I'm in a new year state of mind

I started this post with an intent to rant ad nauseum - about how the young folk don't understand good service (yes you, Maddison - i'm not staring at your nose-ring, i just want another coffee)! And how Australians are, literally, petrified of a bend in the road - your car's steering wheel isn't an afterthought; Kia actually expects you to turn at some point and has planned for it. 

But I've reconsidered. Maybe it's the 'first world problem' chants of my first-world friends echoing through my head. Or perhaps it's the rum in mum's fruit cake making me feel all too festive. Whatever it may be, looking back at 2015 I've found more causes for celebration than commiseration. And here are just a few of them:

Run run run run: Recently some Melbourne friends had the privilege of meeting my dad for the first time at a picnic, thereby discovering the origin of my world-famous chicken legs. But the very same chicken legs carried me across the finish line of the Run Melbourne Half-Marathon, and are still holding me up today. 

Roman Holiday: Atop my bucket list, since creating one, has been visiting my new spiritual home - Italy. It was OK, I mean, if you like eating gelati every day, driving Ferraris, ogling blue-eyed Adonises, and Jesus. I know there are parts of the world I've yet to see - most of them, if I'm honest - but experiencing such an intoxicating blend of everything I love will be a hard act to follow.

Moving on up: Compared to many of my friends and relatives, my path through life so far has been fairly linear: I finished school and went to uni; I finished uni and got a job. So it stands to reason that, within my career, as I've worn away one rung of the corporate ladder I've climbed to the next. 

Slave to the machine I may be, or just another cog in the system...or something like that, I'm no good with technical language, only marketing speak...but I'm realising my goals and fundamentally leveraging the skills, opportunities and learnings I've been afforded, in a recognised and supported effort, although not formally communicated at a macro level, to improve my position both industrially and financially. In non-jargonistic terms - I'm doing what I've always wanted to do.

So on this last day of 2015, why not consider a new year's reflection before your resolution? While counting down the minutes for your Uber to arrive tonight, look at the path you've walked this year rather than the path of your driver. Or if you're planning a quiet night in, count how many more TV channels you can now watch, as Grant Denyer counts back at you.  

I hope you'll find as many reasons to smile as I have. I'm still fighting the urge for a good whinge, but if I dared to claim I'd been hard done by this year...I wouldn't have a chicken leg to stand on.

it's the year of living dangerously

So here, somewhat shamefully, is my first post for 2015 - almost a year since my last! The reason for my apparent hiatus? A late discovery of Game of Thrones has certainly played a part...but a far less debauched reason is that time has simply got away from me. And it would be a shame to waste all of 2015 in front of the idiot box. What's special about this year?

80s film nerds would note it's the year Doc and Marty McFly travel to first in their DeLorean. It's also the International Year of Light, a UN-endorsed initiative that celebrates light and its myriad applications.

And it's the year I make my first, long-awaited trip to the home of cannoli, Caravaggio and cosa nostra - Italy. Growing up in Adelaide's own little Italy, I often felt there was more bolognese than Bollywood flowing through my veins. I formally studied the language and culture through high school and uni, yet since then have only practised the lingo with insouciant Italian wait staff and nursing home nonnas. Finally, in 2015, I can embarrass myself some 16,000 kms from home!

It's also the year I travel back in time to 1990, as my primary school exhumes its inaugural time capsule. 1990: Vogue was #1, California pants were billowing; what pearls of wisdom did my 9-year old self drop into this crypt of ingenuity? 

I wonder if I had even the slightest idea of who I would be today. I don't remember what I contributed to the capsule; I remember the paper I scribbled on but not the scribble itself. I vividly recall, though, looking 25 years ahead and imagining me as a 34-year old next to the unearthed capsule, blonde wife by my side and two (remarkably white) children in tow.

Back to the present: I have no wife or ill-gotten children. And to gain a husband I'd have to overcome a couple of significant obstacles: one - finding a man to marry, and two - an Australia that's needlessly clinging to its past. 

In a nod to refracted light, the Irish Catholics have just embraced a rainbow-coloured future. Surely, in 2015, Australia can crawl out of its time capsule, rub its bleary eyes and see the light of today.

the weight is never over

Insecurity comes in myriad forms. 

You've sensed it in the woman who refuses to acknowledge you at the start of team meetings. It bulges out like the biceps of the guy at the gym who has to lift five more kilos than you. Whether emotional or physical, it is at once vehemently denied yet undeniably familiar.

And insecurity is prefaced by just as many excuses. My friends have likely cottoned onto mine by now. 'I don't do water!' often partners with 'Can you imagine me in board shorts? It's just not my look.' Wave after wave of imagined reasons for not going to the beach, and all because I'm uncomfortable with my weight.

As I see it, I've been a fatty since I was five years old. No doubt that term carried more weight (see - I'm even over-indulging on the puns!) in my teen years than it does now, but it's hard to relinquish decades' worth of physical unhappiness at the first signs of improvement.

Even these signs represent both the good and bad of the weight loss battle. Stepping out of the shower last week, I took a moment to - dare I say it - admire my new, more slimline form, only to be distracted by a family of new stretch marks. Not unlike Linda Blair's character scratching 'help me' from inside her own demon-possessed body, these marks were a message from the skinny person inside me trying to get out (thank you Edina Monsoon)!

Is this weight problem all in my head? Well, it's certainly not in my legs, but as fellow wobble-warriors would attest such insecurities aren't exclusively mental or physical. And like me, they're probably tired of hearing 'it's what inside that counts'. I find that so dismissive; I'm not a soul floating through life without a body - my physical self is as much a part of who I am as the brain that keeps transmitting chocolate cravings.

Can I ever rid myself of this insecurity? Will I leave it in the past as I push-up and pull-up to a new future, or will it manifest in a new and more terrifying complex? Only time will tell. I can't deny that, as far as hang-ups go, it is a pretty good motivator to do better. I hope that woman in the team meeting can be similarly inspired - seriously, what is her problem?

there are 2,013 other things I could say

At this time of year it's customary for a social commentator (I'm just borrowing the title for this post) to come up with a best-of list, summarising the past year's good, bad, wins and woes relative to their area of interest.

As I haven't yet chosen an area of interest for this blog it may be a little ambitious to cherry pick the best of 2013 relevant to the universe. And I don't wish to alienate my readership by detailing only personal highlights...although Mariah Carey's Fly Like a Bird performance in Melbourne would top anybody's best-of list - I'll take no arguments on that!

New year's resolutions? Michelle Bridges and I agreed that she would cover weight loss and positive thinking. Instead, I've been tasked with gathering just three observations of 2013, in no order of importance, to set the foundation for the ideal 2014.

1. Let go, Ley-Ley
It's not really Lleyton Hewitt's fault that he's still our flag-bearer on court; Stosur's too afraid the flag will fall on her head, and Tomic can't fit the flag in the back of his M3. But c'mon! Entering his 80th year on the tour, Ley-Ley deserves a break. And I deserve to watch one tennis match without interruption from the little Aussie battler and his sycophantic sensei John Newcombe.

2. The vile-high club
I've been fortunate this year to have travelled frequently interstate and overseas. I've been unfortunate to have always travelled in economy. Cattle-class? Ha! I wish I was surrounded by leather. No, the jet set are well and truly bed-set now. The airways are open to every flea-bitten 20 year-old who can locate the $39 in the hollow of his track pants. Smarten up: there's no excuse for such dishevelment - you haven't all flown in from Mackay.

3. A return to family values
Kim Kardashian is about to be married, again, this time to the father of her child North West. A husband and wife in rural South Australia have just welcomed a ninth child to their ever-growing brood, giving him a name with more consecutive consonants than the English language allows. Yet marriage is their right. Take note my gay friends: since nothing else has worked thus far, perhaps attach a promise of cruelty-free child-naming to your next petition for marriage equality.

Farewell to the eventful 2013. As always, I'm aiming to be the best looking I can be in 2014, and wish my readers the resolve they pledge themselves when the clock strikes 12.

Til next year!

Justin

a low interest rate isn't always a plus

I've often thought a relationship, like any significant investment, is subject to approval.

Whether that's approval from third parties or the investors themselves, no relationship can grow without the appropriate checks and balances.

Even 'applying' for a relationship is a complex matter, because it's a two-part process. It starts with Part A: The checklist.

This can be as long as your arm, depending on your fastidiousness. Is she intelligent? Check. Does he like rock climbing? Check. Is she into cars? Does he have a car?

The less discerning may complete Part A quite quickly: Is he available? Check. And for the downright desperate: Is she breathing? Ultimately, you determine the pass rate.

So far, so good. But then there's Part B. And Part B has only one checkbox: Do you have chemistry?

Sometimes the application process can take months, with approval pending. But if the interest rate is low, and you can't complete Part B – application denied.

I verified my theory quite recently. Keen to invest, I ticked away at Part A with Lisa Simpson-like enthusiasm. With the first form filled out and ready to post, I sat with pen poised to complete Part B.

But the box remains unchecked; the form, a little smudged, is back on the fridge. 

I know that investing in the long term involves riding out the bumps and sticking to the plan. In the end my big return may never arrive...but my life balance is healthy, so it's worth the risk.

someone has to row the boat ashore

The hippy-led sexual revolution of the 1960s sent many a wayward wanderer in search of themselves. 

It stands to reason then that half a century on we've found not only ourselves but several alternative versions. So who truly represents me, myself and I?

There's my physical self, all stick legs and mild paranoia. My Facebook self, with its grinny selfies and bake-off boasting. And, on and off for the past 10 years, my dating website self.

Anyone who's experienced the trepidation, validation, indignation and (hopefully) vindication of online dating knows that the online me and the physical me are rarely one in the same. Yet, I dare say it's a case of same script, different cast.

"I can be shy and outgoing, I like nights out as well as nights on the couch, I like to keep an open mind..." and the clincher: "I'm really down to earth."

Down to earth. Why is that so important? Because men come from Mars, women from Venus and incredibly we found our way here? After such a torrid journey it's not surprising that we prefer to "go with the flow" rather than beat our own path. 

But here we are, and we can grab the oars and row anywhere we want to go. Once again, we're spoilt for choice. With all our selves in the boat, where do we go from here? We need to make a decision...

Instead we celebrate spontaneity, otherwise known as an inability to plan or commit, as a salve for the war wounds of our working lives. In an age of multi-tasking, isn't this plain laziness? Or did we simply forget which of our selves we assigned to the task? 

It seems we've spread ourselves too thin. Bits of us are stuck on walls, our brains sufficiently scattered across our endeavours. So who's going to start us on a journey of self-recovery?

not everyone likes oysters

29, 31, 32, 32, 34, 40...

My waist sizes over 10 years? Not quite. And let's hope that last one never features again!

No, they're the ages of a mere handful of nearest and dearest to me, who find themselves single in the prime of their lives.

Not that singledom is a curse. If that were so I'd seldom leave my tomb. But few of them are single by choice, and it sucks.

These aren't flighty or frivolous men and women, lacking the ability to connect with another. 

They're attractive, educated, socially responsible and culturally savvy. Indulging in achievement and opportunity in equal measure, they reach for the stars with every lateral stretch.

They have it all. The world is their oyster! But not everyone likes oysters.

Increasingly, it seems, the plat du jour wins favour over the piece de resistance. The primped and polished keep coughing up hairballs in the wake of every contemporary caveman. (I tried to avoid reference to the bearded hipster, but I drink too much quality coffee so he was bound to pop up).

Is their success intimidating? Is their richness of life too heavy for our low-fat leanings? Or maybe the problem is choice. 

Me Tarzan. You Jane. Yes, it was so much simpler then! And I might be Tarzan but you're Jane, Jayne, Jainne and, of course, John.

There are just so many options now on the shelf. And maybe the top shelf is just too high up.