This week’s prompt is I thought I was so cool when I…
Which is a toughie, as I am not now, nor have I ever been cool.
I’ve always been kind of a dork, and sometimes, in some ways, I’ve embraced that. I’ve never needed to worry about keeping up with the ins and outs of the popular people, because they were always irrelevant to me and my friends. I buy clothes in uncool shops on purpose so that in 10 years time when I’m still wearing them (oh yes I am!) they’re as ‘in’ as they ever were.
I save a fortune on magazines, not having circles of friends who wish to discuss the ins and outs of the lives of this or that celebrity. I never felt the peer pressure to smoke, drink to excess each weekend or take any illegal substances (no-one bothered to pressure me) so I’m without those habits.
As a teenager I didn’t have to invite loads of people round to sleep-overs and parties and spend lots of money keeping them happy, because I was never invited to theirs and they didn’t want to come to mine.
I had a few, close friends, and we were just fine.
We were genuine and real with each other. We rarely fell out over silly things.
We didn’t have to panic about make-up and boys, because that was never going to happen, so we just enjoyed life.
I never had to put up with weekends filled with ear-wrenching, underage clubbing in too-tight clothes and crippling high heels in order to see how many equally desperate, grubby blokes I could snog so as to compare notes with the group on Monday. Later on in teenage years, I also avoided the various fallouts casual sex can have, simply by staying home with a movie, maybe with a friend, and not having any.
I got to sleep later in the mornings because I never had to get up in time to do makeup or hair or find the perfect outfit.
I could eat pretty much what I wanted because there was no need to watch my figure obsessively – what’s a little fat between friends?!
I could do (and still do) things like roll down hills; paddle in the sea with stubbly legs; run like a mad thing along the beach, arms and legs flailing; skip down the high street hand in hand with my bezzie, not caring who saw us; sing at the top of my voice in the car to the radio; play in mud; eat chips; make funny faces at babies; sing to Niece and Neff round the shops; have amazing Superhero fights with them in public; have fun.
I had my fair share of being slightly resentful about not being cool, but in the end, I’m thankful that I wasn’t – I would’ve missed out on so much awesomeness and had so much more to regret.
Talking of my bezzie, we’ve just had an amazing conversation about ways to train our brains away from problem foods (yes, a little fat between friends doesn’t matter, but you have to draw the line somewhere, right?). She came up with the idea of re-naming the foods we each love as something unappealing in a bid to ‘unhook’ from the unhealthy relationship with that thing.
For her it’s chocolate, and collectively we came up with ‘lardolate’, ‘blubberlate’, and the clear winner ‘fatarseolate’.
My ‘problem’ food is crisps. I rarely have them (probably less than once a week (that counts as ‘rarely’, right?)) but when I do, if there’s anything larger than a standard-portion-sized packet, I will be in there like yolk in egg. While there are still crisps, I will still be nomming. I just don’t have an ‘off’ switch for the things!
We got to deciding an alternative for crisps (which is harder than you might think, with the triple consonant at the end, which rapidly turns into a quadruple with most words) and after ‘fatsps’, ‘crapsps’ and ‘flabsps’ we settled on ‘chinsps’ – as in, gives you extra chins!
Definitely worth avoiding.
I’m cautiously optimistic about how Spring’s going here. We hit double figures (celcius) two days in a row. I know it’s a terribly English thing, to obsess about the weather, but if I don’t see some unbroken days of sun soon, I may develop a case of SAD.
Had a wobble last night.
We’ve been going to bed later and later and last night was no exception. I pondered that perhaps actions speak louder than words and maybe we don’t want a baby all that badly.
Except we do.
So some further probing of the old brain showed some pretty deep-rooted anxiety that if we do conceive, I’ll miscarry a third time. And we’ve 4 months (most likely) before they change Husby’s meds and render him infertile. So I was withdrawing into a little shell of ‘if we don’t try, we won’t have a child, but at least we won’t lose another one’.
Perhaps not a sensible shell, but nonetheless, that’s what I did.
Having talked to my sensible best friend, about the options (baby, miscarriage or nothing) I have come to the conclusion that if we try, we’ll have a 2 in 3 chance of having a child (either here or in Heaven) and if we don’t try, we’ll have a 1 in 3 definite of nothing.
It’s a no-brainer put like that – we’ll try. I’m just not sure how I feel about it.
Sadly with the deadline of infertility looming ever larger, there’s not really time to do any ‘getting over’ losing two babies before trying to get on with making the next one.
Gotta love life, ey.
In the spirit of keeping things all groovy, nature-ful and spreading sunshine, rainbows and lollipops for a good cause, Marks and Spencer is hosting a Big Beach Clean Up from the 22-28 April. Check here to join in. You can also get a £5 M&S voucher (though admittedly you have to jump through their hoop to redeem it, but you could always join in out of the goodness of your heart)
See you next week.