always had these objective thoughts, but not even I am that grounded. Body image didn’t bother me until I hit University, when it seemed to me that there were people everywhere talking about ‘carbs’ and ‘gym’ and ‘muffin tops’ (yeah, cheers for that ABC sensation Kath and Kym), and without even realizing there was even a transition, I was worried about what I looked like. The sudden insurgence and discovery of sexuality didn’t help – people were talking about sex over breakfast, meeting for it after lunch and having it for dinner. Nobody was ever really judgmental; we were adults, after all, so getting teased and bullied didn’t ever send anyone into a mentally disabling downward spiral. Until third year. In third year, I was twenty-one years old, and one malicious guy screamed at the top of his lungs and called me fat. Who cares, what a jerk, right? Wrong. Three years later his shallow opinion of me still makes me want to throw a blunt object at his groin, while making me promise that I’ll eat just lettuce for a week. Which of course, is just stupid. And it still makes me wonder why such a silly, childish observation would make somebody as angry as it made me. Looking back on it, I was significantly smaller then than I am now – so why would he think I was fat? I thought I looked a bit of an alright. Then I return from my flashback to be confronted by the ‘socially beautiful’, and suddenly his vile comment makes sense. I don’t look like that, therefore I’m undesirable and should be shunned. Yes, I will go on fitness fads and healthy eating trips every now and then, but I have admitted to myself that I will never be skinny. The frightening thing about body image is that it can give the healthy and fit the idea that they’re still not good enough. Being happy with yourself should not be about what size and shape you are. Are you healthy? That’s good enough for me.

There are those that honestly believe that to survive, you must be thin. But I’m breathing, I’m walking and talking, and I will never need a small waist to do that.

...or booze for July

I like wine.

I really do, especially after one of those days where you think that if the world opened up and swallowed you whole, that would be just fine. But I'm finding too many reasons to curl up with a bottle of wine instead of a book. There are so many social opportunities to bond over booze with my friends, but this bonding turns into hatred the day after, because it is (of course) my friend's fault I'm so hungover and feel like I've devoured a sand-wich (two words on purpose, spelling crazies). In light of this, I'm making a little self-sacrifice.

I'm going to go a whole month without alcohol. Dry July is a fundraiser in which all proceeds go to hospitals and research towards adults living with Cancer. Not a bad reason to quit being a booze head at all. And if you take a gander at the website, there are even some hardcore enthusiasts who have done what they're called 'Damp June' - one guy has even raised over $14,000. You can join in teams or by yourself, and there are celebrities who have jumped on the opportunity to raise some much needed dosh for people in need.

Yes, there are a thousand charities and causes well worth donating too, but I've never done one properly before. I did the MS read-a-thon when I was 9, but I think this time around, I can raise more than $23. I hope I can, considering that as I type this, some kind soul has already chucked in a 20.

I've probably already begged for your attention on facebook, but I'm going to try and do this to my full potential and use all of my technological advances until you all crack :) So go have a look, feel free to donate if you've got a spare dollar or two, and be really happy about the fact that I won't be buying out all the Savignon Blanc out there.

www.dryjuly.com.au

to donate, go to

www.dryjuly.com/profiles/adellemarkham

...Or a heart on my sleeve

What kind of power does the word 'love' actually have? Should there be some sort of law or rulebook which depicts the level of importance when it's said out loud? Like a ratings system or a guideline; "it is appropriate when…" or "out of 10, this is a 3 on the madly in love scale". Would that be easier, or would it just take importance away from whatever we initially thought it meant in the first place?

Love.

"I love you."

"I love sex".

"I love shoes".

"I love pizza".

Where there's a will, there's a word. Wanting to express how you feel about something makes some people tense up like this latest planking fad, but we do it without even noticing. For example, I love shoes. I do. They give me that warm and fuzzy feeling you can only get from a Tony Bianco wedge bootie. But I also love puppies and m&ms. And I hate getting blisters from those shoes and when all my m&ms are brown. (brown m&ms…really? what genius invented those?) And a man, take mine for example, loves the Temper Trap. And Buddy Franklin. And toast. But does the affection he has for me differ compared with that of the buttery goodness of crispy bread? One would like to think so. The thing about love is that what it means to me, is more than likely totally different to what it means to you. Or your mum. Or your year 4 teacher. Or my year 4 teacher for that matter. Snow Patrol had it right when they said 'those three words are said too much, but not enough'; they're tossed around more than a fine Greek salad, but when you really want to hear them, its like that one sock you put in the wash but isn't in the pile - you were sure you had it, you knew you did, because there's it's pair, but poof! Gone. And maybe, just maybe, you were having a senior moment and you left it behind somewhere to dig up later.

My convoluted point, is that perhaps it's not something we should expect to be there. Don't they always tell us to stop looking for it and you'll find it? Stop hunting it down, and it will walk right up to you? Stop asking for it, and you'll get it on a silver platter with an after dinner mint? Maybe not so much the third, but what if they're right? What if expectations are only leading to disappointments? Who decided that being single was the quickest way to spinster-ville? And what on gods earth is a spinster in the first place? According to society, there is just one thing more frightening and socially dangerous than the single person - the couple who haven't got a plan.

In a two-some? Having a great time with amazing, spontaneous sex and the butterflies and waking up at noon to eat eggs and watch bad tv? Well you better get your serious faces on, because you now have to move in together, get engaged, get married and start reproducing. That's supposedly natural; at the first signs of moving in, the next 'normal' step is to get married. Then when you've snagged the ring, you are suddenly bombarded with what are the babies going to be called and where will you invest their dowry. The thing that gets my cogs clinking, is why on earth does this 'have' to happen? Why is it expected?

Of course, none of this would happen without the exchange of affections. Soaking in the cliche of a thousand chick flicks, the pressure to say those 'three little words' becomes heavier and heavier until they're suddenly blurted out at the most inappropriate or unromantic of moments. Say, grocery shopping or hanging out the washing. More often than not, when totally intoxicated. Not on emotions, but on tequila or a cocktail of alcohol and bad music. Or, when the effort is made, and there are rose petals and Barry White everywhere, things can go awry.

Some declarations go perfectly:

"I love you"

"I love you too."

Some others aren't as wonderful:

"I love you"

"I think we should see other people"

But the worst. The thing that scares lovers across the globe in every country, continent and municipality:

"I love you"

"Thank you".

Thank you. Words that are drilled into our skulls as small children. The worst time to say it. I have been guilty in this response, and the result wasn't pretty. All of a sudden, our relationship was doomed to end, and we could never be together. Never. Not in a million years and we may as well break up now because there's no hope in continuing this fruitless endeavour.

Um. Excuse me, but did you just take the express to insane 'i can tell the future' land? Just because I don't love you now and right this second doesn't mean I won't love you later. In this particular scenario, I managed to convince old boyfriend that he had best wait around, because it may happen. It did about a month later, and being confident in what I said made the wait worth it. And I found my sock. Somewhere along the line, we have become so obsessed by the fantasy of true love and falling in love, that if it isn't a fairy tale from the get go, it's apparently not worth it. Disney corporation tells us that for a relationship to work, you both have to be madly and sickly in love with each other from the second you lock eyes, and is some Disney cases, paws or talons. Think of most romantic movies you're ever seen - lovers meet and it's obvious from scene one they'll end up together. They discover their love, and then something dramatic happens. One of them gets struck down with the plague or one of them is shockingly unfunny, and all of a sudden, they're not in love anymore. And then they are smitten again when 'love conquers all' and they get over their hideous afflictions. No wonder we're confused about how to do this properly. What is so wrong with being in a relationship but not being in love? Are those couples destined to live less of a life? I was hoping that developing love is a skill; a talent that one puts effort and enjoyment into. Love at first sight is a gorgeous idea - if it were that easy, we'd all be delirious and singing with the bunnies and birds - but unfortunately it's rare. Very rare. Like Louis Vuitton in my wardrobe.

As much as the word love differs from person to person, so does the word 'happy'. What makes someone happy is totally circumstantial and independent of their own personality, but who decided that you can only be truly happy and content if you're in love and loved? Disney is giving off this impression with its blockbusters, past present and in production. The fact - and more romantic idea in my own personal opinion - is that a couple can be happy without the romantic declarations and the bottle of tequila, while singles can be happy by just wearing their Tony Bianco's and gnawing at that third piece of toast.