So International Women’s Day has been and gone, and predictably, I re-posted and re-tweeted some things, got into a Twitter fight with some man, and then swanned about the rest of the day, culminating in a lunch with some girlfriends.  I didn’t realise it was IWD when we planned our catch-up, but I chose to see it as synchronous.

To be honest, I’ve never taken much notice of IWD, being in a profession where I get paid the same amount as my male counterparts, and living in a home where we share the domestic tasks evenly.  So most of the inequality applies to other women isn’t apparent inside my little bubble world.  Sure, I had to pop out and then suckle the two parasites, but I was able to work around that without too much of a detour in my career path.  The things that happened later with Coco’s diagnosis and re-structuring, were of my own choosing.  Nath could (and would have) just as easily been the parent shuffling things.

This whole IWD thing has got me to thinking though, and there is one thing that I can’t shake off about the inequality between the genders, and that is something that isn’t really talked about very often, other than when some atrocity is committed, and that is the safety of women.

I suspect it’s not spoken about, because fear of men, usually unknown men (even though statistics tell us, women are more likely to be harmed in their own homes), is something that many females carry within themselves, subconsciously, and without even realising.  It is endemic, and we no more examine it, than stare at our finger-tips and wonder why are fingerprints are shaped just so.

From a very young age, girls are told to be careful, keep away from strangers, and be home before dark.  Girls of my vintage were told to sit with our “knees together” because it was “ladylike”.  (Not to be confused with those Grade Three sluts who sat legs comfortably akimbo, clearly ‘asking’ for the boys to come and have a squiz.)

All of this because men can’t control themselves.

As a girl, and then young woman, I was what would be considered reasonably attractive, with a okay figure.  This meant that I often attracted the unwelcome attentions of men.  Taxi drivers would make lewd gestures from the the safety of their cabs, men would yell things from construction sites, blokes would grab my bum or my boobs as I passed them in crowded bars.  Once I even had a man grab me by my long hair and force a disgusting slobbery kiss on me, holding me hostage with my tresses (I now have short hair, because I felt like the very hair on my hair was a liability).  Every single time, these comments and whistles would make my heart race, flooding me with fear, and later, much later when I felt safe again, my blood boil.  I usually reacted with a stony-faced snub, which would be followed up with the call, “stuck up snob”, or, if I did react, “shut up, bitch”.  I’m sure none of these men saw themselves as menacing or dangerous, or woke up thinking, “I’ll go and abuse and frighten some chick today”, but that is exactly how it felt.  And it felt that way because I knew I was weaker than them.  It felt that way, because I felt vulnerable.

I am now forty-three years old, and I don’t put up with much shit, but then I don’t get the wolf-whistles or hang out in clubs any more, so maybe I think the problem is solved when it is just diverted.

A few weeks ago I was sun-baking at a fairly quiet beach in my sleepy town, and a man came and sat quite close to me.  It felt too close, too creepy, but I convinced myself that I was being silly, turned up my iPod and tried to ignore him (Which is what women do first: ignore their instincts).  I stayed a little longer, but I couldn’t shake the feeling, so decided to leave.  As I was folding my towel the man caught my eye, gave me a slimy wink and said, “Nice box”.  At first I just stared at him, not comprehending.  He gestured to his pelvic region, “Nice bikini bridge. I could almost see the tunnel.”  Words escaped me for a moment, as they always do when I’m confronted with a sub-human, then, in a flurry I told him he was a pervert, a weirdo and a few other choice things, peppering the tirade with some pretty good swears.  He looked at me nonplussed throughout and said, “I was just giving you a compliment.  If you don’t want me to look, then you shouldn’t wear stuff like that.”

Stuff you shouldn’t wear to the beach

 Weeks later, and I’m still a thinking about the whole thing.  The look on his face, the fact that he thought I should be pleased some freak was trying to look down my jocks, and the way I felt afterwards.  The shaky, scared, vulnerable, weak, small, slutty, angry, violated way I felt.  Simply because I am a woman.  And the superior, justified, sleazy, unapologising attitude of his.  Simply because he is a man.

Like I said, I’m forty three.  I have a husband and two children.  I run my own business.  I am capable, assured, confident, bossy, independent and successful.  And yet a dude on the beach with half a mongrel in his speedos can say a few words, and I allowed myself to feel the opposite of all those things.

International Womens Day?  Wage equality would be good.  And so would a kick-arse Wonder Woman suit.

It’s that time of the week, so here are the hits people:

1. I never thought I’d say it- usually I’m all Heckle and Jeckle about it, but finally, we got some rain up here.  I can see some tiny shoots of light green peeping around the brown of the lawns.  The Lily Pillys have lifted their heads.  Some of the tacky humid salt air has been washed away.

2.  I got a ticket to the Problogger Seminar all the way over there in August.  Seems like a strange thing to do, especially so far away, but I did it, and I’m weirdly excited, without even knowing why.  That’s a lot of posts that need to write themselves to justify the weekend.  Shhh, don’t disturb me: Typing.

3.  Little Cove.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you, my friend, are the best beach in the known world.  Except on high-tide.  Then you suck.  But otherwise: the CEO of Awesome.

No filter: this is the actual water colour…

4.  My new runners.  Hahaha just joking.  They also suck, because they represent almost two hundred bucks of potential pain.  You can stop looking at me right now shoes.  Back in your box.

5.  Thai fish cakes from The Seafood Market at Noosa Junction.  A delicious dinner for an inspired* chef, such as myself.  Heat ’em up, chuck with salad and a dipping sauce, and you are the Home Maker of the Week (voted by me).

*And by inspired, I mean shithouse.

So, tell me your hits…

So I’ve done it once and then I just did it again, and I can’t say I like it at all.  Not even a little.  I ran on the treadmill for twentyfuckingminutes and then walked for ten, and all I can say is Thanks Be and Amen to Richard Fidler, for without his podcasts, all would be lost.

It started out well, the new slippers runners were strangely comfortable, and of course treadmills are the friend of the unfit and the uncoordinated, so I did a Clayton’s Run on one of those.  In my garage.  In Queensland.  Three things:  1. It’s bloody hot.  2. Our garage is a tip and a dumping ground for all things that will be useful one day, and  3. It’s bloody hot.

So not only did I purchase special shoes for running, (because clearly my actual feet can’t manage that by themselves) that were potentially made by small brown fingers in places I will never go, I decided that this running had to be done inside, on a treadmill.  Clearly, outside where there is fresh air, and nature-y things will not do.  The problem is, running in my garage with only the detritus of a family-of-four to look at is uninspiring.  Especially when I am reminded of those clever little fingers with every cushioned step.  So a podcast of distraction was in order, which required Apps and downloading and iCloud and headphones and an arm band to hold it all.  Finally I was away, off on my journey of a thousand steps with the soothing rounded tones of Richard and friends, Baz, Jee Hyun Kim, David Gillespie, Peter Cosgrove to keep me company.  An endless dinner party of interesting.

I ran and ran and ran in big, bounding steps, for I had decided to mark my progress in kilometres, and the treadmill clocks them up regardless of whether you are actually on it or not.  BoundBoundJumpBoundBoundSide equals two hundred metres.  And so it went, for at least seven hundred metres, when I found the next obstacle: hot.  And sweat.  Not sweet, glistening-pretty sweat, but big, gross drops of stink.

So I opened the bar fridge (which contained enticingly crisp-looking bottles of golden reward) and set up a fan right nearby, as a remedy.  It worked a bit, so I ran along on my mouse-wheel for twenty minutes and then walked until the sweat dried into wiggly salty lines on my clothes.  My big spongy shoes making a big carbon footprint.

Now it is all done, all I can think (other than “Would anyone notice if I drank one of those beers for lunch?”) is this: IS THIS IT?  I feel like shit.  The exercise people are all liars.  This is NOT fun.  This is NOT energising.  I’m all shaky and muzzy in the head and grumpy and WHERE ARE MY ENDORPHINS?  I was DEFINITELY promised endorphins.

I need a good lie down.  Someone bring me one of those beers.

“I feel like I have thrived here, not because of who I am, but because of who I have come to know.”  -Sherlock Holmes (on the tv show no less.. I have no idea if the original Arthur Conan Doyle ever said such a thing.)

I like it though.

It’s a lot like life isn’t it really?  When I think about my life in the day to day, I tend to consider the smaller stuff.  The doing and the having and the wanting and the needing.  The business of going hither and thither.  The things that relate to me and my Big Three: The Silverback and the Evil Geniuses, in that, it’s all about who I am, who we are.  What we need to get done.  What makes us comfortable, happy, safe.  An introspective look, I suppose.  Based on the “I”.  It can take up a shitload of time.

When I step back a little, and take a moment outside of the minutiae of ME, I realise that it really is the connections we make, the things we get to give in this fleeting “mortal coil”  that really makes us grow, and even more, bloom, like big happy-faced gerberas.  Yelling with colour, stretching their heads up.

I guess I’m getting old, cos over here on the other side of forty, this is a thing we (I) think about.  I think about what my life is going to be about, who will miss me when I’m gone, what connections I’ve made, what differences I’ve made to the lives of people around me, what legacy will I leave.  I think less about the stuff I have (plenty) and more about the time I have left (who knows) and what I want to spend that time doing.

And for me, a big part of that is about spending time with people I love, and who love me back.

Laughing,

Connecting with the heart,

Sitting in contented silence,

And getting the best of out of each other, and hence, our own selves.

Perhaps Sherlock has solved the mystery of life.

So c’mon, share, what makes you thrive?

A little ways down the road from me is a strange and wonderous megalopolous of twelve-karat golden glitter.  It is the home of water slides and movie stars, cocktails, karaoke, neon and flesh.  So much flesh.  Flesh available for viewing.  All day and night, and whether you like it or not.  Or so it seems.

This city hurries and hustles you from the moment you arrive til the moment you leave, and it feels like you never really get off the back foot, never really settle in, never catch up to where-ever it is going, before it’s time to pack up and take your scalded retinas back to your muted life.  Everything on the Gold Coast is bigger and louder and more.  At lease more than what I’m used to.

The first time I landed on the Goldy I had been on a bus for around twenty-four hours, with double that amount of Uni students, who had been drinking and primping and flirting with each other for ninteen of those hours.  I’m pretty sure someone copped a hummer on the back seat, and I’m definitely sure someone spewed in the onboard dunny, between Gundagai and Jugiong.  No amount of LouLou could expunge the odour.

I stumbled down the stairs blinking and sleep drunk, and straight onto the cacophony of fluorescence and 1cent drinks and sex shops and street spruikers that was the early 90s version Surfers Paradise.  There was apparently a beach where you could baste yourself ’til noon, and we did venture down there once, to see if the sand really was golden (it was the same pale beige of my own town) and if the water really was warm (it was, and I was startled by how delicious the lukewarm waves felt on my two day bender tender skin).

We stayed and played on the Goldy for one flimsy week, and we crammed like no exam we had ever had before: Ripley’s and Seaworld and Hire a Bomb to Kirra, and Cocktails and Dreams and Condom Kingdom and Vespas on the Highway, and umbrella hats to save our blowdried hair from the humid wet rain, and flashing signs and drunk and Georges Paragon “Yes Sir! Half price seafood” to finish.

We had a seminar as well, and even that was bigger and bolder, buffing itself up to a shine, as if in step with the ebullient excess.

I’ve been to the Gold Coast many times since, and I’m always struck by the other-ness of the place.  It is nothing like the rest of Australia, nor does it apologise.  The Goldy of the 2000s has grown up a little, but not easily, and not without angst.  The Gold Coast of now is like an excited and troubled adolescent, full of cheeky fun and anger all at once.  When I’m there I’m half excited and half frightened.  I think I’ll have a good time, I think I can wrangle those streets, but I just might be a bit careful, in case I get bitten.

So today, I got my tickets to Problogger, a bloggy seminar being held at the colourful QT and I’m beyond excited.  This cyber-world I inhabit is strange and exciting and very weird, and PB will be a chance for me to see, and possibly talk-with-voices to, some of my internet heroes in the flesh.  So much golden flesh.

Okay, now this is sounding creepy.  Maybe not too much flesh.

Have you ever been to the Gold Coast?

Are you going to Problogger?  

I got a pair of runners four years ago, because they looked pretty cool on a chick in a Lorna Jane catalogue.  I did not try them on, nor did I get ‘assessed’ (yes, this is now a thing) by a manchild in a sports shop.  I just popped online, whacked in my PayPal deets, and voila, they arrived at my door.  So you see, even purchasing the exercise equipment can be done tres lazee (French* for bloody lazily).

The next step took me out of the actual house, and into the actual LJ.

Insert misty dream-sequence overlay:  

Oh Lorna, you really do know how to woo the forty-something, flabby female.  Stretchy singlets telling me to “Never Give Up” and “Eat More Crap Food” *, comfy pants with elastic waists for when I’m retaining nachos, you even have exercise bra-ish crop tops with breast augmentation, which is of paramount importance when exercising, I find.  Oh Lorna, your change-rooms are spacious and opulent and dimly lit, you make a lady feel like a certain kind of “lady” as I strip off each layer and replace it with spandex.  Oh Lorna, I can’t decide between so many of your items, that my brain goes kind of funny and I find myself at the checkout with a total of four hundred and twenty-seven dollars worth of potential sweat sponges.

WHAT???!!!

End of dream-mist

So I told the puzzled looking gym-nymph with the money-munching-machine that I had to “Go to the actual bank” and ran out of the store faster than the Lithglow Flash.  It seemed I didn’t need exercise gear after all, just a jolly good fright to get my legs moving and my chest heaving.  And that was without the crop-tits.

Four years on, and I haven’t been back to Lorna’s shop, in fact, I usually scurry quickly by, heart-rate up, face averted, lest the nymphette grab me and force that pile of comfort upon me.  Four years on, and those runners that looked great on the model, are still rubbish to walk in, let alone run.  They are microscopically more comfy than high heels, so I wear them as slippers, during the two cold months we have here on Coast.

This week something shocking and strange happened: I made the hasty resolution to get fit.

I decided to go to an actual shop, where I could be ridiculed served by shop assistants half my age and percentage body fat and get me some shoes that wouldn’t cause my shins to splint if I looked at them sideways.  The manchild who served me was lovely and helpful and went to great pains to measure me up (apparently people don’t know their own shoes sizes any more) and diagnose my walking pattern.  I told him I knew what it was: slow to non-existent, but he insisted on video proof.  He told me to “walk normally” on the thingy, and all I could think of was John Cleese’s silly walks, but I could only remember the Hitler one, so I did that.  He just looked at me deadpan and said, “Hmmm, I can’t confirm your heel-strike from that, can you do it again?”  I told him to piss off and just gimme some shoes.

So he did, three choices in fact, all of them ugly and bright and …wonderfully cloud-like.  I wasn’t allowed to have the pretty pair I really wanted, because apparently, I have a neutral gait.  I’d say that’s right, if by neutral he meant ambivalent to any gait at all, and definitely nothing faster than a light trot.

I have bought the fluorescent little foot pillows home, and put them on and off and on again at least seventeen times.  They look ridiculous, and by default, I look ridiculous wearing them.  I feel like the Mardi Gras version of Jerry Seinfeld, with them on the ends of my legs.  I do however l do seem fitter since purchasing them, so they have served their purpose.  They cost enough to feed most of the small nation from whence they were crafted, so they are sitting on a shelf, all of their own, staring at me, as I stare back.  They are trying to wear me down, and into wearing them.  Don’t tell them it’s only Autumn, and I don’t need new slippers just yet.

The pricey slippers

* This may or may not be true.

What do you think about runners?  What brand do you have?