on being incorrectly pregnant

I think I’m doing pregnancy wrong.

my baby book tells me my hair is supposed to get thicker and more lustrous. mine has gone like pubes.

the internet says people will be dazzled by my beautiful glowing skin. the only time my skin glowed was from the glistening of sun on oil seeping from my pores when I ate 3 lots of hot chips in one day.

and where’s my gushy ‘I love you already!’ that I’m supposed to feel. I think my bump might be made of hot chips.

but I do seem to be doing some parts correctly. the unpredictable teariness, the brain-fade forgetfulness, the wind. I am excelling in these areas.

I guess you can’t be good at everything. 

prophetic postulating (and chickpeas)

the other day, I was in the supermarket in my lunch break, shopping for chickpeas.

I find it hard to decide between the organic ones (which are better for the environment because they contain no pesticides) and the locally produced ones (which are better for the environment because they have travelled a shorter distance). it is possible to find both of those things in one chickpea, but then they become quite expensive. in my opinion, other necessary items like Lindt 70% dark chocolate are far more worthy of funds than a Morally Correct Chickpea.

in the midst of my most recent supermarket legume deliberations a lady rushed up to me and said excitedly “we’ve found it! we’ve found it!”

I was happy for her that she’d found it, but felt some of the details were missing. after a moment or two of blank open-mouthed staring on my part, she said, “you know – the prophet!”

these words, coupled with my lack of acquaintance of said lady, made me feel somewhat strange.

I never know how to act in these situations. this is because of a number of factors as outlined below.

firstly, I empathise with those with mental health issues and wish to make them feel that they are valued members of society just as they are. in order to help them feel included and validated, I want to say to them “I see your Prophet and raise you an FBI-Is-After-Me”. 

however, people in the general area of someone behaving strangely and finding lost prophets like to look at the person being confronted with the Prophet Finder and see how they respond. this does not bode well for those of us who are wont to suffer embarrassment and Redness of Face when in the spotlight.

so I was about to politely say “madam, I am glad for the rediscovery of your prophet, but as I know little on the subject, I am not the one with whom you should converse. also, you might note that I am having my own dilemma of Chickpea Choosing which I need to deal with as a matter of priority”.

but then I noticed that the lady had a nametag on.

it was a nametag from a bookshop.

where I had just been.

asking if they had the book “the prophet”.

it turns out they’d found it, and the lovely bookshop lady had come to let me know.

I was so excited by this level of customer service that I became like the previously feared Prophet Finder and told all who would listen of my delight. “they found it!” I said cheerfully to everyone I passed on my way back to purchase the book. “they found the prophet!"

upon reaching the shop, I could contain my enthusiasm no longer. “you don’t get that kind of service from online bookstores!” I called out joyfully, as one particularly anxious-looking lady decided to exit the bookshop.

and so, dear reader, let us be kind to those who may seem wild or crazy or speak to us out of the blue. because they may have simply found a book.

or just received excellent customer service. 

standing on the edge of the mat

new-age people have funny ways of speaking.

in my Pilates class, the instructor always says things like “now, find yourself standing on the edge of the mat”.

I struggle to just discover myself standing there. I usually have to make a conscious effort and move certain muscles to get to that position.

perhaps she actually means I should “find myself” whilst standing on the edge of the mat.

I wished I’d known sooner that that was possible. if one could find oneself whilst standing on the edge of the mat, life would be a whole lot easier.

I probably wouldn’t have spent quite so much money on the psychologist or self-help books or tissues or massive packets of cheese and onion chips.

there could be a Coming of Age ritual for teenagers where they Stand On The Edge Of The Mat at age 18 to find themselves. after that, everyone would know who they were and what they should do, and life would be a whole lot less messy.

I like the idea that standing on the edge of the mat is a way to find yourself.

sitting in the middle of the mat is safe and secure. you can sit there for quite a long time without feeling uncomfortable.

but if you’re standing on the edge of the mat, it’s a bit more precarious.

you have to balance with your toes and try not to fall over and land in an ungraceful pile on the mat whilst also uttering a most unladylike oof, as that would be quite embarrassing and make you go red and give you thoughts of never being able to show your face in that class again. I would imagine.

standing on the edge of the mat is harder. and there is potential for severe embarrassment. but I think I’d rather be there than sitting safely in the middle.

now to just solve the problem of how to suddenly realise I'm standing on the edge of the mat without having moved a muscle...

mark my words

recently, I went on holidays by myself to Indonesia. people in that part of the world appeared to find it strange that I would holiday alone. it seemed easier to make up boyfriends and husbands. 

so I did. 

while sitting by the pool one day, an employee at the hotel and I got chatting and he asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said yes but that he was home in Australia because he couldn’t get time off work. he asked me what his name was and I blurted out 'Mark'. 

I was quite surprised by this strange turn of events, as:

1. I have never had a boyfriend called Mark; nor
2. have I been vaguely interested in anyone called Mark (as memory serves). 

there was a Mike. and a Mick. and even a Mac. but no Mark. 

but blurting this out makes me think that I must be either holding a secret candle for someone called Mark or destined to be with a Mark. 

investigation of Option 1 reveals that Marks in past include:

• a cousin
• a friend’s husband
• a boy I babysat
• a church pastor
• an accountant 

silence. crickets chirping.

I am therefore on the hunt for a Mark. should you know of any suitable Marks, please feel free to forward me a brief CV and covering letter. 

because my subconscious must know something I don’t. 

or it could just be because I’m not a very good liar. 

judgemental justification

I can be a bit judgemental sometimes.

but only of judgemental people.

a dating dodo

I’m not good on dates.

once I got all hot and sweaty, pulled my jumper off over my head, and my hair stuck straight up from the sweatiness.

once I invited a boy upstairs for a cup of tea and put couscous in his tea instead of sugar and it expanded and took over half the cup and he drank it without saying anything.

once I got all excited about something and accidentally did a spit while I was talking and it landed on the boy’s nose.

in addition, the following happen with regularity:

• food falling off fork and hitting plate with loud, wet sound
• clinking glass against oversized front teeth
• hitting fork against oversized front teeth
• lemon – or cherry tomato - squirting into date’s eye
• peas shooting off plate and landing in date’s lap
• cutlery falling on floor
• self falling on floor
• sounds like 'uregth' and 'lort' coming out of mouth because real words cannot be formed due to nervousness

in a movie, this would be endearing. in real life, it’s not.

however, a couple of weeks ago, I was trumped by the boy I went out with.

a couple of hours into the evening, I asked him how old he was and he said 47. I said I was quite surprised because he looks like late 30s. I told him I was 34 and he said he was quite surprised because I look like 38-40.

I don't feel so bad about 'lort' anymore.

bank boy broodings

there is a cute boy in the bank where I have to go regularly for work.

although he has worked there for quite a few weeks, today was the first time we had a little chat, because every other time I had been so nervous that I couldn’t make any actual words come out of my mouth and went red just waiting in the queue to do my banking. it seems that although I am 34 and supposedly Grown Up, I am still unable to form sentences in the presence of a man I find attractive.

I bring the money from work to the bank in a plastic bag. today he made me laugh because he said everyone else uses an envelope so my plastic bag made things much more interesting his end and really broke up his day nicely. I thought that was quite funny.

he also has a nice smile.

but I cannot ask him out for obvious reasons (highly probable redness of face being main limiting factor).

so I'm thinking about trying something different. I would like to write him a note that says:

dear boy in bank,
I think you are cute and friendly and would like to have a cup of tea with you but am too nervous to ask you out because I would go red. but if you would not be averse to having a drink with me, here is my number. if that is the last thing you would like to do, then please ignore this note and never bring it up when I come to do the banking. thanking you.
from girl who banks with money in plastic bag

then I would give it to him right at the end after doing all the banking so I could run away straight after.

but I don’t know whether boys would see this as
        a) endearing and cute, or
        b) desperate, stalkerish and weird.

if you are a boy, or wise to the ways of boy minds, please feel free to advise.