That's Real Talk

Quite enjoyed reading this recent blog post by Radio 1 DJ and fellow Blackburner, Adam Catterall.

Parched

It is just over three weeks since I blogged to announce the commencement of my dry month, and I’m proud to confirm that as yet I have upheld my vow to stay sober.

I have to admit that as I embarked upon this challenge, fuelled by a particularly vicious hangover and an excess of incumbent junk food, I was unsure I’d make it myself (I am aware there is still just over a week to incur failure).  If I’m honest it’s probably only my own sheer pig-headedness that’s seen me through.  The fact that I had told people about the challenge I’d set myself (received sometimes with surprise, but more often with contempt (‘gay!’) or scepticism), I think has had the most significant contribution toward my success than anything.  I had made the decision that I would refrain from alcohol for a month and by Jove, refrain from alcohol I would do.  Even when a weary barmaid handed me a JD and coke (coincidently my drink of choice), when in fact I had ordered an innocent Diet Coke nearing 4am - ho yes, hard-core is my middle name - I promptly slid the glass back across the bar and asked for the order to be amended.  It took more than three attempts to communicate the error, and when she finally deciphered that the drink contained alcohol and I would like this element to be removed, she looked at me as though I’d sprouted a third boob.  

You may as well know that when I drink, I am a talker.  Shocking, eh?  Before I started this challenge, I used to find myself worrying immensely the morning after I had been drinking.  I would wake suddenly – as you do after a heavy night – and my first thought would be ‘right, what happened’.  I would proceed to spend the entire morning remembering everything I could from the period during which I had consumed alcohol, frantically recalling what I had been saying, what others had said, how had they acted, how had I acted, what had been my companions' facial expressions in response to the things I’d been saying.  Then I would gather my recollections into a hotbed for embarrassment and get in, wallowing in my own misfortune and imagining that everybody else would be texting and BBM-ing their disdain at my frankly unsavoury behaviour.  I’m starting to think that this may have been an overreaction.

Over the past few weeks I have been involved in a few nights out, often finding myself in scenarios where to drink would actually have been more commonplace and acceptable than to not.  On each occasion, I have found myself alone in sobriety.  Of course other people have been drinking, and I have  observed the subtle heightening of volume in their dialogue, their slowed reactions, and their loosened inhibitions, most finely demonstrated via the medium of ‘dare’ at around 2.30am (‘Laura, do you want to play dare?’ My friend propositioned, proceeding to point at an unfortunate fellow in no way subtly. ‘Go and snog that man over there.  The one with the hair.’ ‘Errr, not tonight thanks’).  Yes, my friends and family members have been drunk, they have talked rubbish, and they have chatted up unsuspecting victims in the name of keeping face, but I haven’t once judged them or scoffed at their behaviour with contempt.  I’d say in the most part I’ve been a little jealous.

Sometimes it’s fun to be tipsy. No-one is immune to the effects of alcohol, and we’ve all done silly things under the influence.  I’m not saying go wild.  If you find yourself awakening just short of the front door with your bra around your waist you’ve probably gone a little overboard.  But sometimes having a drink can be relaxing, confidence-boosting, and above all, fun.

And that is why, comfortable in the knowledge that I can refrain from alcohol should I so choose, and refreshing though this break has been, I will be counting down until next Wednesday and declaring myself very much involved with alcohol for the foreseeable future.

8 days, 2 hours, and 13 minutes to go. 

Top Ten

Procrastination is no stranger of mine, so I decided to put my time-wasting prowess to some use and document the best of some pretty impressive skills.  Do check out my top ten forms of procrastination here. 

Ok so it's true that I'm hardly St. Valentine himself, but I have to admit that I just melted when this crafty proposal was brought to my attention this morning.  So much so that it definitely just upped the ante on my dating prerequisites; any prospective romantic partner must now have proficient animation skills and a well stocked Lego bucket.

A V. Dissatisfying Week

And so it's upon us.  These days it doesn't seem only to be one day of the calendar year that us singletons are banished indoors with a tub of Pick ‘n’ Mix and 'the Notebook'.  No no, apparently dissatisfied with the hostile takeover of one three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth of the single girl’s year, it now encroaches on the weekend before too, inviting sugary couples out in droves for specially tailored 'romantic cuisine'.  Please.  We’re all familiar with that classic SATC moment, with Carrie and Miranda awkwardly seated at the traditional table for two, dogged by a swarm of frankly discourteous pastel-coloured balloons and then mistaken for lovers, as if the only people allowed to exist on this hateful annual appointment are insufferably happy couples. *Shudder.* I am, of course, referring to V-day.

So below I have compiled a list of things I will be occupying myself with this week to distract myself from inhaling litres of Pralines & Cream ice cream, breaking my alcohol ban, and sobbing uncontrollably into my new Alice In Wonderland pillows (Urban Outfitters – amazing).

Perusal of the Daily Mail Online

I will be spending considerable hours reading the ‘celeb’ pages on Daily Mail Online to remind myself that it could always be worse.  I’m looking at you, Imogen Thomas.

Pretty Vacant

Creating a Playlist of Classic Female Power Anthems

...and playing repeatedly at a high volume.

*Sings loudly and out of tune* ALL THE SINGLE LADIES…

Online Shopping 

Around V-day I choose mostly to peruse in virtual isolation, rather than face ugly confrontation from the stacks of frankly offensive items passed off as V-day 'gift ideas' - heart shaped fried egg moulds, cherry scented bath beads, 'I LOVE Ewe' knitted socks - really.

Spending V-Day alone can be hard on a girl.  Just because I choose to be single (ahem), surely doesn't mean I must miss out on the female's finest annual excuse for extra gifts (however pointless they may prove).

I mean, should I have chosen to involve myself in a relationship, my other half would almost certainly shell out more than a month's rent on this modest Marc Jacobs tote, right?   Surely it's only fair that I gift myself a special little treat as a thanks for the impeccable company I have provided myself over the last 12 months...

'Sherlock' Marathon

Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in love, thus securing himself the honourable position of perfect V-night companion.   

*Quotes* “I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”  Quite right, Holmes, couldn't agree more.

I can happily while away the hours nestled on the settee with everyone's favourite - comfortingly heartless - genius detective.

definitely the new sexy

And it doesn't hurt that the part of Sherlock Holmes is currently occupied by one of Britain's most eligible bachelors. *Swoon*.  

This Is War

Back in the day, as Adam and Eve frolicked in sin on the periphery of the Garden of Eden, freshly unhindered by the advice of God, Adam made a simple request of Eve - that she banish her leg hair.  She accepted, and this frankly preposterous request was granted.  

At least, that’s how I imagine it happened.  

I remember watching the CBBC classic, ‘Cavegirl’ at the tender age of about 12.  In one episode, the main character, a young woman sporting classic cave-age attire (a short leather shirt and fur crop-top), and imaginatively named Cavegirl, was sat drawing a sharp-edged rock along the length of her legs.  ‘What are you doing, Cavegirl?’ asked Stiks the Saucy, her male counterpart.  ‘Scraping my legs, of course!’ she replied.  

Women’s hair removal has become as ingrained into Western society as brushing your teeth twice daily or slicking on a layer of deodorant in the morning; to question or disregard the act invokes a reaction of disgust and appal in those around us.  And so, shackled by the cultural norm which we ourselves have refined, we just get on with it.  So imagine the dismay of those with sensitive skin, who must ritually battle the omnipresent fuzz regardless of inflammation, itching, or unsightly in-grown hair.

A woman's unhindered, smooth legs waving nonchalantly.

In the past - during periods where there was no boyfriend to speak of, and when unlikely to be leaving the house - I have gifted my skin some respite, allowing the hair on my legs to grow wild and free.  That was until the last time when, as I casually watched t.v. at home, my feet up on the settee and my pyjama bottoms exposing a small amount of leg, my brother visibly recoiled proclaiming, ‘that is disgusting, Laura!’, his own coarse leg hair swaying brazenly below his shorts.

I have tried EVERYTHING.  Shaving, waxing, hair removal creams, epilating (ouch), and to no avail.  My pale complexion coupled with sensitive skin has meant that throughout my teenage years and early 20’s, I have been unable to expose my bare legs.  Ever.  Whilst more fortunate girls whipped on a summer dress and sandals, I was left sweltering in leggings and socks.  Which is why, at the ripe age of 23, I am declaring war.

Earlier this afternoon I had my first consultation for laser hair removal, and I cannot wait to get started.  It will take eight treatments, four weeks apart, and will banish 90% of hair.  Pricey it may be, but the promise that in eight short months I will be freed from the clutches of unwanted leg-hair, and at liberty to unleash a couple of smooth citizens upon the world is simply too great...  Where do I sign?!

A Happy Medium?

Over the last decade, the media industry has squeezed some serious mileage from the female form.  Promotion of an unachievable female ideal sparked by impossibly skinny catwalk models throughout the naughties, was enough to reduce adult women to strive for the waistline of a 7 year old girl, or as it's more commonly known, the size zero.  Cue scores of female celebrities who fell victim to eating disorders.  Nicole Richie, Mary-Kate Olsen, Alexa Chung (is she, isn’t she?), and Tara Reid have all successfully induced international shockwaves with their increasingly - fashionably - emaciated frames.

More recently, the skinny ideal has been subject to a backlash from the opposite extreme, with plus size models such as Emme Aronson and Nina Blakemore pitching more and more in favour of the Big is Beautiful campaign.

Still, however, the media fails to properly provide representation for the girls that are neither skin-clad skeletons, nor adorned with a wealth of curves.  Continually, speculation in the press is focussed around either one extreme or the other, when what really should be celebrated is a healthy body, plain and simple.

Only this week, everyone’s favourite tabloid ran a piece on Brazil’s new plus-size beauty pageant models, juxtaposed with an article critiquing the slender form of Keira Knightley’s back, as, it seems, the world's media continually fails to represent a healthy attitude towards body image. 

But now the ‘Thinner is the Winner’ campaign, and the pioneers of ‘Big Is Beautiful’, must step aside - there's a new obsession on the block.

We've all seen - and gasped audibly at - the recent pictures of Jodie Marsh.  But she seems only to be putting a famous face to a growing trend.  Ladies, I give you the female body builder:

Once a petit size 8, Rene Campbell is a self-confessed ‘Bigorexic’, who won’t rest until she hits 20 stone.  ‘It’s an art form,’ she declares, ‘I see 20-stone guys in the gym and think I want to be that big.’  She currently weighs 13.5 stone, works out for 2 hours, 5 days a week and consumes 4,200 calories a day.

So is Rene's bodybuilding a harmless regime, or an addiction?  A psychological obsession?  If so, does she represent another life gripped by the female population's fixation with body image?  And could bodybuilding be the next chapter in a never-ending story of the female form?

It seems to me that as women, we continually push the boundaries and focus on extremes.  As if anorexia, bulimia, or addiction to food wasn't enough to worry about, we're now threatening to add 'bigorexia' to the mix.  As Stella Newman points out in a recent article, females base their self-worth on appearance more than any other domain, leading to constant comparison of oneself with others.  Isn't it time, then, that we all just stop competing with one another and concentrate on being healthy?

If you don't mind, I think I'll stick to my recommended 2,000 cals per day, eat some fruit and veg and try to stick to 30 minutes exercise, 3 times a week.  If that puts me at a UK size 12 then by Jove a size 12 I will be.