Survival Tips #1 COFFEE

Sick Days

The Disturbing Similarity Between My Life and a Hamster's

10 Ways to be a Woman (Seriously?)

Last week, I read an article that told me how to be a WOMAN. There I was, naively, imagining that being born with all the womanly bits and bobs was enough. I've been misled. To be a woman you must ignore what hard evidence suggests and engage in the following practices.


1) One cannot be a woman without maintaining high levels of personal grooming. Never mind anything else (life questions, academia, taking out the bins, thinking - leave that to the men), it's important that you tweeze regularly and file your nails.

 

2) A woman must always portray herself with dignity on Social Media (You really can't make this nonsense up. The mention of Social Media was particularly alarming, because I'd been reading under the assumption that the article was written in the Dark Ages).

3) A woman must learn to hold her liquor, if she cannot hold her liquor then she simply must not drink (I'm not sure this person has ever been to a real town.).

4) A woman must always appear to be happy. (All other emotions have been taken, moronic laughter is your ticket to womanhood).

5) A woman must learn to write thank you notes. People will then know she is kind and gentle and womanly. (God forbid she should be barbaric and say THANK YOU like a man).

6) A woman must dress conservatively. In some nice pumps, with a string of pearls and a conservative dress. (Sounds to me like the "woman" who wrote this article, has only ever encountered women in cults/churches/other planets).

7) A woman crosses her legs. (Does she?)

8) A real woman must know how to walk in heels so as not to look like a tottering duck. (Yes, tottering has been known to reduce oestrogen levels).

9) A real woman will practice and perfect a polite telephone manner (there are no words).



10) And, in case we still weren't sure what a woman should look like. The article continued to dictate on the matter of modest clothing (which made me want to knock on her door and twerk in hot-pants).

My Brief and Terrifying Encounter With Yoga

On Wednesday, I left a poetry reading high on words. I was determined to become inspired by every small thing in my path.

That attitude died a dramatic and sudden death when I got to my bicycle. It was locked beneath two bikes I had never seen before and it was impossible to extract from the situation. My naturally sullen disposition was restored and I fought the desire to strangle the nearest lamp-post.

It was clear to me that this was some drinker's revenge for all the poetry we'd subjected them to. I returned to the pub and started to make my inquiries.

The barman was not impressed by my assumption that any of his customers would have anything to do with cycling.

 Which led me to believe he was losing the plot.

 He led me to the pub door and pointed across the road as he explained about the "Yoga Fuckers".

I stood staring at the glowing green door of the Yoga Studio. I'd like to say I took a moment to consider a plan of action, but alas such things are not in my nature. I plodded across the road with all the grace of a pitt-bull and trooped up the stairs in search of the culprits.

It was pitch-black upstairs, so I assumed the place was empty and turned to leave. Nothing is creepier than being somewhere you've never been before when it's dark and empty. You don't even know any good hiding places.

I heard a sneeze coming from the dark room behind me. I should have probably hightailed it. Instead, I peered back into the dark and as my eyes adjusted I noticed the small curled up mounds of people all over the floor. 

 I did what any other person of questionable sanity would do and walked into the dark yoga class.

Nobody answered my initial self-introduction. I was impeccably polite and treated their silence as some sort of state of shock. I knew I would eventually charm them out of silence with my awkward interrogation skills.  I stood in the doorway and just kept talking....

and talking.... 

 Until their leader unfurled and addressed the room in a whispery voice.

Being referred to in this manner was a little off-putting, I felt like my integrity was being compromised, so I lunged across the rolled up people to validate my claims that my bicycle was imprisoned.

 I gestured widely out the window as the room of yoga blobs remained disconcertingly silent.

I heard a woman's voice behind me. I spun around and in the entrance to the room stood the most horrifying woman brandishing a yoga mat. She slowly approached me.

 As she approached the leader continued to whisper to the room about my presence.

 I was trying to figure out how to get past the yoga lady without falling victim to her yoga mat, when two of the people curled up on the floor sprung to life and sprinted from the room.

At this point I was certain this was all an elaborate dream. The woman was still approaching and nobody seemed to want to explain the disappearance of the two men.

 I asked the room where they were going.

Faced with hostile silence, that I now consider to be synonymous with yoga, I decide to leave.

Outside, the two men were standing over my bike debating in Spanish. I stood beside them wondering when the entire nightmare would end. We stood that way for the longest minute of my life, they argued, I simply stood there. I had given up on ever releasing my bike.

 At one point I asked why they were still standing there and was not surprised to find they didn't answer.

Eventually, having decided that I was either a) to poor to pay ransom for my bike or b) more trouble than keeping it hostage was worth, they took out the key and released my bike.

I thanked them despite my innate desire to lock their bikes up and throw away the key. They, again, said nothing.

I cycled home, sure of one thing. That barman was right about the "Yoga Fuckers".

Attempting to be Human too Early in the Morning

This week I got a new job. The sort of job where you look at construction videos until your eyes bleed and must consider it training. It seems to involve a lot of screwing and nailing. By day three I was finding it hard to wake-up in the mornings. Mostly because I have gotten used to the sloth-like hours of a student and also because 8am seems like an ungodly hour for anyone to be turning their computer on at.

I woke up, quite understandably, in denial.

Then because it's a NEW job, and I don't want anyone there to know that I've recently become a tea-drinking sweapants-aholic, I made myself look semi-professional.

It was only when I was about to suit-up to face the weather and cycle to work that the morning took a turn for the worse.

I tried to pump the tyres but the bicycle pump would not cooperate. It has clicky bits and things that screw on and off. The more the clock ticked, the more I scrambled. Soon there was no earthly way I could make it to work unless my bike magically fixed. So I did what all sane, rational, well-adjusted adults do. I lay on the floor and cursed at my bike.

I had an epiphany lying on the floor that morning. My wheel was still round, deflated tyre or not, it would still get me where I needed to go. It was time to suit-up and soldier on. 

I pedaled like a furious and demented minion to work.

It turns out there is a legitimate reason why one should avoid cycling on a flat tyre. Particularly if one has all the finesse of a badger and all the sense of a rhino in heat. The reason being that your inner tube will come loose and wrap itself around your wheel, while you are in the middle of a giant junction, in lashing rain, with cars blaring their horns at you. At which point you will have to come to terms with the fact that you may well be about to die. 

I survived, clearly. There was then an awkward few minutes spent dragging my giant bike to a nearby fence. At which point I cursed my choice of a heavy bike. I wanted a heavy one because the light one I'd previously owned used to get me blown into traffic. Which was only slightly less scary than breaking-down in the midst of roaring traffic. 

Once I tied up the bike I decided to run to work. In my giant waterproof  trousers and terrible shoes.

I got to an intersection where I had, unfortunately, another epiphany. 

I think we all know which way I decided to go. I console myself with the thought that Robert Frost would have been proud.

I only realised how unfortunate my shortcut was when I ended up in literally the middle of nowhere. 

It was all too much. I simply gave in. I would simply regale them all with my miss-adventures when I arrived sopping wet and late. 

When I finally arrived I was over five minutes late. This was really distressing until I noticed that I was the only person there. Surely this couldn't be. After all that trouble, I hadn't even managed to make a dramatic bloody entrance and there was nobody to hear my tale of woes.