fears

You’re not the girl you think you are

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You’re not the girl who eats too many crisps. You’re the girl who likes to see potatoes put to good use.

You’re not the girl who couldn’t get a boyfriend until she was 20. You’re the girl who was biding her time.

You’re not the girl who should be ashamed of every rejection in her inbox. You’re the girl who was brave enough to try.

You’re not the girl whose use of social media is tedious and lame. You’re the girl whose use of social media is just as tedious and lame as everybody else’s.

You’re not the girl who’s too old to be afraid of the dark. You’re the girl who’s wise to prefer a world she can see.

You’re not the girl who once tripped over her clothes, fell face-first into a wall and never got over it. You’re the girl who learnt the hard way that long skirts are more dangerous than they appear.

You’re not the girl with the freaky double-jointed elbows. You’re the girl with a built-in party trick.

You’re not the girl who needs the toilet every 30 minutes. You’re the girl who can sometimes wait for 35.

You’re not the girl who cries too much in good times and bad. You’re the girl whose eyes overflow when she cares.

You’re not the girl who got sick on a night out and ruined everybody’s fun. You’re just the girl who got sick one time. It happens.

You’re not the girl who has eight marshmallows with her hot chocolate. You’re the girl who has nine because YOLO.

You’re not the girl who never stops making stupid jokes. You’re the girl whose comedy has niche appeal.

You’re not the girl who shouldn’t admit to listening to Westlife on a Sunday night. You’re the girl who knows a good key change when she hears one.

You’re not the girl who gives too much advice. You’re the girl who’s trying to help.

You’re not the girl who wears too much mascara. You’re the girl whose mum has said “Charlotte, are you unwell or have you just not put any make-up on yet?” enough times to know what she needs.

You’re not the girl who’s forever got her eye on the door. You’re the girl who just needs to know she can always go home if she wants to.

You’re not the girl who wasted Saturday night watching TV and eating Pringles. You’re the girl who’s finally learnt to have a rest when she needs it.

You’re not the girl who shares too many anecdotes about her baby nephew. You’re the girl who’s allowed to be proud.

You’re not the girl who owns too many grey t-shirts and notebooks. You’re the girl who knows that’s simply not possible.

You’re not the girl who lets her past dictate her future. You’re the girl who gets to start a new story every day.

You’re not the girl you think you are. You’re a woman who’s doing just fine.

Women, toilets, and a lifetime of “What ifs”

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IMG_7663What if I go to a restaurant where men and women have to use the same toilet and a man notices that I’ve been in the loo for longer than five seconds and then he tells all the other men and I end up alone.

What if drinking five Malibu and cranberry juices on our first date makes me need to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes and my future husband finds out sooner than glossy magazines would recommend that I am in fact a human being and not a poster that can talk.

What if we go for a walk in the countryside and I’m too scared to go to the loo in the bushes in case one of the ants has a camera phone and the whole thing goes viral.

What if I go for a job interview and I need to go to the toilet when I arrive because nerves and then the interviewer shakes my hand whilst it’s still damp and I wonder if I should send an email afterwards to clarify what happened.

What if I go to a rainforest in Australia and my husband tells me not to sit down on the only available toilet because there are ants all over the seat and I add ‘warnings about potential butt bites’ to the list of conversations nobody ever mentions that you’ll have once you’re married.

What if every time we come back from a holiday I feel the need to say how nice it is to be reunited with your own loo and my husband adds that to the list of conversations he wishes weren’t a part of being married.

What if people who are going to festivals are busy thinking about all the fun they’re going to have and the music they’re going to hear and the dancing they’re going to do and they don’t want to talk about how much time I would currently be dedicating to worrying about the toilet situation.

What if I go on a train and I think I’ve locked the toilet door but then all of a sudden it starts to open and there’s nothing I can do but sit there whilst I’m slowly revealed to the entire carriage.

What if they just leave me like that?

What if I go on a boat and there are no bathroom facilities whatsoever. Seriously, WHAT THEN.

What if I develop irritable bowel syndrome and when I eat pizza it makes me so ill that I end up lying in the foetal position on the bathroom floor, begging for forgiveness for whatever I did to deserve this. (Was it the floral leggings I wore in my youth? WAS IT?)

What if the story about the day I managed to master the art of hovering in order to use a chemical toilet isn’t a suitable response to the interview question “Tell me about the achievement that you’re most proud of.”

What if I go on a plane and I have to go to the toilet but the person in the seat at the end of my aisle is asleep and I’m too scared to wake them up so I try to climb over the top and I fall in their lap and they call the police and I get arrested whilst I’ve still got a full bladder.

What if I stay with a friend and their bathroom has a noisy fan light and every time I have to go to the loo in the night – which is loads because nothing makes you need to go like not wanting to go, am I right ladies? – I wake everybody up and they tell me to pack my things and get out of their house and out of their lives.

What if we all stopped worrying so much.

Would that help?

Why you should stop giving social media so much control over your feelings

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It’s very easy in this world of constant digital access to other people’s lives and photos and boasts to feel that every single one serves as a direct comparison to your own life:

Have you had a delicious homemade brunch today, Charlotte? Hmm, well, @someoneyouwillprobablynevermeet has. Why is your morning time consumption so inadequate? Did you even think about taking a picture of your food before you put it in your face? Where are your priorities? 

Hey, Charlotte, have YOU just landed yourself a sweet book/magazine/film/four-album deal? Hmm, well, @somedudeyoudontevenknow has. Why do you even bother conditioning your hair for this world if you’re not going to take it seriously?

And this all feels so much more personal because we’re having these words and pictures delivered straight to our phone and laptop screens whilst we sit at home watching old episodes of Not Going Out and eating, well, everything. It’s like these people have come round to our houses to tell us directly how well things are going for them, had a scathing glance at our peeling wallpaper and overflowing bin and then danced off down the street with their 300,000 followers trailing behind them. I mean, who does that?

But, of course, that isn’t what’s happening. Firstly, you opened the door. In fact, you invited them round to stay for as long as you’ve been following them which, if you joined Facebook back in 2005 like all the cool kids, is a chuffing long time. And you know that you could have them off your screen in a micro-second if you wanted to but that isn’t the point. It’s you that you need to feel OK with – your life, your achievements, your consumption of photograph-worthy brunches and cocktails – and then none of this will touch you. You’ll just give ’em a little ‘like’ or a ‘favourite’ and be on your way, rather than adding them to your personal file called ‘Reasons to believe I am fundamentally failing at life’ which, if nothing else, is a very long name for a file.

It’s easy to forget that people rarely use social media to acknowledge the baby steps it takes to make real progress towards realising your goals. You don’t get many updates that say “Sent a few emails out last week. Got a couple of replies saying no and one maybe, so we’ll see what happens” because that would be a) pretty boring b) who is going to retweet that? and c) nobody likes to admit just how much hard work goes into getting things done.

The loyal readers among you (Hi mum!) may remember that in January I wrote this post about my intentions to spend 2015 being much less afraid. And it is this very thought process that made me realise that I haven’t been doing so well at it. But now I think I know why.

Because I forgot that other people’s lives and successes have no bearing whatsoever on our own. And because I forgot that if you want to do something difficult – like get your teeth fixed (no, I still haven’t been to the dentist), or get more writing work, or attempt to do anything else which means making you vulnerable – it is going to feel a bit scary but that can’t be a reason not to do it. In fact, it should be all the more reason to go and bloody give it a try – because imagine how good it’ll feel when it turns out to be completely worth your while.

And if nothing else, any success you do get will make for some excellent social media posts. But remember not to be fooled – it’ll only ever be half the story.

Goal for 2015: Be less afraid

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A very happy 2015 to one and all.

With the festive excitement out of the way, my mind has turned to plans for the year ahead and, inevitably, to resolutions. After much thought I have realised that all of mine fall under one heading: Be Less Afraid.

Although in some cases a spot of fear helps to keep you safe, (for example, when I was offered the opportunity to get into an enclosure at a reptile park in Bali with a crocodile for a photograph, I politely declined on account of my fear of being eaten alive), it can also be rather restricting.

A fear of pitching will massively reduce my chances of getting more writing work and I’d very much like some; a fear of judgement means I may never speak to anybody again and I LOVE a good chat; and a fear of making bad decisions means I may have to opt out of making any decisions whatsoever, which in itself feels like a bad decision. I also haven’t been to the dentist for six years because I’m scared, but I do rather like having teeth so I’m just going to have to grin and bear it (and maybe ask my mum to come with me). These fears will only hold me back when I’d really rather be moving forward.

A fear of what people think is the trickiest of all to shake. My aim this year is to remember that it is not something that anybody can control (and also that most people spend most of their time thinking about themselves and when they will next get to eat or go to bed. I know I do). Of course there are ways to influence it – be nice and people will most likely think that you’re nice; behave like a tool and people will probably just stop texting you back – but beyond that, we can only waste time wondering. All that thinking might make us miss a nap or a meal and that just won’t do.

I had a big sort through my tights and socks drawer yesterday (just like every out of control party girl does on a Saturday afternoon) and I adopted a policy to help me decide what to bin – does this bring me joy? When working through a collection of tights so laddered it’s a wonder I haven’t yet been arrested for indecent exposure, it’s quite easy to answer that question, but I’d like to try and apply it to other parts of my life (or at least everything over which I have a choice/control. Emptying the dishwasher definitely does not bring me joy but eating cheese from each and every clean plate in it certainly does. You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth). I will give it a go and if the answer is no then, where possible, I just won’t do it.

It looks and sounds very bold and clear when written out but this sh*t is very hard to crack. But writing it down is a start, as is realising that doing the opposite will only keep you awake at night (which is no good for me as I’m also afraid of the dark).

So yes, less fear, fewer pointless attempts at mind reading and more joy will make for a lovely 2015. Because what is the point of doing anything else? If it’s not going to get me eaten by a reptile or make me miss out on too many meals, I reckon it’s worth the risk.

And you?

Friendship: It’s about quality not quantity

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IMG_6367It’s a strange moment when you suddenly stop worrying about whether you’ve got enough friends.

For years it’s a genuine concern. If you have a party, will anybody come? Do you get enough text messages that aren’t just from your mum or Domino’s Pizza? And exactly how many non-family birthday cards did you get last year?

At school, it always felt like size mattered in the chums department. The bigger the group you were a part of, the smaller the chance that you would find yourself sitting alone in French with nobody to tell that you’d been “à la piscine” at the weekend.

And at university a heavy group of pals meant people to sit sleepy-eyed with in lectures, to consume large sandwiches with at obscure times of the day, and to go out with of a Wednesday evening, rather than sitting at home doing a glossy magazine quiz about which FRIENDS character best reflects your personality. You already knew the answer to that anyway. (Gunther.)

And that’s not to undermine those friendships – they’re the making of some of the best days of your life – it’s just impossible to keep up with that volume of people once real life starts getting in the way.

The combination of going to work, eating meals, sorting through your post, washing clothes, filling the dishwasher, entering online competitions, watching The Magaluf Weekender, and actually going to sleep for more than four hours a night dominates most of the week. It’s a wonder you can keep on top of what’s going on with you, let alone anybody else.

So if you do manage to spend time with another human being – aside from your colleagues, the dude at the sorting office and your grocery delivery man – it’s because you really want to.

And now that you’re an adult, though you don’t demand much of that person in terms of time, you do when it comes to quality of friendship.

If I meet up with a pal and I ask how they are, I’m looking for a proper answer. I’m not looking for a fluffy “Yeah sure everything’s fine – shall we get the chicken?” response (although my answer will of course always be Yes), I want: “Right, strap in for a full-blown analysis of my life”. If I didn’t care then I wouldn’t have blocked out my Thursday night; I’m not exactly Mrs Popular but I definitely could have been doing something else – you do know that Eastenders is shown on Thursday evenings, right?

And of course it works both ways. I want to know the ins and outs of what’s happening with you and then you, dear friend, are going to get the precise same from me. I have a husband who doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of “Please unplug the iron”, a fringe I can’t control, and a marshmallow habit I fear is getting out of hand – who else am I going to talk to about this sh*t?

A good catch up with a good friend is better for your soul than any drug, massage or – dare I say it – confectionery item money can buy. And the truth is that, at this age, most of us would rather spend our time with the buddies we know we can really chew the fat with – metaphorical and literal (and ideally BBQ sauce-covered) – than spend an evening with 50 people we hardly know just so that Facebook can see how popular we are.

Because those are the chums that are really worth giving up a night in front of the telly for. And that, my friend, is no small compliment.

Strippers: You can leave your hat on (and your shirt and pants too)

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20150403_174806Girls! You’re engaged! Committed to one man forever and ever and ever! So I assume that the one thing you want before they send you on your way down the aisle is a total stranger thrusting his *excuse me* in your face to the sound of Lady Gaga’s Poker Face? Yeah? Yeah?

NO. Of course not.

If you’re anything like me i.e only just coming to terms with your own occasional nudity let alone anybody else’s, the idea of having a stripper at your hen do is completely horrifying. The thought of having a man employed for my entertainment with the expectation that I will laugh and WOOO! all the way through it – rather than gnawing on my devil horn antennae until hospitalised by glitter inhalation as I would prefer – is just too much to bear.

You see, there are reasons why we agree to get married beyond the love, romance and security which render strippers entirely inappropriate:

1) We have seen enough

When we say “Yes I will marry you” we are also saying (granted, more quietly) “I have seen quite enough of those and I do not wish to see any more.” We get the picture, have done as much sight seeing as we wish, and are now ready to close the proverbial guide book.

So the last thing we want is another one – with whom we have no emotional investment – speedily revealed from the depths of a velcro police uniform and positioned at eye level. No preamble, no ‘so, what are your views on Ikea’s delivery costs?” just straight in, music on, trousers off, whoomp there it is. I don’t want to get too Fifty Shades on you here but that’s just not how I roll.

2) We have been trained to know that laughing is not ok

Any footage I have seen of women enjoying the stripper experience (largely in soaps so all definitely accurate) involves a lot of screaming, laughing and pointing.

Now, I’m no Jilly Cooper, but in my limited experience these are the precise things you are not supposed to do at the sight of a naked gentleman. I have also never chanted “Get ’em off! Get ’em off!” and drummed on the dressing table as my other half undresses for bed but I imagine I’m more likely to get an awkward frown rather than a lap dance. And thank goodness for that.

3) If you think I am eating that, you are deeply mistaken

I’m rather paranoid when it comes to cleanliness. I like to know that my plates have been through a dishwasher, that a glass I drink from comes from a reputable cupboard and that my cutlery has not been subject to any potential contamination.

So if you think that I am prepared to consume anything that has been spread, sprayed or squirted onto the body of a complete stranger for the amusement of my friends, then you are wrong. Whipped cream, as much as I love you, if you think I’m having any, you are going to need to place yourself on top of a hot chocolate or a sundae, and not on some joker’s nether regions. I will never be that hungry.

I imagine by now that you may think I define the word prude. And perhaps you’re right. But I’d say I just know my limits.

Innuendo I can do, hell, I can even drink out of a plastic willy shaped straw if I have to (though I would argue that there is no better argument for celibacy than those plastic monstrosities) but bring me the real thing covered in oil and I’m more likely to try and cook it than shout ‘Wahey!’ And nobody wants to see that.

So to my friends, I shall say this: no naked or even partially naked men for me please. Let’s keep it fully clothed and female for one last time.

This tour bus terminates here.