Perfectionism and Procrastination

I had a blog about a decade ago, and I loved it. I enjoyed writing and interacting with other people and watching our little community form and start to grow. I had a job I didn't like much at the time and it was such a treat to come home and say what was on my mind and catch up on the minds of my new virtual friends. But as the blog grew so did the pressure. The pressure for it to be perfect. I reached a point where I froze. I stopped. Procrastination took over and I never went back.

A few years ago I started this blog, my little space in the online universe to record my thoughts and musings. It felt nice to blog again, I didn't realise how much I missed it. But the perfectionism came back and I began to worry about the content and putting out perfect posts. And as a result I slowed down, and this blog has only just plodded along quite randomly in between bouts of procrastination.

I wanted to make a bigger commitment and get over this hump. I was exploring other blogs and then it because worse because they all had a theme. When I googled 'blogging tips' it always came back with having a theme for your blog. So I procrastinated over my theme-less blog. After thinking it over I realised my blog theme is me, and just like me, I have many themes in my life. Many interests and passions, some big, some small. I grow restless with repetition and monotonousness and need to drop things and come back to them later. I cannot commit to a theme on this blog. Life is too rich for me to be so specific.

After this I thought about my blog name. I thought it may give the wrong impression, like I am a journalist for a country lifestyle magazine, writing about rural escapes and flooding this space with heart singing landscape images. So I pondered if I should start again. But what name could I pick that would sum up all of my parts.

Rural dreaming is the most perfect name, because while I have so many dreams, they all link to my rural dreams. A comfy house in the country, surrounded by family and friends staying for a handful of days. And we cook using local ingredients and we eat and we drink. And in these dreams I have my most perfect job and lots of fresh air. There is the occasional weekend escape to the coast and the city where I can indulge in my former city girl life. And in all this I still find time for my most favourite pastime of all, daydreaming.

Rural Dreaming @ Work

There are no windows in our office.  We only have windows at the front and the front is reception and the manager's office.  We are behind the wall and wherever I look I see walls.  Clients come to me and say it's hot or cold or a storm is coming.  I smile and nod.  I have no idea.  I wish I could see, I wish I could sit and gaze out of a window, just for a minute.  Stretch my eyes, my body, my mind, steal a few moments for slipping into another world.

Our lunch room is made up of 4 walls, none have a window. But it isn't just a lunch room, it is our archive room so when sitting down to eat, 3 of the 4 walls are filled with old files, watching, encroaching, suffocating.  I don't bother going outside anymore to escape, beyond the building it is dirty and noisy and rough and everyday the cops are called to deal with a situation at the bus terminal down the road.

I'm over the cabin fever now.  I am used to these walls, the subtle feeling of compression no longer bothers me.  My eyes are used to all the artificial lightening.  I dream about escaping, about an office with windows and fresh air.  About seeing the sun from my desk and being close enough to stick my hand out and feel it's rays.

I have a picture on one wall of my little cubicle. A picture of a worn track leading from one paddock into another and wrapping itself out of the frame.  The sky is overcast and looking at the picture I can feel myself standing on the track wrapping my coat tighter over me and taking deep breaths, allowing the cool crisp air to fill my lungs, my body, bringing me back to life.  I see myself walking along the track, it takes the turn and I run through the green grass. Childish laughter explodes out of my body as I run around in freedom with nothing holding me back.

As a run I spin around a few times and purposefully fall to the ground. My hands search over the grass, the soft edges tickling away whatever anxiety I had left. Looking up I see home. I casually walk through the grass and up onto the verandah and make my way into my study. My desk is directly in front of the window. I open the window and allow the fresh air to fill the room. I sit and gaze through the frame and all around I can see the fulfilment of my rural dreams. And the memories of my time working in an office have been stuffed in a box down the back of the mind in a place not to be opened again.

Not Quite As Young

My mid-thirties has just appeared on the horizon and I'll be hitting that iceberg before I know it. I actually forget my age sometimes. People ask me and I have to think about it. It's weird because I still feel early twenties in my head. I have an idea of 30-something and I know I'm not there yet. That woman is polished and sophisticated and I still feel like I'm playing house.

When I look in the mirror, reality wakes me up as I can see I'm no longer 21. I have a few lines forming around my eyes. Sure I have to stand close and almost fall into the looking glass to see them, but they are there. And I have a few on my neglected décolletage so now my moisturiser application has to keep going down my face and neck and all over that area to prevent any further damage.

Speaking of moisturiser, I treated myself to a facial the other day. The beautician gave me a sample of moisturiser to try. It was thick and heavy and the word "Collagen" was all over the marketing material. I remember moisturiser being light and milky, but I'm in a new age bracket now and the worst thing of all is this cake batter works, my skin looks great after using it for a week.

Then there are the little aches and pains. The sore hip from tennis I had to have treatment on. I remember being younger and if something was sore I left it a few days and my body sorted it out for me. Now my body yells louder until I hand money over for someone to fix it.

And my waistline, what a waste! I spent all my time hating my body, wishing I was thinner and obsessing over a couple of kilos. Now I'm obsessing over double digit kilos and I would give anything to be my younger weight plus 10 kilos. I spent all that time covering up when I should have flaunted those Marilyn-esque curves and loved my body exactly how it was.

I remember leaving school and having a list of things I wanted to accomplish before 25, because that was an old age. Only a handful of those items have been ticked. Sometimes I feel I am playing dress ups and waiting until I become a grown up. While I am wiser and more settled now, being 30-something seems like a stretch. Of course I wouldn't go back. I quite enjoy having this freedom and my own place and the ability to do as I choose. And of course I like having a real income and spending that on a few luxuries now and then. Maybe that is what being 30-something is all about. Perhaps we are still twenty something in our heads pretending to play grown ups.

Virtual Treasure

I have been going through 5 years' worth of emails at work. We are finally upgrading our email system and once it happens all the old emails will be archived. Given I won't be working there much longer anyway, it seemed like a good idea to just trash them all. I started deleting whole folders but then I came to the personal folder and inside the bulk of emails were made up of ones from my husband. I couldn't click delete on them straightway, I had to have a little glance.

Captured are our meaningless conversations that mimic the spoken word but unlike speech, where the words are gone forever, these are sitting on the screen for me to review any time I like. I started to wonder why I kept them in the first place. It's the same with text message, the ones from Hubby I don't delete. It's a virtual record of our relationship. I know I will never go back and read through them again and the only text worth keeping is the first one he sent me. But then that text is etched in my mind forevermore like the first page of a great romance.

People say emails are the modern day love letters. I disagree. In real letters thought and care and attention goes into it. Email is simply verbal garbage captured in the internet ether. There is no poetic language, no declarations of love, no heartfelt sonnets. Merely snippets of conversation. Why hold onto them? An email asking my beloved to pick up milk on the way home and his reply of "Ok, love you".

However while deleting the trash in the virtual ocean of emails I pleasantly discovered a handful of gems worth treasuring. These emails are the few where one of us stood still for a moment to truly think about the other and to express that thought with carefully chosen words. It was a simple gift wrapped with a bow to be opened and read and to make the recipient smile. Reading them now makes me smile and reflect on our history. I will hang onto the select few and store them away at home to be rediscovered in another 5 years time when I am once again sorting the trash from the treasure.

10 Things I Wish I Was Better At

1) Photography.  Take a look around my blog, I take awful pictures. I keep meaning to learn how to take better pictures but it's still on my "To Do" List. The problem is I'm too impatient and not bothered with the knobs on the camera. The camera stays on "Auto" and I click. Job done.

2) Flower Arrangements.  You know how you can buy flowers cheaper and arrange them yourself?  Well I have tried that, and I fail each time. I love fresh flowers but I'm forced to pay extra for someone to make them look nice. And sometimes I even stuff up when I put them in a vase. I need help.

3) Fashion.  My wardrobe consists of jeans with plain tops and skirts with singlets along with a small selections of dresses. I would love to be fashionable, but I can never pull it off. I used to try but always failed - epically. To ensure I don't risk being a fashion tragic I stick to the plain and boring.

4) My Hair.  This is a sore spot but I do have two hair styles; out and straight or pulled back into a ponytail. The girls that can do fashion also have the ability to do great hair and do a vast array of things with it. Again I have tired, and failed. I'm told there are great videos on You Tube to teach me, but if I had time to do that, I think it would be better spent learning how to take photos or flower arranging.

5) Being a Social Butterfly. I am quite social and can put on a good show, when I am surrounded by people I know very well. When it comes to new people I am the shy one arguing with myself in my head about what to say and then beating myself up for what comes out of my mouth. I can manage OK with one on one but in a group situation I struggle and end up being the great listener.

6) Eating Vegetables.  I know they are good for me and they should make up the bulk of my diet, but I was a kid of the 80's. Before food allergies and a focus on real food, we lived on crap and turned our noses up at a plate of vegetables (usually overcooked in the microwave as was the fashion of the time). I would fill up on additive laden chemical concoctions like Frosties and Fruit Loops and biscuits and cakes and muffins. And now, it doesn't matter how many cooking shows I watch I still struggle to eat the good stuff.

7) Home Decorating.  It always feels like something is missing. While I try and aim for a unique style that reflects our personalities, I seem to miss the mark. I want each room to look a little sharper and more polished, I constantly feel that it is not quite done just yet and I don't know how to finish it off.

8) Dancing.  There was a reason I didn't go to many clubs in my younger years, because I cannot dance. I've tried to learn but it was difficult. When I find myself at a wedding I tend to just stick on the outskirts of the dance floor and move my feet from side to side, it's awkward just thinking about it. I would love to be one of those people that rocks the dance floor with everyone looking on admiring, but that will never be me.

9)Travelling.  I don't fly, the few times I have was over 10 years ago, but a phobia set in, I'm not sure how or why. My husband loves flying and trained to be a pilot, so he enjoys watching TV shows like Air Crash Investigations. This does not help, I would like to get on a plane and go travel to Europe but it is always in the future so I don't need to deal with it in the present moment.

10) Dieting.  Some people say if you really want to lose the weight then you will. Others say embrace what you have and love your body. I try and diet and I try to love my body. I really love my curves, just not the two spare tyres around the middle, I wish I could buff those out into a nice small rounded tummy. I know I could try harder but the pull of cheese and wine and butter and dark chocolate and duck fat potatoes must be stronger than the pull to have a smaller waist size.

Say My Name

The post office lady knows my name, and she says it correctly too. My name is not common and there are quite a few variations of my name each with a different pronunciation. For most of my life I hated my name. No one knew how to say it, or spell it and I was always correcting people and I noticed people just tried not to use my name because they weren't sure. It would trip them up and they didn't want to go there.

This struggle is why I make an effort to use people's names when talking to them. As Dale Carnegie says a person's name is the sweetest sound in the world. For that reason when someone uses my name, saying it correctly and spelling it correctly (it took my mother-in-law 4 years to spell it correctly on the Christmas card) I do a little dance inside and instantly mark that person as someone special.

We have a PO Box, it is down the road at a little corner shop that also serves as post office, newsagent and TAB. That lady that runs it knows my name. Of course she does, it's on my mail that she stuffs in there each day. And given the amount of online purchases I make, especially around Christmas, a lot of boxes are lying around with my name on them waiting for me to collect. Over time she started asking my about my life and other bits and pieces and our relationship started to form and grow. But here is the thing, I don't know her name.

I know quite a few things about her, like she has a dog who is very old and doesn't move much and she doesn't have any children. As soon as I walk in she goes behind the counter to get my mail and my latest purchase, her service is wonderful, she asks about my day, I ask about hers. I smile, she smiles, we chat. She uses my name, and everytime I hear my name it feels like a dagger in my chest. It's too late to ask for her name now. Our relationship is too far gone. We have been acquaintances for years, and I cannot just walk in say "hello" and "FYI what's your name?" But I know she knows I don't know and everytime I hear my name spoken I cannot help but feel her mentally saying to me "Say My Name".

Can You Keep A Secret?

Well I work with some people that can't. It's a painful learning experience when you discover some people can't keep a secret. When I first started here a few years ago, I mentioned something to a certain someone. It wasn't a secret as such, but I wasn't expecting it to be passed along. Yet it was, so I made a note to add this person to the DNT (Do Not Trust) Register.

Towards the end of last year this person, through her network, must have picked up on something. Because suddenly she took a role in our Western Sydney office which was just over a 3 hour round trip. She was always adamant she couldn't travel down there because of her kids, so it was a little strange. It was a job on a top secret project, one that was on the restructuring of the organisation. At the morning tea held for her farewell she told us she signed a confidentially agreement to not reveal to anyone about what was going to happen. I almost chocked on my cake, but hey, give her the benefit of the doubt, right?

No, I was right. She couldn't keep a secret and in due course told our manager what was going down. We were closing. Not just us, but the bulk of the regional and Sydney branches. When the CEO spends our $88 million dollar profit in 5 years and in that time stops us from running a profit, things have got to change. Of course our manager cannot keep anything to himself. There are no secrets in this place and this wasn't going to be the first.

He called me in, he looked serious. I wondered what the issue was, had I done something? Had I upset a client and they complained to head office? What? 

"The branch is closing, I thought I would give you the heads up, but don't tell anyone, I have told X, Y and Z, but whatever you do, don't tell A."

"Is this official?"

"Not yet, it will be, but H told me it is what she is working on, but she will be sacked if she tells anyone, so whatever you do, don't mention her name"

Talk about a rock and a hard place. He tells me confidential information then tells me not to say anything to anyone. So the question is can I keep a secret? Well is turns out I didn't need to, everyone knew and we were now all discussing it in the open. Except A, I felt bad for her, I didn't think it was fair, and I didn't sign a confidentiality agreement. But I do keep secrets, at least the ones that need keeping like personal and private ones. I sussed A out, turns out she knew anyway from another source. What was the point of the confidentially agreement?

The "restructure" is still a secret, even though it seems most of the organisation knows. The latest secret we have heard is on Monday we are being told about the "restructure", you know, officially. Can anyone keep a secret?

To A Long Lost Friend

"A friend is for a reason, a season or a lifetime".  I have had many friends throughout my life and for some I do wonder what happened to them.  Here is a letter to someone who was a great friend to me when I was a uni student.

Dear Flis,

Sometimes I find myself wondering what happened to you.  I always felt bad about the last time we spoke.  Do you remember?  You were walking down the hill from the station and you saw me walking across the road to get into my car.  You walked over and said "Hello".  I smiled and made pleasantries, but I told you I desperately had to go.  You looked upset and walked off.  The thing was I really did have to go, I had a Dr's appointment and I couldn't be late.  Perhaps I should have told you that.  I never heard from you again, but I was in a bad place at the time and I didn't tell you because of all the bad places you had been.

I always enjoyed our friendship, you went out of your way to make me feel welcome and I was happy spending time with you.  We did a lot together and spent many Sunday evenings drinking coffee and talking for what felt like hours.  However I remember at some point things changed.  I'm unsure of the specifics, I didn't ask about the history, I just knew you were struggling.

You ended up in hospital.  I came to see you with Cathy and we arranged to go for a walk a few kilometres down the road.  On our walk we found a small antique shop and we walked in and looked around.  In there you purchased 3 little murrina glass hearts and you gave one to each of us and told us it was to remember the day.  To be honest that was a tough day for me, it was confronting and you wanted to talk about your treatment and that was difficult for me.  I wanted to help you but I felt so helpless.

Of course you did get better, you went back home and I often came to your granny flat where you would cook dinner and we would watch movies together.  Extremely kind and thoughtful you always were, I truly appreciated our friendship and I'm sorry we have lost touch.  Things took a turn for me and it was ugly.  I was afraid to upset you with my stuff as I thought you were still fragile.

I hope you are well, happy and content and that perhaps you have met a wonderful man who treats you with abundant kindness, the way you treated everyone.  I remember we talked often of our future husbands.  I met mine and he is everything I wanted and more, and I am now in the best place I have ever been.

Take Care

The Secret Club I Don't Belong To

Small gatherings at desks, phones being exchanged, oohing and ahhing, these are the members of the mother's club.  The secret club at work where I am the only one not a member.  It doesn't bother me that I don't belong, except for the 1% of the time when it does.  I know this sounds like I am about to pour my heart out with a long and painful infertility journey, but there is no story to tell.  It is simply a case that on those rare days it hurts because I feel like I am back at high school being the outsider sitting alone watching packs of girls in throngs of laughter.

It's not that they don't include me, they try, sometimes, but how can I relate?  There are two older women both of whom have recently become grandmothers and they share with the younger mothers the outfits they buy and the videos sent to them of the baby smiling or crawling or making funny noises.  No one shows me.  It's not deliberate, but they gravitate towards other mothers for validation.  I understand and I know I can't provide that.

I listen, I'm good at that.  Every day I listen to their stories about the children and I laugh, but I have nothing to add.  When talk turns to husbands I can hold the office like a grand master story teller, but with children I smile and nod.  I used to show a bit more interest but my total lack of understanding of all things children, baby and pregnancy made it hard.  It's another language, that I don't speak and everyday at some point they switch to their native tongue and I am left smiling.

Sometimes we go to the pub for lunch on Friday's.  One Friday sticks out in my mind.  The entire hour was spent sharing labour and birth stories.  I laughed, I cringed, but I didn't speak.  What could I say?  I left that lunch early, I wanted to be along for a few minutes and remind myself of all the clubs I do belong to.  Even though high school is far behind sometimes those painful memories creep up on me.  But it's ok now because I can hang out with members of the clubs I do belong to, and when I get home I can cuddle into my husband and my boys, my favourite club of them all.

Things I Don't Understand # 127

A printer is a beautiful piece of engineering.  The very clever people that design these machines design them so they fit 500 sheets of paper in the tray.  It is the most perfect fit you can find in an office.  And what a surprise.  The paper people actually package their paper into lovely 500 sheet reams.

So then why, when the printer beeps loudly altering you to the fact that she is in desperate need of paper, do people rip open a new ream and only insert part of that magical 500?  Someone who is eagerly waiting for the rest of their document has gone to the trouble to answer the beep, locate a ream of paper, and open it.  But the effort stops there because their hands only pull out a small sample of paper.  That person then opens the printer tray, dumps the paper in and aggressively shoves the tray back into the machine before pressing the button to resume printing.

I fail to see how putting all 500 sheets into the printer requires more effort than the effort already gone to.  Or is it a question of time?  How much more time will it take to insert 500 sheets of paper instead of say, 78?  I'm not going to conduct an experiment but I would say less than 10 seconds.  Actually less than 5 is probably more accurate.  I'm not sure if it's one person in our office who does this or a few.  Personally I strip the whole 500 out of the packet and carefully lay them in the tray, admiring the satisfaction of the perfect fit.  Is there anyone who can explain the need to break a perfect engineering process?

Bookworm

One of my favourite pastimes is to bury my head into a book. I love taking the opportunity to escape into another world where I can leave all my worries behind and immerse myself in the drama of another place, another time, fall in love with new people and be wary of new enemies.  I also sometimes like to delve into non-fiction works and increase my knowledge and learn new skills.  If I can gain one new thing from a non-fiction book and apply it to my life, then it was all worth it.

To be honest I think my love of reading began as soon as I was able to read.  As a child I was constantly found to have a book in my hand. I believe this passion as a child is what lead me to having a "highly creative imagination" as one teacher put it.  Unfortunately in my 20's my love of reading fell from my list of priorities as I was too busy with an exhausting social life.  But once that was out of my system and I met Hubby and started setting up house, I found myself reaching out for a book to pass away a rainy afternoon.

Now I often have 2 or 3 books going at once, and I squeeze in reading whenever I can, waiting for an appointment or in line, at lunch when the conversation gets a little too gossipy for me.  Given my love of books, I thought I might put a few up on my blog every now and then, when I read one that makes a real impact on me.  Those books are the ones that get to stay in my 'library' and aren't sent out to be recycled.  And yes most of the books I read are paperback and not electronic (although my Kindle books are increasing). Because curling up on the couch on a Sunday morning with my coffee and my boys, soaking up the sun and loosing myself into a book just isn't the same with my Ipad.  There is just a little more magic with my head in a (paper) book.

Thank You

Image by Stuart Rowe Photography

Two words that are music to my ears.  I say those words a lot and I hope they come back to me often.  But they don't.  I know it's not me.  It's just the way people are today.  Self-absorbed.  So focused on themselves there is no room for anyone else and certainly no room for some old-school manners.  People get what they want and move onto the next thing they want without a fleeting thought about the person in front of them.  The person that helped them, served them, worked hard and pushed through "expected timeframe's" for them.  The person that is left standing and wondering why it is so hard for you to acknowledge what they have done.  That person is me.

Some clients are so pushy, so demanding, so greedy.  We tell them up front the process, the timeframes, the steps that need to be taken, but they don't listen; they want what they want right now.  I could be aggressive and take a stand.  But I know which fights to fight and those to let go.  I will never win.  The client's only morph into their toddler self and argue and scream and kick and complain higher up the chain.  So I do what I can, I move things through as fast as possible.  I speak to people and jump queues and ta-dah, in the midst of their grumbling I give them what they want.

Silence.  Nothing.  I sit in my chair and cross it off my list, another one done and then I stare at an empty inbox and a silent phone.  Can't someone just acknowledge the effort I went to?  Why are you so rude to me, so demanding of me, so pushy and aggressive with me?  Why do you speak to me in a way I hope you would never speak to your loved ones, and then in that moment when the money lands in your bank account, can you not just be human?  All I want is for a moment for you to see the world is bigger than your existence in it.  There are so many people standing in front of you, who want you to look us in the eye.  Acknowledge our existence in this world and perhaps if you can spare just a moment longer, utter those two very special words, "Thank You".

Trapped

A client of mine recently passed away.  He had not been a client for very long.  Less than a year.  He was in an aged care facility.  In my work I have been to quite a few of these place.  They are all the same, as soon as I enter these facilities I feel claustrophobic.  I can sense it, that feeling of being trapped.  I tell the person at the front desk who I have come to see and am lead down a bright white corridor, or several, until I reach the right room.  There is always a picture frame next to the door, for a picture of the person inside or their name.  The turnover must be high if they aren't even going to bother putting your name on the door and instead hope someone puts a picture of you in a frame.  I knock and enter.  More white.  The resident lays on a single hospital bed looking at a TV connected to the wall.  There is a chair next to the bed and a little cabinet in the corner of the room for what is left of their personal belongings.  Some are fortunate to have an ensuite, which is usually a showerhead over a toilet.

There is always a window.  It doesn't open so there is no fresh air, and most of the time the view is of another wing of the building.  Most of the residents have pictures up, and it is always pictures of family; spouses, children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters, parents, nieces and nephews and sometimes even their pets.  I like to look at the pictures, see the resemblances and while I never say anything, I wonder if any of these people come to visit.  I remember one client who covered her whole wall with pictures of her niece and grandnephew.  It was all the family she had, but her niece without fail visited every second day.  This woman was the happiest one I had ever seen.

I conduct my business with the client, I smile, I want to appear happy, I want them to know everything is ok.  But on the inside I can feel my claustrophobia building and my eyes darting for the nearest exit.  I smile and leave and walk back out.  There is no nurse to show me the way and I usually take a wrong turn and stumble into an activity room or a lounge.  The residents are lined up watching TV or playing bingo.  No one talks, no one smiles, and the nurses scuttle about making no eye contact.  

The worst places are the ones that have the doors looked.  You need to go to the front desk and request to be let out.  In those moments I instinctively reach for my throat.  I worry the nurse will say "No" and I'm trapped in a building with no fresh air and no way out.  I couldn't live in a place where I was locked in and trapped.  For all the decorated websites about how wonderful and comfortable these places are, you are still trapped.  And while I understand how important that is for some of the residents there, that claustrophobia is palpable.

My client was only admitted 3 months ago.  On his first day he managed to escape his room and they found him trying to climb the fence to escape.  He wanted out. I wonder if in that moment he gave up because he must have had quite a bit of stamina to achieve that feat.  Yet 3 months later and he is gone.  He must have felt trapped.  Maybe they all do.  Maybe that is why the turnover on the rooms is so high, because when you are locked up and trapped, what is there left for you to do with your life.

Overcoming My Addiction

It started innocently enough.  I had recently become a bit of a royalist and was just a little bit obsessed with Princess Kate and her pregnancy with Prince George.  When I was stuck on hold or checking my email, I found myself wandering online and searching for the very latest news on all things Kate.  Once the news broke that she was in labour it only got worse.  I was checking news websites every quarter hour and in my searching I discovered Daily Mail.

As my eyes devoured the pictures of Kate and George (and William in a few of them) my eyes discovered The Sidebar.  It was packed with snippets of celeb gossip just begging me to click to open.  It was like a box of chocolates, I wanted them all but I didn't know where to start. This website was feeding into my innate female nature, you know that need to bond with other women and share stories, known today as gossip.  I kept going back for more, for those poorly written articles full of bad grammar and spelling mistakes accompanied by blurry, off centre photographs.  My celeb knowledge was growing exponentially as was my addiction.  I would get to work and the first things I would do was check out the latest on Daily Mail.  On weekends I would find myself pulling out my iPad and just popping on for a quick glance.

Over time this drug was not enough, I needed more to feed my growing addiction.  The best place for that of course is the workplace and it was so easy to just slide into the underground office grapevine.  I had moved my addiction from a computer screen to the bathrooms at work, the kitchen at work, the back corridor and hushed conversations at the break table.

This wasn't what I wanted.  It was not the kind of person I wanted to be and I didn't want a reputation for being that girl you cannot say anything to because she will tell everyone.  Gossip destroys everything in it's path.  I had to get myself out.  I had to cut my addiction cold turkey and that meant not only staying away from it at work, but cutting myself off from where it all began, Daily Mail.

Staying away was hard.  My addiction was now a built in habit.  I had to be fed my gossip, I had to know what was going on, I wanted to be told gossip and nod my head and say "I know, it was on Daily Mail, YESTERDAY".  Part of me enjoyed being in the know but I knew I had to stop.  

Even now, sometimes I catch myself wandering over.  Just a quick glance I tell myself.  And I start, but then I pull myself up and force myself to close the website.  My rational self knows it is all rubbish and adds nothing to me as a person.  In those moments I need to remind myself in order to improve myself and move myself forward I need to fill my head "with the good, clean, pure, powerful and positive." (Zig Ziglar).  And when I say that to myself, I close the website and go in search of it's antithesis, positive and uplifting content that grows me into a better person each day.

Breaking Up

I am a committed person.  When I find someone good, I commit to that person.  I know there will be times in our relationship when we hit a rough patch, but I have faith those times will come to pass and all will be good again.  My most recent hairdresser (lets call her J) and I have been together for almost as long as I have been with Hubby.  I was actually seeing someone else at the time, J would apply my colour and then my hairdresser would come in at the end and do a quick cut and take all the glory.  But she got pregnant and once she left I just ended up with J.  I hoped it would be the start of a wonderful relationship.

For a long time it was good, and over time it got better, but at some point, maybe a year ago, we both became complacent and stopped making an effort.  I would tell her what I was after in vague detail, but allow her to be creative and work out what would suit me best.  I think she just got a little lazy, afterall I was such a good client always keeping the 6 week appointment standard for colour that she probably stopping putting in the effort.  I was no longer happy with my hair.  There was nothing really wrong with it, it just wasn't what I wanted, but then I didn't really communicate it clearly in the first place and did allow her to do what she thought was best.

I got bored, as I do, and decided to go brunette, which she has done for me before.  Dark and chocolatey were my instructions.  The result looked very coppery to me and I wasn't happy, but all I did was smile, told her she did a great job, handed over the money and booked again for another 6 weeks.  Less than 2 weeks later the chocolate part had gone and my hair went copper.  I broke the greatest sin of all by rushing out to the supermarket and purchasing colour in a box.  That evening I had the exact colour I wanted to achieve.  When she came back for the next appointment she noticed my hair was not her work.  I told her that was the colour I wanted and she said she could do it.  She failed and again I said nothing.

It was at this point other people started to get involved and suggested that maybe the relationship was not working and that perhaps it was time to find someone else.  I knew deep down they were right, but maybe I didn't have the guts to do it, or maybe I just felt that after all this time I owed it to her to stick it out.  And so I did.

At the end of the year I decided it was time to go blonde again.  I assumed, like we had in the past that this would take several visits as we went from lighter shares of brunette to dark blonde and then work our way up the peroxide spectrum.  However when I told her she assured me she could take me straight to blonde.  I trusted her, she was an expert, had the training and we had a history, and what did I know about hair colouring anyway?  After 3 hours and being bleached 3 times I couldn't take it anymore.  I needed a break.  My hair was now a lovely shade of sherbet orange.  She told me she would fix it tomorrow.  The next day and another 3 hours, and while the colour had improved slightly it was still orange and she has to take several inches off because of how damaged my hair now was.  

I paid, booked again for another 6 weeks and then tried to stop myself from walking out in front of on-coming traffic.  I now knew this relationship had run it's course.  It was time to break up.  As our 6 week appointment slowly came up in my diary, I cheated and saw someone else, someone recommended by a friend who has great blonde hair.  She is the best one I have ever had (and to Hubby's great satisfaction, half the price).  I then messaged J a week out and told her I was away for the weekend and would need to rebook.  This was not a lie, I was away and at the time I made the appointment with her I didn't know I would be.  She asked me when to rebook and like a coward I said "in the new year".  A few more text messages were sent over the next few days and I ignored them.

Even though I now have my best hair yet (aside from the all the damage of J's over bleaching which has cost me a keratin treatment and will take all year for my hair to grow out to be the same length) I am not pleased with how I dealt with the situation.  I need to learn how to break up with people because so far, whether a hair dresser, personal trainer, ex boyfriend or even an old friend, my method has been to not return the calls and messages.  Next time I need to stand up to my fears (of what exactly I am not sure) and people pleasing nature and just say, "This isn't working, I think it would be in both our interest to go our separate ways."  I just wonder what the consequences of doing that would be....