Babushka the tale of the old lady that let herself go...

 I was walking home the other evening when a group of teenagers called me Babushka. I knew it was a dig of some kind, but until today, I didn't fully understand the insult. It's perfect, little shites. How can kids get it so accurate? Yes, I am Babushka, fuddy, duddy and old. Peasant women, well, so apt. Divorce and study can fast-track a person to peasantry. 

Is it time to take stock of my self-care routine? I mean, the only Way is up, as Yazz annoyingly sang. How did I let it get this bad? As usual, I bargained with the universe for a couple of more days before making changes (these couple of days have amounted to a few years now). 

I was at a healthy living workshop yesterday. An earthy type ran the group. First, we were ordered to sit in a circle despite wanting to hide behind a desk. Second, they said sugar makes you fat. I swear they looked at me saying it. No shit, I didn't come here to be told the reason I'm fat. I worked that bit pout myself.

Babushka or bust?

The storm is coming!

Yikes. The storm is coming. Hurricane no less. Storms remind me of the vulnerability of humans. I remember being caught in a storm in the past, just my son and I.

This opening line is powerful. I stopped typing then. Reading it now, it is prophetic. It has always been just my son and me. Nobody has ever truly entered the picture. I've tried—I really did. I regret my marriage. I regret moving to Lisdoonvarna to share my life with a robot. That's attachment wounding for you! Choosing an unavailable, judgmental nonhuman. 

I must remember all the eyerolling, all the joy steeling, and all the judging. Jesus, how can I forget the judgments? Well the storm came but it wasn't the weather kind. though that is scary, emotional storms and life circumstances that threaten your very sense of safety and security are far more terrifying. 

The storm has passed now, and I'm thrown ashore, gasping for breath and disoriented. I must have been disassociated when completing my thesis as the second I hit send, I came too. I looked around, and it was shocking to realise I was now living in a new apartment. My work is precious to me, and my manager parts use it to regulate. Big shout out to those hard-working managers who know how to keep me safe. Without the comfort of my work role, I sank to the bottom of the ocean. So far from human life and anything familiar. I sank and sank. I gave up. I allowed my body to go deeper. I might have played a bit and protested my distress in asking the then-boyfriend where do I fit? He didn't send a rope. I didn't protest too hard. I sank further.

The thing about getting old and heartbreak

 Is heartbreak the purview of the young and stupid? I think it should be. I'm not cut out for this achy breaky heart shite. I couldn't have none the sensible thing and remained nunafied  (just made it up) after pending divorce? Those Victorians were on to something with the whole remain in black and take self off market thing. I'm all for women's lib, but where has it got is truly?

Is it inevitable that all girls will eventually want to play house? I feel like a mistress in my own life. Except a mistress would be getting fancy bags and presents on demand. It's not a bad deal from where I am sitting. 

Granted my HRT patch needs replacing and I'm sorry but the swapping the estrodot for a generic brand is not cutting it. I'm onto ye big pharma. I shall call every pharmacy in the kingdom until I am supplied with the brand that instantly makes me not want to murder people. I used to be nice, well, I am tired of that too. Nice girls do not make history and have a habit of being trampled on. 

Back to my original question, the heart might have only so many breaks it can take. Imagine hair line cracks zigzagging across said glass like heart. Maybe the heartbreak in older years is the proverbial straw that breaks the camel, so to speak? I digress, on a more positive day, perhaps I'd say "better to have loved than lost" but today is NOT that day. Ask me again after I change my HRT patch. 

The perfect list

I'm not getting it right. By right I mean I do not have the perfect anything. I want to be one of those women that just get it right. I want the perfect demure black outfit, tucked away at the back of a perfect made to measure wardrobe. The dress that smashes at a funeral. I'd also like the black lace veil but probably pushing it with the whole combo. Now let's see, well a two pice little "outfit" would work too. Fitted pencil skirt and tailored jacket. But that's just it. the little part. I also need the body to hang the clothes off.

Just to fill the one reader that actually reads this blog in, I have not ditched the junk as promised in my ever hopeful and far too optimistic blurb. The truth is I am worse than ever. I suspiciously stop at several different sweet shops after my work day to feed my sugar addiction. This often means I am driving miles out of my way to ensure I rotate the shops. It goes a little something like this. I walk in and it's usually a grubby farmer/shopkeeper type standing behind the counter. He eyes me up. He knows I am up to no good. I ramble some nonsense "lovely day or will it ever stop raining" while scanning the shop for the biggest bar of chocolate.

Back to the list, I also want the perfect interview attire. Crisp shirt, perhaps in colour to show my personality. If I was truthful, it would have to be psychedelic swirls with glitter bombs exploding as I walk, but I know I'd have no chance of landing the job. Interviews are such acts. Just come to work and see me in action, I'd land any job then. Maybe wide legged trouser suit and glasses. Ah yes, they inform the viewer that yes, I am smart. I can read the back of the cereal box while multitasking like super Mum. What am I saying? No, I never feed Tarquin cereal. I activate some beans or that and add homemade yoghurt that I churned from hand organic of course. Scrap that, I now have no children and am simply professional women an I invest in the job only.

Gave up the alcohol replaced with chocolate?

I must be the only person to look and feel worse after giving up alcohol. It's three months now and I feel like a dust bin. Probably due to eating complete rubbish. I did not give up coffee, I somehow managed to increase my consumption of the "good stuff" (only real coffee will do, max strength of course). I digress, this is simply not the plan.

I am waking each morning with a headache akin to very mild hangover. Do not approach me at the 3pm slide into coma levels of energy for the evening of couch surfing. I say surfing but flicking the remote is even too strenuous. I seriously sometimes leave the station on as I am too lazy to reach for remote.

I had wanted to boast to ye lovely people about how amazing my life is now. I had visions of early morning runs, hair like a film starlet. Eating rainbow coloured goodness, and no m and m's don't count.

Darkness in the morning and utter Baltic Burren cold stopped me in my tracks literally. Gone are the morning walks, moving even. Of course I could access the gym at 7am like a very organised person, but as organisation has not yet kicked in, I am finding it as achievable as locating The Holy Grail in my back garden. That is probably more doable considering I married an archaeologist. He probably knows exactly where it is but will not say as he is a self confessed atheist. Probably views it as "the cup" like any other drinking device.

So I will do the whole buying the right 2018 diary. You know the one, the perfect one that will make me organised. I could not figure out that whole bullet journal thing. Looks incredible but I was too lazy and distracted to learn the rules. Good job I wholeheartedly believe that come the stroke of midnight on New Years eve I magically transform into that version of me where anything is possible. Am I that naïve folks? Yes, Yes I am.

Christmas madness

It is fast approaching Christmas. The time of year when you scramble to the shops to buy people stuff. More stuff. Do we not have enough things? I think that we should just get a small token of our gratitude and affection for the people in our lives. Even at that, it is impossible to buy for all the people that have touched your life. As the year hurtles towards it's end at breakneck speed let's take a minute to slow it down. 

What a year it has been. So much has changed for me. My work took up an unbelievable amount of energy and commitment. I'm focussing on wrapping up some projects I have on the go. I'm going to do a year end review. What worked, what can be improved on? Let's get this all in perspective? December is just a month. The last of this year. There is nothing to say that it can not be a relaxed time of contemplation and appreciation.

I for one am ending the year in slow down mode. I will not put myself through the chaos and tail chasing that was my usually Christmas norm. Count me out for the expected social engagements. Count me in for evenings by the fire and some serious Ugg wearing  (indoors of course!). Gathering the good and energising to begin 2018 with clarity and positivity and a healthy bank balance. 

Toxic people

I have given up drama. In fact, I bought a phone cover that read "no more drama lama" so I like to think of this as my new mantra. I always want to help people, to be that listening ear. I have found that a couple of people take advantage of this and it is a one way street with them debiting the account and me depositing the bank of relationship giving. I had a heart breaking interaction yesterday with a person that holds a lot of resentment towards me. I feel I can not mend the obvious tears in the fabric of this friendship.

I can not be responsible for someone else's feelings. I do however, wish to be accountable for my actions. I try to say I am sorry when I do wrong. Much like children in kindergarten saying sorry is a big part of life. That and getting a blanket at 3pm and going for a lie down. Wouldn't that be nice? It should be office policy. Drinking warm hot chocolate and snuggling away life's worries should be mandatory.

There are those people who are energy takers. The kind that leave you feeling worse after an encounter. We all know the kind. Time and time again you meet them thinking this time will be different. Ten seconds in and you realise that nope, they will rant at you for the next hour. Only pausing long enough to take a breath and mutter "so how are you anyway?" They don't wait for the answer. They probably wouldn't notice is you did not answer.

So with time being a premium commodity you can not buy or cash in for a refund, I say enough. I say that I care enough about my self, my energy and my time to bid this nonsense adieu. Hello to the energy givers, the kind that leave you refreshed and upbeat. If you encounter such a rare beauty, please do not take advantage of the way they make you feel. Life is about give and take folks.