...or screen from the sun

I did something stupid the other day and forgot to wear sunscreen.

That’s a lie. I just didn’t put any on because I am impervious to the elements. At 24 years of age, you’d think I’d know better. I didn’t. What I did know, however, that as soon as my mother found out, she’d be so disappointed in me.

When I was a kid, my parents knew everything. When I was a teenager, they knew nothing. And now I’m an adult, everything they ‘didn’t know’ is coming back to kick me in the backside.

They tell you to sit up straight, eat your vegetables, drink your milk and do your homework. When you’re a kid, you just did them; parents are parents, and you did what they told you whether you liked it or not. Sure, a small tantrum and some feet stomping here and there might make you look like you were putting up a fight, but in the end, it got you just about as far as the last tanty. Which is nowhere, because as we find out later after a series of excruciatingly embarrassing events, our parents weren’t stupid. They probably laughed at us when they sent us to our rooms.

As we grow into our teens, we find our parents to be increasingly bossy. This could be because we are more capable of doing things for ourselves, and therefore more capable of helping them. It may also be because as teens, we are more capable of doing things for ourselves and therefore must do everything at our own initiative, in our own time, at our own pace and if they don’t like it, tough. I am more inclined to go with scenario ‘B’. They say these years are our discovery years – where we learn the most about ourselves, and the world. On reflection, it is where I learned that my parents were probably right. If they said to do something, it was most likely for my own benefit. Like wearing sunscreen. If they said to not do something, it was probably so I wouldn’t kill myself. Like touching hot things.

I think that the end of our teen years is probably the most important. That’s when everything starts to crumble down and you finally pay attention to the rubbish things your parents said. Things like ‘put money away so you can pay your bills’ and ‘if you drink that much, you’ll throw up’ and ‘don’t speed’ actually seem to have consequences.

Early twenties is when you get to start afresh – it’s like a whole new life. One where mother knows best, and father will slap you around the back of the head if you do anything stupid. For example, I recently got a new piercing in my lip, and the first things Mum said was to keep it clean. Whereas when I told my Dad, he yelled at me - only because he cares a lot, though. This new 20’s life is very similar to childhood, minus the lack of responsibility and fashion faux pas such as MC hammer pants and mullets (FYI, these are some of the rare parental decisions that should be ignored. Forever. And always). And just like when you were growing, you are again asking your parents for advice and hoping that they’ll fix whatever problem you have in front of you. It’s all a bit of a déjà vu, really.

When we are kids, we want to grow up to be like Mummy and Daddy. When we are teens, we could never do enough to escape them. Now that we’re adults, we admire them and it’d be okay if we were as good to our kids as they were to us. Except for that time Mum gave my boyfriend the sex talk, and Dad danced the twist at my 18^th. Embarrassing at whatever age.

...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.

...And No Illness Like Man-Flu

I hate getting sick. I hate that scratchy feeling in the back of my throat and the feeling that wet cotton balls are being stored in my sinuses. The worst bit is the knowledge that I'm probably not going to sleep properly for 4 days because my snoring will constantly shock me awake.

Nobody likes to get sick, but we handle it like everything else every other day. Why is it, then, that when a man gets ill, the whole world must stop and give him sympathy? They must sacrifice something in his honour so that he may feel well again and grace the public world with his presence. I can handle the flu - I may have one day off work (channelling death warmed up is not attractive) but in an effort to be a functioning member of society I get back to it and the sickness will eventually peel away. When men get sick, they make it a point to express just how difficult it is to get out of bed, let alone go to work. The words 'dying' and 'impossible' are thrown around excessively and there is suddenly a need for attention. And toast.

Man-flu is an epidemic. It is sweeping the world by storm, much like bird-flu and swine-flu did. Like these, i'm sure there will be vaccinations for socially enhanced males, and football players so that their everyday activities aren't jeopardised by the horrific illness (much like the pregnant and elderly are at risk with mammalian themed viruses). And also like these viruses, I'm sure that one level headed doctor - a woman, I'm sure - will come along to burst the bubbles of the paranoid. The headline will read 'Man-flu proves to be no more dangerous than the common cold'. Work productivity will go up, our economy will boost and our national debts will be thwarted.

What makes the man-flu so much different to every other sickness? God forbid if it were actually a variant stream of the cold - no woman would ever hear the end of it, but is it possible? If it were, I want my own sickness. Women can have their own named something like Estroenza, and it can only be cured by the receiving of jewellery and a week without responsibility. And a bath. And a raise. Children can have their own too; something that displays symptoms such as confusion ("mummy, my tummy hurts" while rubbing their head) and tendencies to forget they are even sick at all. The elderly may as well have one while I'm at it - they shouldn't, really, they have enough. But hey, I'm feeling generous.

Until these viruses are discovered and I receive all royalties when they are pattened, I stand by my theory that the dreaded man-flu is just a dramatisation of something that deserves very little attention. However, we should come to accept it. After all, the fish that got away was never that big, the cut on his foot never needs stitches and the lawn mower isn't broken. It just needs petrol.

...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.