It’s not easy being green

I’m a jealous person. Not in the malicious and cruel way that can cost people relationships, instead my envy builds slowly and steadily turning my whole being green like a slothful Hulk.  

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster and more often than not I feel positive emotions towards my peers: happiness, pride, joy, awe.  But every so often I suffer from an overwhelming and intense bout of envy that renders me miserable. 

I want everything I do not have and feel achingly dissatisfied with my wardrobe, my body, my job, my life. These periods can be disastrous for my self-confidence and my credit card. The thing is this negative emotion can often be the catalyst for something good.

Today I was reading this week’s The Dolly Mail by Dolly Alderton, an email newsletter which resonates so strongly with me I sometimes feel as though Dolly and I are intrinsically linked in someway, and I was overcome with jealousy. Jealous of Dolly’s perfect prose and jealous of the fact that her writing is also her career. 

However, rather than letting myself be consumed by it, I was inspired. Inspired to spend my lunch break typing furiously rather than reading the dirty Daily Mail’s sidebar of shame.  Sometimes it takes somebody else’s success to give you the chutzpah to just fucking do you. 

The thing is the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, life is what you make it. Envy is a deadly sin, but sometimes it’s just what you need. 

Things they don't tell you on Instagram #1

I spend approximately 86% of my day on Instagram, looking at other people’s pictures and wondering where I went wrong in life to be so flawed.  This series exposes the truth behind some of social media’s most ubiquitous myths.

White painted floorboards are a bitch to maintain

Whitewashed floorboards are the epitome of country chic: bright, clean and perfectly rustic. When I discovered there were beasties living in my bedroom carpet last year I recoiled and then rejoiced, FINALLY a reason to rip up my gross beige carpet. The carpet removal revealed relatively even albeit rainbow painted floorboards beneath and after a quick sand and a quicker clean I was ready to make my Pinterest-perfect fantasy floors a reality.

What I soon realised is that painting the floor in a flat the size of a cupboard is a logistical nightmare, but, after 3 weeks of leaping and jumping over islands of wet paint and 3 haphazard coats, we were finished! The room suddenly seemed bathed in light and with the addition of a faux-Persian rug and a flattering Instagram filter, the boudoir was complete.

A couple of days in it became apparent that my stark white floor was incredibly unforgiving. Fluff, dust and alarming amounts of my hair littered the bedroom. My dreams of a Skandi-style, fuss-free way of life were shattered and with my dustbuster in hand I embarked upon a clean-up mission. I’ve* been cleaning up ever since…

The room in question.

*Disclaimer: my boyfriend probably hoovers more than me.

My Lenten Promise.

It’s currently just over two weeks into Lent, which for me means 40 days and 40 nights of trying (and sometimes failing) not to eat crisps and chocolate. The thing is I’m not really all that religious but for whatever reason, maybe it IS a higher power, I am finally able to exercise some semblance of self-control.

For those who didn’t spend 13 years in the Catholic school system, Pancake day is simply a wonderful excuse to eat batter based treats but for me, Shrove Tuesday has always marked the start of a personal challenge. A campaign against my gluttonous, greedy ways.

I have half-heartedly been on a diet since my early teens, trying to find the secret to skinny. Along the way I’ve mostly just discovered how much I bloody love carbs, and cheese and things that are deep-fried. 

My relationship with exercise is also predictably rocky. I love the way it makes me feel when I get there but the biggest hurdle is getting out of the door. This exercise dread often wins and with that comes an oppressive wave of guilt (the Catholicism coming out to play again).

I may seem like somewhat of a hypocrite, embracing one religious practice while ignoring many of the others but for this small period of time I can try a little harder, push a little further and eat a little less rubbish. And once it’s all over, who knows, maybe I’ll be a changed woman…

…or maybe not.

#RelationshipGoals

A few months ago I started writing this piece for the annual Elle Writing Competition but predictably I got distracted by real life (most likely a Keeping Up With The Kardashians marathon or some sort of baked good) and didn’t submit it in time. The subject was ‘Relationship Goals’ and this is the egotistical outcome…

I have a wonderfully supportive family, effervescent and inspiring friends and a loyal and loving boyfriend. I am lucky in that I am surrounded by positive people who enrich my life in so many ways. For me, the relationship that takes the most work is the one I have with myself.

At 28 I feel less like myself than ever. I can be plagued with insecurities and irrational anxieties. At school I was smart, at university I was partying and now, in my late twenties, I sometimes feel lost.

The older I get, the more self-critical I become. It’s easy to doubt my talents, question my purpose and criticise my body. Once a bold and confident clotheshorse I now find myself in loose fitting black clothing or baggy boyfriend jeans. I don’t feel sexy or pretty, so I cover up, which in turn makes me feel less sexy and less pretty.

And it’s not just the superficial things that lead me to a semi-schizophrenic war on myself: I no longer believe my own hype. Back in the day I’d fake it till I made it, but now I regularly work myself into a tizzy desperately trying to impress.

I don’t think that the humble hashtag is helping. Social Media makes it easy for us to worship false goals: the ultimate bikini body, the Pinterest-perfect abode, the sexy, shiny social set. We now constantly compare our apparently mediocre lives with the carefully curated snapshots of others. At what cost?

I’ve decided that in 2016 I will work to maintain my marvellous relationships, take each day as the glorious gift that it is and above all, be kind to myself. This is not a goal, it’s a mantra.

N.B. #RelationshipGoals has a whopping 2,031,388 posts on Instagram. Let's stop posting our ambitions on the Internet and instead work on making them a reality. 

In defence of being a Taylor Swift fan girl.

I consider myself to be somebody with decent taste in music. I’m not saying I’m a music maven by any stretch of the imagination but on the whole I enjoy some damn good tunes.  I like approximately 80% of what they play on BBC6 Music so if that doesn’t make me ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ I don’t know what does.

Generally I like my melodies with a heavy side of melancholy: Bon Iver, Frightened Rabbit, The Smiths, The National, to name but a few. But I also have a massive place in my heart (and my headphones) for the tremendous tones of Taylor Swift. From her cutesy country beginnings to her pure pop perfection, her music simply makes me happy.

So-called cool kids claim to like Tay-Tay ironically but I am an unashamed Swiftie, with 2 t-shirts and a pair of Taylor Swift maracas to prove it. Is there such a thing as a guilty pleasure? Shouldn’t we just feel good about listening to music that we love?  Some of my favourite memories this year have involved dancing with reckless abandon to ‘Shake it off’.

Then there’s the debate about Swift as a woman; she’s too nice, she can’t hold on to a man, how dare she remove her music from Spotify. She’s a young woman whose whole life is playing out in the public eye, I think she does a pretty good job of holding her shit together. And with a celeb squad made up of some of the coolest ladies around, she’s obviously got something going for her.

For impressionable young girls, she’s a role model: a kind, goofy girl who talks about the importance of self-worth and sings songs about being hurt. She is the youngest woman ever to be included in the Forbes 100 Most Powerful Woman list. Yes, I am a Taylor Swift fan girl, and proud of it.

When did I become an adult and how do I go back in time?

Here's how I know I am technically an adult:

1. I consider kitchen roll and fabric softener to be essential shopping list items.
2. I never run out of toilet paper.
3. I make salad dressings from scratch, regularly.
4. I'm nearly 28.

Seriously though, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? I made the idiot mistake of downloading Timehop and as well as reminding me of some horrendous haircuts, and highlighting my heinous love of posting cryptic song lyrics in times of intense heartbreak it has also made me feel old.

I remember heading off to uni like it was yesterday, my suitcase full to the brim with denim skirts, sequin boleros and all the beads Primark had to offer. Although 10 years have passed I still feel like that fresh faced 17 year old with the whole world stretched out in front of me!

But so much has changed: I've gone from Halls of Residence to homeowner, from nights out to 9-5. My peers are Doctors, Lawyers, Mothers, Fathers, Husbands and Wives. We have bills to pay and a seemingly endless stream of expensive weddings to attend.

Then there are the physical symptoms of ageing. In my drinking heyday I could knock back approximately 50 VKs and still get up for my 9am lecture. Today, a couple of glasses of wine on a Thursday night results in a gallon of full fat Coke and a bacon roll come Friday morning. Not forgetting the constant creaks and unidentifiable aches my body is now subject to.

How am I supposed to be an adult when I still feel like a child? I still phone my mum and dad whenever anything goes wrong, despite the fact that they live in another country the majority of the time.  Sometimes I just eat a bowl of tuna for dinner. And when somebody in the street tells their rambunctious child to watch out for the 'lady' I always assume there's another, older, more adult female beside me in an expensive dress who has her shit well and truly together.

When my Mum was my age she had a 2 year old child, I have a 2 year old crusty mascara that may or may not be past its best. That's basically the same yeah?

DOES everyone have a book in them?

Most weeknights when I'm home alone I lounge about on the couch watching Netflix and avoiding doing my washing up. Tonight I had settled down, jogging bottoms on in preparation to cry myself tired at the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy when it occurred to me to sit down and type this piece. Because I love to write, I love writing frivolous and self-indulgent posts with the intention of making people laugh. I love honest, descriptive story-telling that comes from the heart. But I am also lazy. I would love to write a book but I can barely gather the energy to write a text message to my Mum confirming I'll see her for lunch on Saturday, I'd love to be a supermodel but I can't put down the carbs.

I recently read Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham and it has given me impetus to start writing again. I know Lena Dunham is a bit of a Marmite character but I love pretty much everything that she does, and the fact that's she's BFFs with Taylor Swift is just the icing on the cake. The book is funny and frank, sassy and smart and completely relatable. I know I will be able to pick it up and read it over and over again. That's the kind of book I want to read and the kind of book I dream of writing.

But how do you even go about writing a book? My ancient laptop is currently running a demo version of Microsoft Word and I only have 11 more chances to use it before it will force me to enter a Product Key, a Product Key which I definitely disposed off with the box it came in 5 years ago. I'm fairly confident a book cannot be achieved in 11 sittings. And where will I find the time? In between work and the aforementioned lounging, I need to see my boyfriend, use my spiralizer and pretend to go to the gym. And what should I write about? As you may have gathered my real life isn't quite as glamorous as my Instagram profile might suggest, I'm not sure I could get much more than a chapter out of last weekend's dark and painful hangover.

Maybe I'll just stick to blogging...