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Archive for the ‘lessons’ Category

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.Mary Schmich


 

Fek me Mary! I don’t like where this is heading.

Do you really want me to perform a slow strip in front of all these people? Do I really have to expose myself, one painful revelation of dumbass at a time? Button by button? 

 

Have I ever known what I wanted?

 

In High School I aced English and Lit, but my teacher was a smarmy bastard with a porno moustache and squinty eyes. The Graphics teacher on the other hand was young and cute. Suddenly I wanted to be a Graphic Designer. 

 

I walk stage left and begin peeling off one long, elbow length white glove. 

I drop it to the floor. 

 

Here’s the problem… I was shite at graphics and very ill-prepared to boot. 

 

I walk stage right and work the other glove…

I’m rolling it down to reveal a smooth bare arm…

I’m  peeling it off slowly finger by finger…and then…

I wait for the perfect drum beat,

the perfect dramatic moment to flick it hard to the floor.

 

At Uni I fell into an English major, stirring in a little education degree on the side. Everyone was convinced that I’d be a great teacher. And at some point everyone convinced me. But at graduation there was regional work and a few nail-biting gigs teaching year nines. The effen little horrors.

Suddenly I was no longer convinced. 

 

I return to the middle of the stage and am grateful for the lights that shine into my eyes.

I begin unbuttoning my blouse starting at the unobvious bottom.

Slowly…I undo them and  push one shoulder forward,

exposing pale glowing skin and a peek of cleavage. 

 

Then a job that unexpectedly fell into my lap became somewhat satisfying. Marketing in the pretty-pill-whorehouse of a multi-national pharmaceutical company. 

It had never been in my dreams, but there were words and brain usage beyond what I had experienced. And it was a comforting way to pretend it was all I’d ever wanted. 

Until the day of the big whoop-it-up congratulations-to-us marketing meeting.

An A-List product had hit a milestone of dollars and sales worthy of tooting trumpets. The product was an anti-depressant. And during the back slapping and champagne corks I felt no less than emptiness.

With pin prick focus all I could see was the sheer volume of money being spent by all those depressives and the irony of toasting the good health of this product. 

Hooray! Hooray! For all you sick-with-the-business-of-livings out there! 

It was time to go. 

 

I stay centre stage and know it’s time for a bit of skirt…I unzip it at the back and shimmy, shimmy…

 

I’ve always had this niggle of a feeling, of tickets in my hand that held promises of excitement and adventures to come. But when I look at them I’m painfully startled by the realisation that they are stamped use-by the early nineties.

 

Well my friends there’s little left between you and me ‘cept for these heels and this ridiculously long and cleverly placed black feather boa.

 

Fek it.

Sorry, but I’ve never once desired to be the perfect-stay-at-home-mum.

I had itchy feet and itchy palms and an itchy need to find that something I could do, something I could call my own.

But I never picked up my pen.

I answered that call stupidly inhaling the cafes one by one until seven years later I am all coffee beans and gen-y staff and freakin’ cake crumbs. And the deep secret that the thrill of the treacherous learning curve was over, far earlier than anticipated. 

 

I know I’ve wafted through the last seven years of my life under a radar of sorts, dodging the admiration of my friends who all look at me as if I’m some kind of 

 

successful business woman.  

 

I understand why they think that way. But it can only feel like fraud to me.

  

I’m all feathery black and ivory…

and then suddenly

I’m sick with the realisation of how close to raw-exposure I’ve become.

I clutch at the curtains and wind myself around and around, until I’m deeply wrapped in a warm red-fringed-velvety cocoon.

 

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do” is all bloody well and good Mary. 

It’s the guilt you feel when you know what you want to do…and never do it that is the fuck-note of your life.

 

One day I’ll admit it to myself. Out aloud.

Brave the criticism, the self doubt and the but you’re so, so, unworthy.

 

And I will have the whole world hold me, 

in just two hands.

 

 

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42-15350445Was just reading a funny blog on Obama’s recent controversial speech delivered to all the kidlets of America (well at least to the ones whose mommas and poppas didn’t protest and keep them home in the trailer park that day- but ahem-I digress….) It evoked a memory of my own physical scareducation back in the good ole days of high school- circa the 80’s.

 

Our PE teacher was a tall bloke with a head of early-onset silver hair and a startling ginger beard. He’d be called a ranga-face these days- but back then we only had one name for him and that was >insert dramatic pause here< …Mr Blood. 

Well it was appropriate- because, after all, it was his actual name. 

Mr Blood had a penchant for interesting ways of promoting fitness. I was convinced that every night he must have cackled himself to sleep as he thought of another ingenious way to torture us without the aid of traditional evil implements. Under his churlish command orange dimpled basket balls and innocent looking skipping ropes somehow became weapons of mass humiliation. 

The most wicked of all his games was his own special version of Dodge-ball.

To give you a clue- we secretly called it Butt-ball. 

On the day that he introduced this charming game Mr Blood told us to line up around the perimeter of the gym. As we trudged into place he demonstrated a neat waist bend- touching his toes. Pointing to his own trim behind he said loudly “this will be the target”.  He then explained that the student at the other end of the gym had to throw the ball at the ‘target’, then snake back into the line for their turn at bending over. 

Sounds like fun huh? 

After most kids had failed to even get the ball down to the other end of the gym it was my turn to throw. The kid who sauntered into target position gave me one cool look as he slowly touched his toes. I nearly wet my navy bog-catcher-bloomers. My target was the one boy at school who really made my life miserable. For the purpose of this story I shall call him Sean. 

Sean was the master of the snide comment. He had a quick wit and knew no bounds when it came to emotional torment. He was so good at it that he rarely had to say anything at all. The mere thought of a class with him made me break out in a sweat that dripped down into my Berlei-sports-training-bra. 

I picked up the ball without any desire for revenge. My exact wish was just to get it over with as soon as possible. I hurled it across the gym floor –in an ungraceful lob. The class watched its high arc. Time stopped. The ball landed fair and square on his arse. 

Mr Blood applauded loudly as I slunk back into line.  I tried to hide, but Mr Blood had a different idea. He told us that I now had to be Sean’s target. I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easily. Revenge was Mr Blood’s game plan. Sean raced into position bouncing the ball loudly stretching out my agony as long as he could. Bounce. Bounce.     Bounce.           Bounce. I waited, my flaming face resting on my thighs. There was stillness and then the echoes of laughter bouncing off the concrete walls. His throw had landed short. A fitting end to the game. 

 

In case you are wondering- this event didn’t change my days at school.

It didn’t make me feel empowered to stand up to the bully, and it didn’t humble him in any way. We continued on as usual. He pointed out my flaws and I cowered. 

 

But just for the record- Sean was his real name.

You see- you big turd- I’m not scared of you anymore.

 

 

 

Credit where it is due:

This is the great blog I mentioned earlier – his hatred was for the pommel horse- another evil implement of physical education destined to deny generations of men from ever receiving Father’s Day cards…

go ahead read it… I’m sure you’ll love it.

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