“Are you in love?” and other social pitfalls of weightloss

I have lost weight. Not a considerable amount. Not even a dress-size. Just a bit of tightening up here and there to make the bikini season bearable and lessen the blow of next month’s quarter-century-crisis.

My confidence got a boost when people first started noticing; even if it was male friends highlighting that my boobs – never my greatest asset – had shrunk! But knowing that Little Pot (Everyone has a pet name for their tummy, right?) was shaping up and people were noticing definitely made the 7am gym-classes worthwhile.

THE PRICE OF LOOKING “BEE-OOOTIFOOL”

And then it all started to get a bit embarrassing. Currently in Geneva with work, I’m met with wonderfully French comments of “You look bee-oootifool, are you een looove?” which always make me want to get my teeny tiny feminist sword and shield out and wave them about. Then there’s those who wish me luck in “finding Prince Charming” – Both super-cute and super-patronising all at the same time, as if they don’t remember the life-cycle of a twenty-something female: Work-Gym-Binge Eat/Drink-Sleep and Repeat.

Although nothing makes my English sense of propriety (otherwise known as ‘Hugh Grant Syndrome’) flare up more than when met with the direct question “Have you lost weight?” I wish I could possess ‘Camera Natalie’s’ composure and respond with “Why yes, I have, thank you for noticing.” But invariably the brashness of the question – usually from Americans or family members – combined with the inherent inability to receive a compliment gracefully, often leaves me fumbling around red-faced, hair twiddling for a response.

AVOIDING THE ‘W’ WORD

This is usually where I get to the moral message of my diatribe. I am not, repeat not saying that you shouldn’t compliment someone if you happen to notice that they’ve trimmed up and are looking good for it. Everyone likes to be told they look nice. Just try to leave the ‘W’ word out. Similarly don’t assume that there’s an ‘other’ involved. My gym buddy – who was recently stopped in the street and quizzed over ‘his’ identity – pointed out to me that this is a mistake often made by men whose automatic thinking is that behind every healthy/happy woman there’s a man (“literally”). Your trainers may come as a pair, but there’s only room for 1 on the treadmill!

And for those on the other side of the coin: Eat what you want. Exercise if and when you want. Drink tequila and if it makes you feel good, keep bloody doing it! Take the compliments with a smile (and perhaps more grace than I manage..) but mostly just make sure you’re putting the work in for the right person: You!

Off for a run!

Home is Where the Heart Is

On Tuesday, I attended a training session at a local hockey club in Geneva. Naturally curious about the new girl, I was asked by some of the players where I was from and what I was doing in Geneva. Having lived the nomadic lifestyle for 3 months now, I’ve got pretty good at explaining my job and the travelling it requires – The key I’ve found, is to speak slowly and punctuate my answer with shots!

Dream Home..
Courtesy of fruitheart.blogspot.com

One week into a month-long stint in Geneva, one of my favourite things about this city is the international community. As of 2008 44% of the demographic are not native to Switzerland. Attending a work social, it was amazing to hear the number of different languages being spoken across mojito-laden tables. It’s impossible to feel out-of-place here because so is everyone else.

When I do get the chance to go back to the UK, the question my friends and family ask the most is “Are you missing home?”, followed very closely by “Are you looking forward to going back?”. I’m always taken by surprise when I realise that both are true.

It was Dorothy with her ruby-red slippers who uttered the now immortal words

Spiritual Home..?!
Image copyright Natalie MacDonald

“There’s no place like home.” And while there are often moments when aalll I want to do is get on a plane and head for England’s green and pleasant lands, I’m finding that both Riga and Geneva are becoming like home in their own ways.

Darwinism denotes that human beings grow and adapt to fit with their surroundings in order to survive. Our definitions of ourselves adjust to meet with our environment. So too do our definitions of home change, as we take our ideas of what makes a place home and adapt it to fit with our environment. My way of doing this? Finding a hockey team. Or working out the transport system so I can go shopping. Even something simple like finding a running route can take a city from being simply a location to being somewhere more like home; albeit a temporary one.

Now I just need to work on my French..!

Home is where the Hert is
Image copyright-Natalie MacDonald

Ebay: Selling your stuff and your dignity

Like many women I own too many clothes. And shoes. And bags.

Image taken from Flickr.com

I hold regular purging ceremonies, donating to charity, to friends younger sister’s, and also on occasion to our loft (just in case!) and yet still my collection grows!

And so in a dual effort to clear out my wardrobe and also make some money I decided to sell some stuff on Ebay.

It’s not deciding what to sell that troubles me. I’m pretty mercenary about what stays and what goes.

Item gets ditched if:

• It hasn’t been worn in a year
• It’s not vintage or designer (and therefore of no use to future generations of Shopaholics)
• I can’t think of a really good excuse to keep it (I mean really good)

Easy peasy. It’s writing the description’s that I struggle with!

There’s something just beyond cringingly intimate about describing your clothes

It feels a bit like a dating site-Funniest, prettiest picture; honest but not so honest that noone will want to date you..I mean buy you…I mean..ARGH!

Where else would you have to put the exact measurements of the skirt you wore that night you had way too much tequila and threw your chips at some guy in McDonald’s?! Too short and you look like a slut, too long and you cut off half your target market.

But you battle on, trying to view your clothes through the eyes of a prospective buyer, and before you know it you start mentally visualising said skirt with items in your wardrobe, ooh and those shoes I saw last week…!

Dad won’t notice another box in the loft will he?!

New Year, New You? Screw that, the old one will do!

It’s about that point in the month when New Years resolutions begin to slip a little.

The stress of January deadlines, topped by two weekends playing designated driver has made that Sunday evening beverage look ever more appealing . The realisation that your Boxing Day sales binge and New Years away means that your wages won’t quite stretch to that gym membership you promised yourself.

It’s ok. You’re not alone. 62% of people go through the charade of creating New Years resolutions each year, only 8% of which are successful. 1 in 4 people fail on every resolution, every year!

A work colleague asked me what my goal for 2012 was. I was a little stumped as I realised that having moved to the other side of Europe for a new job in the concluding weeks of 2011, I’d set the bar pretty high for 2012!

I also spoke to a friend whose only resolution, albeit tongue in cheek, was to “Be more awesome!”

Image courtesy of @garydunion on Twitter

He had a point. I had a think about the things I wanted to change about myself, and trust me there are many! But then I realised that the old me was doing ok, I just needed to do more of it.

GO HARD OR GO HOME

The phrase “Go Hard Or Go Home” is usually synonymous with nights out but I thought about applying it to everyday things. I already have my “first-wrung-on-the-career-ladder” job, may as well work my ass off and be the best that I can at it. I try to go running as often as I can, screw it, go everyday! Don’t compartmentalize your life and try to make it over, just go the full hog, why not?

And I’m not the only one. My best friend had always loved Australia whenever she’d been there on holiday. So she went hardcore and saw in the New Year in Sydney where she’s moved to for a year. Another friend had the realisation that an office job wasn’t for her, so she stepped it up a gear and is now applying to join Sandhurst.

These are extreme cases but my point is that if you’re not going to do everything in life to the fullest, you may as well go home and twiddle your thumbs there. So focus on the things that you do do, whether it be that diet you’re toying with, or playing football on a Sunday, and do it I well!

And before you all judge me for thinking I don’t need to make any changes to my life, I did decide on a Dry January as part of a sympathy diet with a work colleague. Two weeks in and yes I broke it! I have had 2 glasses of red wine but I’m not going to beat myself up about it. A drink every so often is ok, it’s face-planting into my pillow every weekend I’m looking to avoid!

Oh and blogging. I created this thing, so I may as well take the time to blog twice a week. Aren’t you lot lucky!

Learning to use my Ipad: The Real Christmas Miracle

It came as a surprise to many when I announced I was getting an Ipad for Christmas, not least my parents!

Anyone who knows me is aware that I have a slight issue when it comes to technology. This issue being that generally speaking I can’t use it!

However the boredom of train journeys, the back-ache from lugging my laptop around London, as well as looks given by smug commuters with their Ipad tucked under their arm while the rest of us awkwardly resort to pen and paper; our laps a poor work-desk slowly made me realise that an Ipad could be the way forward.

But aren’t people with Ipads usually city-types looking to fill the void having a small penis has left them with?

I thought so too.

But with its WordPress and Audio editing apps, as well as the ability to get the Internet anywhere (with the 3G versions anyway), some basic research into the Ipad, and a very enthusiastic course-mate, fellow Ipadder and one of Apple’s newest members of staff (!) I realised how much the Ipad could actually help me out.

As a Journalism student I am constantly on the move. If I’m not desperately searching for a story (emphasis on ‘desperately’!) then I’m commuting to my part-time job or travelling home for my once-a-week physio session. Part of the frustration felt by a lot of London commuters (aside from the many fallabilities of TFL) is the mental list of all the things they could and should be doing.

The feeling of both guilt and panic this instills is really quite astounding, and the idea that this small cross-breed between a phone and a laptop could alleviate this feeling was too much, even for a technophobe like me!

Having negotiated a 50/50 contribution with the parents (Thanks Mum and Dad!) with my Ipad, my Blackberry (a replacement for the one that got pinched back in October-Thanks Mum!) and my laptop I literally felt like the bees knees and was ready to get going.

I was pleased to see that it came fully charged…mainly because my first hurdle was how to charge the thing!

Most technology comes with a huge manual telling you the ins-and-outs of your gadget. I love these manuals. I am a bit of a book-worm-anything with a front cover and pages is my friend and makes me feel safe!

Apple, however, has decided to do away with this silly notion of manuals. Instead, they provide their customers with a small piece of card-A picture with labels for each of the external buttons on your Ipad, and a website to go to just in case you need more instructions!

I can see why people with Ipads always look so smug-They’ve just figured out how to switch it on!

To be fair, the Apple website does contain a lot of handy information with video’s and guides to help you set up your Ipad. It also contains lots of adverts for loads of other gadgetry you can buy to go with your Ipad!

Now, the shopper in me goes ‘Oooh’, ‘Aaah’. Whilst the practical human being in me thinks that buying all that other rubbish would completely defeat the point of purchasing something that is easy to carry around.

Ipad Case, £35. - Image courtesy of Net-A-Porter

Although while we’re on the subject, Ipad covers are the one Ipad accessory I have got a little excited about. I am a clumsy oaf, and the main issue my parents had about buying me an Ipad was the fact that I would break it before Boxing Day. Marc by Marc Jacobs have released some beautiful Ipad cases and covers including this turquoise one; ensuring that my Ipad remains safe from my butterfingers.

There have been some setbacks. I facebooked my course-mate in a panic when I was trying to set up my I-Store account. I kept making up email addresses for myself only to be told they didn’t meet the conditions required. After umpteen addresses I finally realised it just wanted MY email address.

Similarly, the first time I used the WordPress App to write a blog, I had to go straight on my laptop to edit it and change all the formatting which I’d managed to mess up.

I am still slightly intimidated by the App Store. Unless you go on there knowing what the type of thing you’re looking for is, you can be lost for hours!

But there have also been successes, including using the Ipod on it whilst getting ready for New Years Eve. Getting the Ipad has also given me the confidence I need to buy my first proper camera.

On the whole, like many things in life, you learn by doing. Quite often I’ll find myself getting my Ipad out to do silly things like look a film up, or check train times, when it would be both easier and quicker to just use my computer, but I’m determined to get the hang of it.

I’ve got an Ipad and I’m not afraid to use it!

Tonsurephobia: The fear of getting your hair cut

What is it about frequenting a new hairdressers that fills us all with dread?

This week I got my hair cut.

Now this ordinarily would not be a problem. I quite enjoy going to the hairdressers in fact.

I pretend to be a lady of leisure as I chat with my hairdresser; updating each other on generic gossip from each of our lives, with my magazine in one hand and plastic cup of lukewarm hot chocolate in the other.

But this time I was going to a new hairdressers. A salon that had never before set eyes on me or my messy grown-out bob.

The fear set in.

Whilst the experience was delightful and I came out with a well-above average cut it got me thinking about my (unfounded) fear.

Then I had a phone conversation with a male friend who also mentioned he needed to get his cut.

The Problem: Said male friend had neither the time nor desire to travel back home to get his hair cut, but shuddered at the thought of trying somewhere new.

Now my two best friends have also elicited “The Fear” at various points during our friendship. Only difference-they both have beautiful long blonde hair. Their fear makes sense. One false snip from an over-eager Edward Scissorhands and their luscious locks may never be the same again.

My muddy brown barnet-not so much!

Now I could make some deep and meaningful statement about how this is yet another example of  society’s obsession with looks and how we continue to trade off of superficial outer layers rather than what lies beneath.

Yawn.

Instead put your headphones on, close your eyes and listen to this video. It might make you reconsider getting the chop for a while:

The Quest for the Unachievable Figure

Much like the search for the Holy Grail or the quest for the Fountain of Youth, women up and down the country (and men too), have long sought after the Perfect [read: Unachievable!] Figure.

The Size Zero debate emerged in 2006. Surrounded by images of Lindsey Lohan, Mischa Barton and Nicole Richie all losing weight under stylist Rachel Zoë, the question of size raged through the media and haunted the catwalk as size became a health issue.

Quicker than you can say “Weight Debate” the tide turned. Images of a skeletal Nicole running on a beach appeared in the press; A teenage model died six months after her anorexic sister collapsed on the catwalk. The backlash had begun.

NEW KID ON THE SCALES

Since then, the media has been looking for a new role model, and they’re roving eye has fallen on one Christina Hendricks.

A former model turned actress, the 35 yr old is currently starring in Mad Men and was also named the ‘Sexiest Woman Alive’ by Esquire magazine.

So far so good. Then we get to her measurements:

39D-30-39

Yes that’s right ladies. Our new body role model possesses a figure which is beautiful, hourglass, sexy and…

…COMPLETELY UNACHIEVABLE!

I applaud the media for recognising the need to change society’s perceptions about body image. Each week magazine’s berate the fashion industry for not accommodating larger figures. Indeed Hendricks still struggles to find clothes to wear to red carpet events.

But if they want to take attention away from “The Sticks” in order to boost the average woman’s morale and set positive role models then surely the more sensible idea is to actually use an average woman?

Christina Hendricks is not average by any stretch of the imagination.

It’s 2006 all over again, with women trying to conform to a body image which yes may be natural to some people-naturally slim model Lily Cole was banned from Madrid Fashion Week in 2006 for possessing a BMI under 18-but for the majority, is simply impossible.

THE “AVERAGE WOMAN” CAMPAIGN

Every time the media comes up with a new celebrity to spearhead the “average woman” campaign they do the exact opposite. Another example-Cheryl Cole was pioneered by the press as being “one of us”…

NO SHE’S NOT!!

Look at the woman she is b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l!

Here’s my body-shape analysis:

I have narrow hips and a little waist. I also have a bum once described as “something to smack”, and athletic legs built up through years of horse-riding, hockey and netball. But much unlike Hendricks, I  have a size 8/10 top with a “modest” (cue sniggers from those who know me!) bust.

Never fear, Marks and Spencer’s have the answer with their “2 sizes bigger” push-up bra (£22), as advertised in this month’s Cosmopolitan for those women looking to achieve the Hendricks effect?-TWO SIZES?! Or maybe I should just forego all this, go the whole hog and invest in a cosmetically enhanced bust?

BE HEALTHY BE HAPPY

Let’s just consider for a moment that there is no perfect body shape. That each woman, whatever her size has beautiful bits, less beautiful bits, and bits which frankly should never see the light of day!

I LIKE my little top – I like that I can wear strapless dresses that show off my shoulders, and that going bra-less doesn’t bring me out in a nervous sweat like some of my more ample-bosomed pals.

I’m not a HUGE fan of my bum and legs – Jeans are not my friend and I swear I saw some cellulite the other day! But they were borne out of being healthy and exercising regularly, and not eating all the pies which makes me think that things could be worse!

And the bit I hate? My feet: The result of spending my formative years ramming them into Wellington’s and trainers. Ain’t no diet gonna fix these beasties! One day I promise to make it up to them! But on the plus side-I’ll know I’ve met “The One” when they love my feet as much as the rest of me!

So there you go.

Not the “perfect” shape.

Just my shape.

An Ode to Jägermeister

My world would not be complete without Jägermeister.

When I was first making my way into the bar-tending world (cue gags from those that know me!), I started off as a simple shots girl. My usual tipple to sell was Tequila, but one day I was given a bottle of Jägermeister instead.

People were sceptical. Those who tried it said it tasted like medicine, others commented that it made them go all warm inside. One woman even asked me the calorie content!

Fast-forward three years and no night is complete without 1 (or 20) cheeky Jäger bombs. Now your only excuse for having missed the Jäger boom (!) is if you’ve, quite literally, been living in a box.

But believe it or not, Jägermeister was almost pulled from the British drinks market altogether.

Attending the TGI Friday’s national cocktail competition in Covent Garden, I met Sophie Lloyd, the SKYY Vodka brand development manager whose company also handled Jägermeister.

During the discussion I found out that while popular in Europe and the US, the drink had failed to set the British drinks market alight and had come very close to being removed from the British market.

Instead it was given one last marketing push.

Enter the Jägerettes!!

Interesting how it takes a bunch of orange-clad hotties, selling test-tubes and giving away flashing badges to turn a dying product into a success!

While Jägerettes have existed in the US since 1988, it was the first time the drink was not only taken seriously in the UK but had become a brand in its own right.

The stag logo can now be seen in car windows, on laptops and even on people’s bodies!

Brand Channel recently reported that Jägermeister sales in the US went from just over 50,000 cases a year in 1985 to 2.7 million just 20 years later.

The introduction of Jägermeister dispensers in bars has also doubled Jägermeister sales, according to Squidoo.

Jäger has also been introduced into cocktails, a Jägerjito being a personal favourite.

–Yes that’s right, A mojito made with Jägermeister! For other cocktail combinations click here

The Jägermeister website states that inventor Curt Mast dedicated his drink to be drunk at the beginning, and also end of every hunt..

Jäger bomb anyone?!

There are many videos on You Tube that claim to be the Jäger bomb train world record holders-This one’s just a pretty cool video!

A Man Diet

NB: Characters in this piece are entirely factual. If you recognise yourself it probably is you.

I’ve always considered myself more of a Samantha.

Since my early teens I had an easy (no not in that way!) relationship with boys. This was aided by the 2 to 1 ratio of boys to girls at my school; providing an ocean of talent. Also meaning that my first boyfriend was cockily described as “the one who got their first”.

I was always the one who wore the trousers in a relationship. My friends labelled me as “independent”, whilst my Mother called it just plain “mean”. Her catch-phrase became “I do feel sorry for [insert name here]” as one by one they learnt that it was my way or the…you get the idea.

But soon enough I was more Smug Married than Single Girl on the Street as I moved from one long-term relationship to another through school and into university. We’ll call this my Charlotte phase. I was happy in my little cocoons of love, but as a wise friend questioned, “Ever heard of a little thing called personal growth MacDonald?”

And so after the last heart-break I thought maybe it was time to dust Samantha off again and see if she still fit.

Summer following graduation was my single Summer of fun. Armed with a cute clutch in one hand, and my partner in crime, a fellow singleton with a similar agenda in the other, we roamed our local area looking for mischief, and often found it; gaining an infamous but affectionate reputation for being “trouble-makers”.

At the time it was about us girls going out, having fun and sticking it to the man (or men, whatever!). We did meet guys and there were a few numbers exchanged, but not hearing from them again was never the end of the world.

In just 3 months, I had got through a car crash, got into my Masters course, and navigated three new jobs with the support of just my friends and family and no boy there to hold my hand. It felt refreshing, empowering and I was almost a little sad I hadn’t tried it a little earlier.

And then the loneliness kicked in.

In my head I’d done the independent bit and now really wanted someone to share it with.

Nights out took on a hunter-gatherer element as I looked for…ok not necessarily ‘The One’, I’d have just been happy ‘With One’! Numbers given but not used would lead to an entire morning-after deconstruction of what went wrong, or more importantly what I’d done wrong.

Despite often shrugging it off, more and more conversations with (happily coupled up) friends would be about boys, or my current lack of. To them my Summer had seemed like the most fun ever, some even seemed envious, with only one friend giving me that look when I told her that the reason a guy hadn’t called was because he clearly had “maturity issues”. Gently she tried to tell me that I’d been through so much this Summer that bringing a boy into the equation was not what I needed.

The Miranda-esque determination I’d used to get through the Summer was now being used to find a man.

This only seemed to get worse when I started my Masters. The gruelling schedule, living in a new city, being away from home again, ongoing solicitors papers-All I really wanted was someone I could call at the end of the day and let off steam to.

The only people I had been able to meet at my new University were the (albeit lovely) people on my course. But even then I was disappointed to note that girls were definitely in the majority of my class, with only a handful of boys. Being on the outskirts of London meant I had loads of friends living in the city, but it was impossible finding the time to see them and not fall victim to the curse of the Metropolitan line; a line so unreliable I often believe it’s powered using Flintstone-esque feet-power.

It all came to a head this week.

Having been wined and dined and then dropped like a hot potato by a potential suitor and former friend; Gently let down by a boy who felt there hadn’t been ‘a connection’, and the news that my Lobster (Friends episode 2.14) is temporarily touching claws with an Angelina Jolie of a fish (think Lola in Shark Tale, only frustratingly nice to boot!), I found myself shedding a few frustrating tears in the toilets. NB: This was after a night of no sleep and report-writing, not just because I’m pathetic!

I’d become Carrie – But not the style icon (I wish!), the jilted-crying-in-a-room-with-the-curtains-closed-because-I’m-never-going-to-find-love Carrie. This would not do.

And it was there, whilst being comforted by a pal that I remembered an article I’d read in this weeks Grazia about a woman who had gone on a “Man Diet”. The article, written by 28-year old Zoe Strimpel, author of What The Hell Is He Thinking?: All The Questions You’ve Ever Asked About Men Answered, had struck a nerve when reading it, and now seemed like the perfect answer to my little problem.

The Diet Plan:

1. No heavy-handed pursuit.

2. When talking to friends, do not give a man update unless asked, and then, only briefly.

3. The primary objective of your social activity cannot be about meeting men (when you go out, it’s to have fun with your mates, to dance and eat good food-NOT to get picked up).

4. Do not initiate contact with men, or secure their info via such means as Facebook stalking.

5. When you meet a man, just enjoy yourself the interaction and do not allow yourself to obsess about the future.

6. Become absorbed in something else, such as reading a good book or yoga, instead of nights out drinking and chasing men.

7. Think about your own stature as a woman as much as possible, eg an achievement you are proud of.

Some of these rules will be easier than others, some don’t quite apply to me, all I do know is that having written this (cringingly open) post I’m going to have no choice but to stick with the diet!

Wish me luck and keep reading for updates on my diet progress!

An Education in Crime

As the title suggests this week has been somewhat of an education.

– What can one possibly be educated about in crime?

I’ve never really had anything to do with crime, the police, or in fact anyone associated with crime.

I was once pulled over as part of a sting on drink-driving in my local town, Hertford. Despite it being the night before my A-level results came out, and having been drinking only water all night, I still drove away feeling very shaky after my (non) brush with the law.

As part of our course we were sent on an outting to the Old Bailey.

Interestingly I was not alone in my nerves. Meeting outside St. Pauls underground we all shuffled our feet, a little unsure what to expect.

We ended up sitting in on a murder trial.

At first none of us really understood what was going on, the case seemed to get lost in amongst the technical jargon employed by the members of the court. It was only after a physical description of the murder itself we realised the severity of the case we were sitting in on.

It was a confusing experience-We were glad to have found such a good case, but at the same time struggled with the reality of the things we were hearing. You wondered if the jargon used by the barristers allowed them to distance themselves from the things they were describing.

After a brief lunch break I returned to court to listen to witness statements at the same trial.

Again it was confusing, and almost disturbing to listen to the witnesses be cross-examined and match up each suspected crime with the men sat behind the plastic screen. Looking around the spectators gallery, I couldn’t help but wonder who there was family.

Then not days later, I became a victim of crime as I fell prey to a London pick-pocket.

While only my phone was stolen between tubes at a busy Underground station, I couldn’t help thinking that this was the side of London my limited experience, and perhaps naivety, had sheltered me from.

I’m never going to be one of those people ruled by fears over safety but let’s just say this week definitely taught me a thing or two.

And as my Mum said: “It’s not too late to go to Law School if the Journalism thing doesn’t work out!”

Cheers Mum!