revamp? too much work.

Post-ballet concert, I’m firmly embracing the pyjama-dressing trend. I did have thoughts of morphing into a fashion-inspiration-look at me blog, but I’ve decided

(a) I’m too lazy

(b) I have no decent backdrops to take such photos against, except for my new, minimalist roller blinds which have couches in front of them and there’s NO WAY I’m moving them just to take a photo of myself looking (i) uncoordinated (ii)out of focus,

(c) I HATE most photos of myself

(d) don’t I already have enough to do?

(e) I’m lazy. As you may have noticed from my month of blog-neglect.

Besides, you don’t really want to look at photos of me in my pyjamas. That’s what the Peter Alexander catalogue is for (and as if I could ever compete with THAT?!). It goes like this: silk blouson pants, country road tee. Painted cotton harem pants and singlet top. Stretch waistbands and floaty cotton all the way. Flat shoes only, and if they can be easily kicked off, all the better. 

I’m starting to think that the world might be a happier place if we all got our snuggle on and saved the stilettos for occasions already softened by alcohol. I’m already feeling that I can get from working-state to relaxed-state with much more ease. This has NOTHING to do with concerts being over and a six-week break so close I can almost taste it. Hm. How do you get your snuggle on?

Slow communication

We went out to dinner tonight with our besties and upon arriving home I've realised we had a night of slow communication. Not that the conversation was by any means slow, but that it was based on a shared history that's been nurtured over a period of time.

These are people who know our quirks and can tease us for a propensity to talk tech or music. I can start with some marvellously moronic statement and work in concentric circles around it until I finally stumble across an articulate summation of what I mean - which is not necessarily what I said in the first place.

One word can spark a reminisce or a foray into the future; a discussion can be just that without treading on toes or becoming unpleasantly spiky. In short, it's communication of a quality which is becoming increasingly rare - not just a reflection on our 'growing up' and the other calls on our time, but also upon the depth of sharing and connectedness with other people.

I'm very good at knowing other people 'a little bit'; what they do, who they like, what they read and sometimes even what might make them laugh. I do love to be struck by the novelty of some new fascinating person, and some of them I even pursue, wanting to stab them and stick them up on my wall to be endlessly amusing. Ok, I'm kidding about the stabbing part. And the sticking up on my wall. I don't have enough wall space, what with all the pictures my parents are busy moving from their (old) house to ours.

But my point is, we are connected endlessly (and very traceably, with the advent of the interwebs) but shallowly. The threads are tenuous, and often little mothy holes appear. (I could totally link this to the rise of fast fashion vs. couture and clothing designed to be worn a whole season, not just a week, but it's late and I think you all get my point.)

Is this just a point I'm arriving at? You know, the one where everyone pauses, and takes stock, and realises we spend our lives in fractional milliseconds at a constant and very, very fast rate, and perhaps it would be better to spend it in minutes, hours, even days... just better quality ones?

I'm not sure I've made it to the central circle yet (that's where you meet the pebble that's occasioned all these ripples), but I feel on the edge of something profound. Meditation and learning to live in the moment... I think I'm close. Share the pearls of wisdom, people.

Boyz

@ boyz the staff are unapologetically rude, or camp as a row of tents. The customers seem happy to pay for the privilege of being treated disdainfully: I imagine it's a novel experience for most of them.

This side of the peninsula is home to the dilettantes; the weekenders who "go antiquing" even though all the legitimate traders are long gone. In their wake lie frock shops and cafés, a few workaday book/toy/homewares stores, and the neverending parade of "Where shall we go for (insert meal/beverage of choice)?" in designer jacket, designer jeans, designer sneakers/knee-hi boots, scarf, sunglasses and hat of choice (baseball caps are oddly popular). It's the ubiquitous don't look at me I'm a celebrity style that anyone who wishes they were anyone cultivates.

Of course, most of these morons weekenders eveaporate over Sunday afternoon, to be replaced on Monday morning by yummy mummies in gymwear pushing bugaboos and bemoaning their centimetre of regrowth (where do YOU think?).

Where oh where have the normal people gone?
But that's the problem: why be normal when you can be famous? Why behave like a nobody, venturing out without the camoflage of supersize sunnies and hat, when that gets you nowhere?

I quite like being nowhere. There's reassurance in being anonymous- for instance, I've only been waiting twenty minutes for my newly arrived hot chocolate. But now it's here, undeniably improved by my anticipation. Is this our problem? We're so accustomed to instant (and continual) gratification that our hedonism knows no bounds. More, better, different, NOW. We stuff our faces and our senses in search of that first thrill, which we could replicate if only we starved ourselves a little first. Desired, imagined, anticipated, realised.

I still haven't begun my chocolate. I've eaten one marshmellow and am assisting the other to melt. A little preliminary stirring, then some froth inhalation, I think. And finally, a sip of the real deal. Oh, delayed gratification never tasted so good. Sorry, I have to get my hot chocolate on... Or possibly get it on with my hot chocolate.