Things seemed to be going incredibly well for a while. I had recently graduated, run off for the summer on my very first roadtrip (which came crashing down around our ears when I...er...crashed the car. But let's not quibble over details), and had come home to intern at a magazine I'd dreamed of working for since forever. Le Boyfriend and I couldn't have been happier, sushi and open bars seemed to be the order of the day when going out with friends, and I had another internship (a paying one this time, thank you to the God of Cash Flow) lined up for my return from a two-week sojourn in Jo'burg, where I got to wake up at ten, watch Sex and the City all day and finish a bottle of red wine a night with the delicious Boyfriend.
I should have known the gods were just lulling me into a false sense of security. The bastards.
Return from Jo'burg. Best Life magazine - of the paying internship loveliness - has folded. Fuck the recession.
Unemployed for a month now, and living with my parents.
Decided to ignore my serious lack of funds and go for sushi and cocktails on Sunday night with Noodle and Darling. Forgot to book, and waited an hour for a table. Decided to make the best of the situation by horribly embarrassing myself. Laughed and swallowed some PappySuckle Vinotini (I know...wtf?) at the same time, resulting in a lovely ten minutes of hacking coughing, frantically begging the none-too-interested barmen for water, and trying not to let my tears (of laughter? pain? I'm not even sure really) ruin my eyeliner.
And then at gym this morning had to deal with the shame of dying of exhaustion while the countless middle-aged moms surrounding my mat put me to shame doing crunch aftter crunch after crunch.
Something's gotta give.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
My attempt at a Carrie Bradshaw/Cosmopolitan type sex piece
Lately I've been pondering the importance of sex. Apart from being necessary for procreation of the species, and giving us something fun to talk about over cocktails, how much emphasis do we, or should we, place on the Deed? Sex is everywhere these days - on TV, on magazine covers, in detergent commercials. There's no getting away from it.
But what about getting it? Twenty-somethings seem to have turned the pursuit of getting laid into an Olympic sport. And if that's the case, then what are the rules? And what are the records? After all, nobody likes finishing in last place. And when you've found somebody who'll run the race with you on a regular basis, what then?
Every relationship starts off with what my friends like to call the 'honeymoon phase', those magical first few months when you stay in bed for hours on weekend mornings (and not to read the Sunday Times) and if you get up at all it's to shower - together. You can't wait to see each other, just kissing him is better than having a whole slab of Pistachio Lindt to yourself and, of course, the sex is fantastic.
Of course, the honeymoon never lasts. Whether that's a good or bad thing depends on the relationship. Once the first fog of infatuation has cleared, and you really start to see each other clearly, you either fall in love...or fall apart. Fair enough...but if you do stay together, what about the sex?
Most experts would say that when you reach a new level in your relationship, the ripping-each-other's-clothes-off heat of passion is replaced by the slow burn of real intimacy, which is often more intense, rather than less. Not only are you comfortable enough with your partner to really give it your all between the sheets, but he's bound to have figured out (or have been taught by you) exactly how to push your pleasure buttons.
Quality aside, what about quantity? In those first few months, being in bed (or in the bath, or on the couch, or in the kitchen) together seems like more of an excuse to get each other naked than anything else. So when do things tick over to sex every night no longer being on the cards? All it takes is one night of you both being too tired for more than a goodnight kiss and the platonic sleepover wiggles its way into your repertoire of bedroom moves. You start sleeping together, without actually sleeping together.
I'm still undecided as to whether this is necessarily a bad thing, but occasionally I wonder if we should be using our sex lives as a measure for what's going on in our relationships. If there's a significant dip in frequency, should we drive ourselves crazy over-analysing and trying to figure out why? Probably not. Questions such as, 'Isn't he attracted to me anymore?', 'Did I do something he didn't like?' or even, 'Is he gay?' will only send us to the bottom of the nearest vodka lime. Sometimes he really is tired.
Having said that, there are a couple of bedroom red flags that are cause for concern in the bigger picture too. For instance, if it's you who's no longer interested in being sexual with him, ask yourself why. Are you letting other areas of your life intrude into the bedroom? Lying awake thinking about a deadline at work can make you oblivious to that tingling between your thighs. Or have your feelings for him slowly evaporated while your mind was elsewhere? You might not constantly want to rip his jockeys off, but some lust is necessary for any kind of functioning relationship.
Secondly, intimacy doesn't only mean sex. If kisses, cuddles and conversations have disappeared along with the sex, you have to wonder if things haven't downgraded from boyfriend and girlfriend, to just friends.
And, of course, if you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything remotely of a sexual nature, then chances are it's over and you're both just too scared to admit it. Man up, break up, and then hook up with someone else. Life's too short not to be having regular, good sex. And the rabbit doesn't count.
But what about getting it? Twenty-somethings seem to have turned the pursuit of getting laid into an Olympic sport. And if that's the case, then what are the rules? And what are the records? After all, nobody likes finishing in last place. And when you've found somebody who'll run the race with you on a regular basis, what then?
Every relationship starts off with what my friends like to call the 'honeymoon phase', those magical first few months when you stay in bed for hours on weekend mornings (and not to read the Sunday Times) and if you get up at all it's to shower - together. You can't wait to see each other, just kissing him is better than having a whole slab of Pistachio Lindt to yourself and, of course, the sex is fantastic.
Of course, the honeymoon never lasts. Whether that's a good or bad thing depends on the relationship. Once the first fog of infatuation has cleared, and you really start to see each other clearly, you either fall in love...or fall apart. Fair enough...but if you do stay together, what about the sex?
Most experts would say that when you reach a new level in your relationship, the ripping-each-other's-clothes-off heat of passion is replaced by the slow burn of real intimacy, which is often more intense, rather than less. Not only are you comfortable enough with your partner to really give it your all between the sheets, but he's bound to have figured out (or have been taught by you) exactly how to push your pleasure buttons.
Quality aside, what about quantity? In those first few months, being in bed (or in the bath, or on the couch, or in the kitchen) together seems like more of an excuse to get each other naked than anything else. So when do things tick over to sex every night no longer being on the cards? All it takes is one night of you both being too tired for more than a goodnight kiss and the platonic sleepover wiggles its way into your repertoire of bedroom moves. You start sleeping together, without actually sleeping together.
I'm still undecided as to whether this is necessarily a bad thing, but occasionally I wonder if we should be using our sex lives as a measure for what's going on in our relationships. If there's a significant dip in frequency, should we drive ourselves crazy over-analysing and trying to figure out why? Probably not. Questions such as, 'Isn't he attracted to me anymore?', 'Did I do something he didn't like?' or even, 'Is he gay?' will only send us to the bottom of the nearest vodka lime. Sometimes he really is tired.
Having said that, there are a couple of bedroom red flags that are cause for concern in the bigger picture too. For instance, if it's you who's no longer interested in being sexual with him, ask yourself why. Are you letting other areas of your life intrude into the bedroom? Lying awake thinking about a deadline at work can make you oblivious to that tingling between your thighs. Or have your feelings for him slowly evaporated while your mind was elsewhere? You might not constantly want to rip his jockeys off, but some lust is necessary for any kind of functioning relationship.
Secondly, intimacy doesn't only mean sex. If kisses, cuddles and conversations have disappeared along with the sex, you have to wonder if things haven't downgraded from boyfriend and girlfriend, to just friends.
And, of course, if you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything remotely of a sexual nature, then chances are it's over and you're both just too scared to admit it. Man up, break up, and then hook up with someone else. Life's too short not to be having regular, good sex. And the rabbit doesn't count.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Hooray for The Knife (and the needle, and the syringe, and the giant sucking machine of my imagination) [columny type piece attempt]
Plastic surgery - it's a tricky issue. Some people think it's wrong, some people are addicted to it, and some people (like moi) are on the fence.
One part of me thinks it's a dangerous road to be going down for a world already far too obsessed with beauty and perfection. It used to be a nose job here, a breast enahancement there - no big deal. But one only has to go to Hollywood (or so I'm told) to see the rise of the real Silicon Valley. In a city where your livelihood depends on your looks, and every female denizen is sporting a boob job (the average breast size in Hollywood is 36C), how do you distinguish yourself from the madding crowd? You go bigger of course. And when everyone else catches up, you go bigger again. It's a creepy cycle, and one should remember that you can only blow up a balloon so far before it pops.
But sure, that's Hollywood. Nothing's real there. Unfortunately, it seems only a matter of time before good old LA is no longer the exception but the rule. Cosmetic surgery is becoming more and more common in the 'real' world too. Quick, easy treatments like Botox are already considered the norm, and pretox - botox shots that twenty-somethings are jabbing into their foreheads in an attempt to prevent lines from forming in the first place - is on the rise. Nose jobs, face lifts, breast enhancements and liposuction are all pretty standard, and even the more bizarre surgeries (labiaplasty anyone?) are being performed more often. In some parts of the world, companies are even offering their employees leave specifically allotted to surgery recovery.
The other part of me is not entirely against the idea of surgery. A nose job has always been strangely appealing, since at the tender age of twelve my mother told me that when I was old enough we'd go and get both of ours 'fixed' at the same time (how's that for mother-daughter bonding?). And liposuction doesn't sound too awful either, a kind of fresh start if you will (I like to think that if I had the perfect body, I wouldn't fuck it up). Provided, of course, I'm knocked out at the time and don't have to think about it too much. I have this horrifying vision, you see, of a giant sucking machine, vacuum cleaner-esque, chugging away at my tummy and thighs...
One part of me thinks it's a dangerous road to be going down for a world already far too obsessed with beauty and perfection. It used to be a nose job here, a breast enahancement there - no big deal. But one only has to go to Hollywood (or so I'm told) to see the rise of the real Silicon Valley. In a city where your livelihood depends on your looks, and every female denizen is sporting a boob job (the average breast size in Hollywood is 36C), how do you distinguish yourself from the madding crowd? You go bigger of course. And when everyone else catches up, you go bigger again. It's a creepy cycle, and one should remember that you can only blow up a balloon so far before it pops.
But sure, that's Hollywood. Nothing's real there. Unfortunately, it seems only a matter of time before good old LA is no longer the exception but the rule. Cosmetic surgery is becoming more and more common in the 'real' world too. Quick, easy treatments like Botox are already considered the norm, and pretox - botox shots that twenty-somethings are jabbing into their foreheads in an attempt to prevent lines from forming in the first place - is on the rise. Nose jobs, face lifts, breast enhancements and liposuction are all pretty standard, and even the more bizarre surgeries (labiaplasty anyone?) are being performed more often. In some parts of the world, companies are even offering their employees leave specifically allotted to surgery recovery.
The other part of me is not entirely against the idea of surgery. A nose job has always been strangely appealing, since at the tender age of twelve my mother told me that when I was old enough we'd go and get both of ours 'fixed' at the same time (how's that for mother-daughter bonding?). And liposuction doesn't sound too awful either, a kind of fresh start if you will (I like to think that if I had the perfect body, I wouldn't fuck it up). Provided, of course, I'm knocked out at the time and don't have to think about it too much. I have this horrifying vision, you see, of a giant sucking machine, vacuum cleaner-esque, chugging away at my tummy and thighs...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The scariest place on earth is...
...the women's changing room at Virgin Active.
I have a healthy respect for the female physique, and all our bits and bobs. A woman's body can be a beautiful, beautiful thing. It can also be incredibly ugly. I'm no goddess myself, but as the female form ages, well...we've all (most unfortunately) seen Donatella Versace in a swimsuit. And there's absolutely nothing really wrong with it - flab, cellulite and, shall we say, gravity are all a part of (natural) life. However...must you flaunt them? It's a scary naked free-for-all in the Virgin Active Ladies', and it's starting to hurt my eyes. I'm not suggesting everyone do the Junior School Towel Wriggle - where you manage to put on your entire outfit while remaining wrapped in your towel, a trick that ensured minimum exposure in the girls' changing room after PE - merely that you perhaps put your undies on before moisturising your entire body, applying full makeup and blow-drying your hair.
Please.
I have a healthy respect for the female physique, and all our bits and bobs. A woman's body can be a beautiful, beautiful thing. It can also be incredibly ugly. I'm no goddess myself, but as the female form ages, well...we've all (most unfortunately) seen Donatella Versace in a swimsuit. And there's absolutely nothing really wrong with it - flab, cellulite and, shall we say, gravity are all a part of (natural) life. However...must you flaunt them? It's a scary naked free-for-all in the Virgin Active Ladies', and it's starting to hurt my eyes. I'm not suggesting everyone do the Junior School Towel Wriggle - where you manage to put on your entire outfit while remaining wrapped in your towel, a trick that ensured minimum exposure in the girls' changing room after PE - merely that you perhaps put your undies on before moisturising your entire body, applying full makeup and blow-drying your hair.
Please.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Pondering the pecuniary...
Being an intern has it's perks, but also one major downside. Working a nine to five without getting paid leaves little time to work casually on the side, putting a serious dent in my cash flow. You'd think being confronted with a bank balance on the wrong side of a grand would turn me into a scrupulous spendthrift. Instead, it makes me think of all the things I need to buy. Like, right now.
And that got me thinking about the myriad things a girl has to budget for every month that the less-fair sex does not, including...
Makeup: when you're shelling out at least a hundred bucks for a mascara, can you imagine how much it costs a year to replenish our makeup bags? And yes, makeup is a necessity. Say what you like about 'natural look', if every women stopped wearing makeup tomorrow, the world would be a scary, scary place.
Shoes: because we need at least three times as many as you do.
Clothes: see above.
Grooming: all those manis, pedis and waxes cost you know. The most painful part of a Brazillian is not the hot-wax-on-our-delicate-bits bit, it's handing over our plastic for the agony we just went through.
Hair Maintenance: there's no 'just a bit off the top and sides' for us, and don't even get me started on the extortion that is having your hair coloured.
Drinks: because a cosmopolitan costs more than a beer. period.
And that got me thinking about the myriad things a girl has to budget for every month that the less-fair sex does not, including...
Makeup: when you're shelling out at least a hundred bucks for a mascara, can you imagine how much it costs a year to replenish our makeup bags? And yes, makeup is a necessity. Say what you like about 'natural look', if every women stopped wearing makeup tomorrow, the world would be a scary, scary place.
Shoes: because we need at least three times as many as you do.
Clothes: see above.
Grooming: all those manis, pedis and waxes cost you know. The most painful part of a Brazillian is not the hot-wax-on-our-delicate-bits bit, it's handing over our plastic for the agony we just went through.
Hair Maintenance: there's no 'just a bit off the top and sides' for us, and don't even get me started on the extortion that is having your hair coloured.
Drinks: because a cosmopolitan costs more than a beer. period.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Nicole Richie Effect...
Thin is in, and anybody who disputes it is just fooling themselves.
I will refrain from flogging the dead horse that is the size-zero phenomenon. We all know the skeletal stats of Hollywood’s young celebutantes, and how the media loves to hang the albatross of every young girl’s eating disorder around their skinny necks.
No, what I want to talk about is what I like to call the Nicole Richie Effect.
Little Miss Richie didn’t only get ridiculously thin. Just about halving her body weight seemed to be the catalyst for a Birkin bagful of other transformations.
I’ll be blunt: Nicole Richie used to look like an unscrubbed, McDonald’s regular dressed by a blind pole dancer. She was stuck in BFF Paris Hilton’s shadow (does Paris actually cast a shadow?) and it’s safe to assume she was unattractive to pretty much the entire male population.
Then she got skinny.
Almost over night she became a fashion icon, rocking her skinny jeans, Chanel half-tints, and head scarves so well that designers fell over themselves to dress her. Nicole was suddenly as elegant and stylish as she’d been frumpy and unkempt before. Her look softened and there was suddenly something glamorously old-Hollywood about her.
She hogged headlines. She got her life together and ditched her dirty party-girl ways, snagged herself some high-end man candy, got married and hopped on the baby train with the rest of the A-list.
My point is that as soon as Nicole got skinny, everything started going right for her. And she’s not the only one. Anne Hathaway – who was never really big to begin with – dropped a few pounds and is suddenly starring in movies left right and centre – when she’s not lending her delightful face to perfume ads or showing off designer gowns on the red carpet
Even Kelly Osborne - although she'll probably never look what anyone would call good - ditched her white trash look for some lovely dresses after losing nearly thirteen kilos.
So…what? If you’re on the chubby side, you resign yourself to looking like Miss Trailer Park 2002? Sigh...pass the celery.
I will refrain from flogging the dead horse that is the size-zero phenomenon. We all know the skeletal stats of Hollywood’s young celebutantes, and how the media loves to hang the albatross of every young girl’s eating disorder around their skinny necks.
No, what I want to talk about is what I like to call the Nicole Richie Effect.
Little Miss Richie didn’t only get ridiculously thin. Just about halving her body weight seemed to be the catalyst for a Birkin bagful of other transformations.
I’ll be blunt: Nicole Richie used to look like an unscrubbed, McDonald’s regular dressed by a blind pole dancer. She was stuck in BFF Paris Hilton’s shadow (does Paris actually cast a shadow?) and it’s safe to assume she was unattractive to pretty much the entire male population.
Then she got skinny.
Almost over night she became a fashion icon, rocking her skinny jeans, Chanel half-tints, and head scarves so well that designers fell over themselves to dress her. Nicole was suddenly as elegant and stylish as she’d been frumpy and unkempt before. Her look softened and there was suddenly something glamorously old-Hollywood about her.
She hogged headlines. She got her life together and ditched her dirty party-girl ways, snagged herself some high-end man candy, got married and hopped on the baby train with the rest of the A-list.
My point is that as soon as Nicole got skinny, everything started going right for her. And she’s not the only one. Anne Hathaway – who was never really big to begin with – dropped a few pounds and is suddenly starring in movies left right and centre – when she’s not lending her delightful face to perfume ads or showing off designer gowns on the red carpet
Even Kelly Osborne - although she'll probably never look what anyone would call good - ditched her white trash look for some lovely dresses after losing nearly thirteen kilos.
So…what? If you’re on the chubby side, you resign yourself to looking like Miss Trailer Park 2002? Sigh...pass the celery.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Oscar Wilde said that fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.
Well.
This is usually the only one of the great man's epigrams that I disagree with, but of course I was thinking fashion in terms of Chanel, Marc Jacobs, D&G and all their fab friends.
However, when it comes to further down the fashionable food chain, I'm inclined to agree with Mr Wilde. And there's nothing worse than a trend that won't die.
I understand that not all fashion can be couture. And I understand that what we ubiquitously refer to these days as 'street style' is an important form of expression and creativity - one that couturiers frequently imitate rather than the other way around. But I'm going to be a traitor to my generation of Cape Town Cool Kids, and give the finger to weareawesome.com and Kloof Street style by saying:
Skinny jeans must die.
On guys that is. On girls, they're still hot. Even on girls who aren't skinny. But boys, please put them away. Or better yet, burn them. Yes, they were fun for a while; who didn't enjoy seeing their guy friends unable to bend over - or possibly ever procreate - because of the ridiculous toightness of their pants? But now they're over. I don't care if you're in a garage rock band (and I mean that in the sense that you practise in your mum's garage), stop wearing your girlfriend's jeans.
Now.
Well.
This is usually the only one of the great man's epigrams that I disagree with, but of course I was thinking fashion in terms of Chanel, Marc Jacobs, D&G and all their fab friends.
However, when it comes to further down the fashionable food chain, I'm inclined to agree with Mr Wilde. And there's nothing worse than a trend that won't die.
I understand that not all fashion can be couture. And I understand that what we ubiquitously refer to these days as 'street style' is an important form of expression and creativity - one that couturiers frequently imitate rather than the other way around. But I'm going to be a traitor to my generation of Cape Town Cool Kids, and give the finger to weareawesome.com and Kloof Street style by saying:
Skinny jeans must die.
On guys that is. On girls, they're still hot. Even on girls who aren't skinny. But boys, please put them away. Or better yet, burn them. Yes, they were fun for a while; who didn't enjoy seeing their guy friends unable to bend over - or possibly ever procreate - because of the ridiculous toightness of their pants? But now they're over. I don't care if you're in a garage rock band (and I mean that in the sense that you practise in your mum's garage), stop wearing your girlfriend's jeans.
Now.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Two weeks ago I was standing with a group of strangers, sipping a Mojito, watching President Obama's inauguration speech and thinking, 'Yes. We. Can.' along with everybody else. Last week, I was desperately researching everything I didn't already know about the conflict in Gaza, resolutely not picking a side. This week I'm preoccupied with our politics at home, and who I'm going to vote for when the election rolls around. Last year I was anti-China, and wondering about volunteer work in Tibet. Two years ago I was pondering the plight of innocent Afghan refugees in Pakistan, four years ago the displaced Aborigines, and when I was little I remember sending my pocket money for the month to National Geographic, convinced it would help to save panda bears from extinction.
My point is that current affairs are just that - current. The stories that every news channel bombards us with one week, are eclipsed by something else the next. Consequently, our sympathies are constantly changing, even though the situations that tugged our heartstrings in the first place aren't. Tibet is still under China's thumb, Palestine and Israel will continue to launch rockets at one another in their ongoing and senseless destruction of one another, and though the panda extinction situation is very slightly less dire, I doubt it has anything to do with my ten bucks.
No real point to this post, apart from musing on the fickle nature of the human race and that slippery fish we call The Media.
My point is that current affairs are just that - current. The stories that every news channel bombards us with one week, are eclipsed by something else the next. Consequently, our sympathies are constantly changing, even though the situations that tugged our heartstrings in the first place aren't. Tibet is still under China's thumb, Palestine and Israel will continue to launch rockets at one another in their ongoing and senseless destruction of one another, and though the panda extinction situation is very slightly less dire, I doubt it has anything to do with my ten bucks.
No real point to this post, apart from musing on the fickle nature of the human race and that slippery fish we call The Media.
Monday, February 2, 2009
This weekend I had the pleasure of going to the prettiest, most perfect, picnic wedding (and yes, thank you so much, I found some shoes in the end).
This would be the second friend of mine, both of whom are only a year older than I am, who is now married, til death, infidelity, divorce or insolvency do them part. But let's not be cynical, even if it is Monday morning. Instead, let's look at the facts:
I am not the only person to have noticed that there are more than a handful of girls around my young, tender age of twenty two who suddenly seem very eager to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. Little girls, it seems, have started dreaming about white gowns, bouquets and tiered cakes again.
And it's not just the ladies anymore, either. My first boyfriend - or rather, my first long-term, adult(ish) boyfriend - was planning our future together (including wedding and house in the suburbs) at a startlingly early point in a relationship that was never going to end in wedding bells. Then again, he also wanted matching tattoos. I should have seen it coming. The scary - scarier - part is that he's not a one-in-a-million male anymore...I hear more and more men talking about 'settling down', while their girlfriends look on in horror.
Not that I'm in any way against marriage (well not really) - I'm just a little confused about the sudden rush. What happened to the nineties' trend of nobody getting married til they were in their thirties - at least? And if the early noughties taught us anything, it's that we ladies can have it all - success, happiness, love, great sex - without a shiny rock weighing down our left hands (although who doesn't love a great piece of jewelery?). The way I see it (and I worry I'm a fast-dwindling minority) is figure out who you are, and what you want from your life (and career), then get married. And nobody can do all that in their early twenties.
So why are we suddenly jumping into white dresses as though Vera Wang might very suddenly die? In a world gone retro mad, is a conservative backlash the next trendy thing? Do we suddenly want to be 'settled' by twenty five like our parents, and their parents before them? And what happens when it goes out of style? A husband and a marriage are not as easy to get rid of - or forget about - as last season's harem pants.
Having said that, I've always had very Jane Austen-esque, romantic ideas about love, and the wedding on Saturday was so incredibly perfect that I found myself absent-mindedly planning my own white gown. So I guess that makes me a hypocrite.
Interestingly though, every girl there expertly dodged the bridal bouquet. Perhaps there's hope yet.
This would be the second friend of mine, both of whom are only a year older than I am, who is now married, til death, infidelity, divorce or insolvency do them part. But let's not be cynical, even if it is Monday morning. Instead, let's look at the facts:
I am not the only person to have noticed that there are more than a handful of girls around my young, tender age of twenty two who suddenly seem very eager to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. Little girls, it seems, have started dreaming about white gowns, bouquets and tiered cakes again.
And it's not just the ladies anymore, either. My first boyfriend - or rather, my first long-term, adult(ish) boyfriend - was planning our future together (including wedding and house in the suburbs) at a startlingly early point in a relationship that was never going to end in wedding bells. Then again, he also wanted matching tattoos. I should have seen it coming. The scary - scarier - part is that he's not a one-in-a-million male anymore...I hear more and more men talking about 'settling down', while their girlfriends look on in horror.
Not that I'm in any way against marriage (well not really) - I'm just a little confused about the sudden rush. What happened to the nineties' trend of nobody getting married til they were in their thirties - at least? And if the early noughties taught us anything, it's that we ladies can have it all - success, happiness, love, great sex - without a shiny rock weighing down our left hands (although who doesn't love a great piece of jewelery?). The way I see it (and I worry I'm a fast-dwindling minority) is figure out who you are, and what you want from your life (and career), then get married. And nobody can do all that in their early twenties.
So why are we suddenly jumping into white dresses as though Vera Wang might very suddenly die? In a world gone retro mad, is a conservative backlash the next trendy thing? Do we suddenly want to be 'settled' by twenty five like our parents, and their parents before them? And what happens when it goes out of style? A husband and a marriage are not as easy to get rid of - or forget about - as last season's harem pants.
Having said that, I've always had very Jane Austen-esque, romantic ideas about love, and the wedding on Saturday was so incredibly perfect that I found myself absent-mindedly planning my own white gown. So I guess that makes me a hypocrite.
Interestingly though, every girl there expertly dodged the bridal bouquet. Perhaps there's hope yet.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Two nights ago I went to a party where I happened to see a (male) friend I had been at Varsity with. We'd always gotten on famously in any one of the ten-minute conversations we enjoyed during our acquaintance, and this time was no different. While laughing at...something (can't remember, there was vodka involved that night), a face loomed a few inches from his left shoulder - enter the girlfriend.
Now understand two very important things:
1. I have a boyfriend so supremely wonderful, I wouldn't trade him in for all the Christian Louboutins in the world
2. I have never been remotely attracted to this friend (not even the usual obligatory wondering about what it would be like to have sex with him)
Well, either I'm more sensitive than I thought, or she was giving me The Look. You know, the one that says, 'I'm watching you. Keep your grubby paws off my man, ho.' The girlfriend I had taken with me (Le Boyfriend being in another city at the time) assures me there were no such Looks, but I'm not convinced.
The confusion arises from the fact that I am not in the habit of receiving said Looks. I find it hard to believe that any girl would find me threatening in a leading-their-man-astray sort of way. Yes I was wearing a LBD and heels, but so was she - and so were all the models and TV presenters (it was that kind of party).
What gives? What makes a perfectly rational female descend into primal, claws-out jealousy? In general I mean - there was no high-heeled hair-pulling on Wednesday night, just some artificially cheery smalltalk into which I sprinkled Le BF's name like it was salt on popcorn. In retrospect, she probably thinks I'm rather sad...
Now understand two very important things:
1. I have a boyfriend so supremely wonderful, I wouldn't trade him in for all the Christian Louboutins in the world
2. I have never been remotely attracted to this friend (not even the usual obligatory wondering about what it would be like to have sex with him)
Well, either I'm more sensitive than I thought, or she was giving me The Look. You know, the one that says, 'I'm watching you. Keep your grubby paws off my man, ho.' The girlfriend I had taken with me (Le Boyfriend being in another city at the time) assures me there were no such Looks, but I'm not convinced.
The confusion arises from the fact that I am not in the habit of receiving said Looks. I find it hard to believe that any girl would find me threatening in a leading-their-man-astray sort of way. Yes I was wearing a LBD and heels, but so was she - and so were all the models and TV presenters (it was that kind of party).
What gives? What makes a perfectly rational female descend into primal, claws-out jealousy? In general I mean - there was no high-heeled hair-pulling on Wednesday night, just some artificially cheery smalltalk into which I sprinkled Le BF's name like it was salt on popcorn. In retrospect, she probably thinks I'm rather sad...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
This morning I had a crises of fashion...
Not my first and - I can say with absolute, crushing certainty - not my last either. But let me explain...
Although interning at a fashion magazine is not always as glamorous as it sounds, one nonetheless likes to look one's best at work. Hence, the inevitable wardrobe meltdown on this, my ninth official day as a (albeit unpaid) working girl.
Standing in my undies, hands on hips, trying to stare down my maliciously passive-aggressive wardrobe...well, it gave me some time to think.
Remember school uniforms? Remember how most of us hated them, abhorred the mandatory conformity of the scratchy synthetic fabric? Well, not me: I loved my uniform. I know, I know - I can hear the gnashing of fashionista teeth. But the white blouse and bottle-green skirt, paired with white knee-high socks and brown leather baby-doll shoes, was bordering on cute, as far as uniforms go (which, admittedly, is not too far).
But the the real beauty of the school uniform was not having to engage in the daily morning, underwear-clad, me vs wardrobe staring match. Robotically donning a prescribed dress for five days in a row may seem boring, but independent research (conducted by yours truly on, well, yours truly) shows that not only does it alleviate stress, it also saves you time that could be spent more productively (either sleeping in, or having another cup of tea).
Of course, I'm not a total philistine. I love pretty clothes - and shoes, and accessories, and bags - as much as the next girl who knows that Bvlgari isn't an Eastern Block country. But remember back in school when you could spend all week planning what to wear on Friday night? Sure, we still can, but this age-old tradition gets clouded by the multiple wardrobe decisions we have to make during the week. And if you only had to put together outfits for weekends, and a couple of nights Monday to Thursday, the odds of a fashion-repeat lower themselves to less than one in six months, if at all.
I therefore propose the introduction of a working uniform. Something simply stylish, flattering to every figure. It can be on trend - hell, it can even come in a range of colours - and obviously it will be updated every season in line with the new collections. But it will be a uniform, and I will be saved my daily dressing drama,
A girl can dream.
Although interning at a fashion magazine is not always as glamorous as it sounds, one nonetheless likes to look one's best at work. Hence, the inevitable wardrobe meltdown on this, my ninth official day as a (albeit unpaid) working girl.
Standing in my undies, hands on hips, trying to stare down my maliciously passive-aggressive wardrobe...well, it gave me some time to think.
Remember school uniforms? Remember how most of us hated them, abhorred the mandatory conformity of the scratchy synthetic fabric? Well, not me: I loved my uniform. I know, I know - I can hear the gnashing of fashionista teeth. But the white blouse and bottle-green skirt, paired with white knee-high socks and brown leather baby-doll shoes, was bordering on cute, as far as uniforms go (which, admittedly, is not too far).
But the the real beauty of the school uniform was not having to engage in the daily morning, underwear-clad, me vs wardrobe staring match. Robotically donning a prescribed dress for five days in a row may seem boring, but independent research (conducted by yours truly on, well, yours truly) shows that not only does it alleviate stress, it also saves you time that could be spent more productively (either sleeping in, or having another cup of tea).
Of course, I'm not a total philistine. I love pretty clothes - and shoes, and accessories, and bags - as much as the next girl who knows that Bvlgari isn't an Eastern Block country. But remember back in school when you could spend all week planning what to wear on Friday night? Sure, we still can, but this age-old tradition gets clouded by the multiple wardrobe decisions we have to make during the week. And if you only had to put together outfits for weekends, and a couple of nights Monday to Thursday, the odds of a fashion-repeat lower themselves to less than one in six months, if at all.
I therefore propose the introduction of a working uniform. Something simply stylish, flattering to every figure. It can be on trend - hell, it can even come in a range of colours - and obviously it will be updated every season in line with the new collections. But it will be a uniform, and I will be saved my daily dressing drama,
A girl can dream.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
You would think, given the burgeoning number of shops, malls and designer outlets in Cape Town, that finding a simple pair of metallic-brown flat sandals to match the dress I just bought for a wedding in three days' time, would not be an impossible task.
You would be wrong.
While I am of course fully aware of Murphy's Law of Shopping (which states that, when shopping for a specific item, that item will be categorically un-locatable until a minimum of three weeks after you needed it), I had thought that the simplicity of my search parameters would allow me to fly under Murphy's radar, thus rendering my shoes easy to find.
I was, it turned out, entirely wrong.
No amount of searching has procured my footwear. I have been into expensive shoe shops. I have been into cheap ones. I have scoured department stores. I have run around into boutiques on my lunch break.
I feel like Cinderella's prince, except in my none-too-fairytale life I've got the foot, I'm just desperately searching for the glass slipper.
You would be wrong.
While I am of course fully aware of Murphy's Law of Shopping (which states that, when shopping for a specific item, that item will be categorically un-locatable until a minimum of three weeks after you needed it), I had thought that the simplicity of my search parameters would allow me to fly under Murphy's radar, thus rendering my shoes easy to find.
I was, it turned out, entirely wrong.
No amount of searching has procured my footwear. I have been into expensive shoe shops. I have been into cheap ones. I have scoured department stores. I have run around into boutiques on my lunch break.
I feel like Cinderella's prince, except in my none-too-fairytale life I've got the foot, I'm just desperately searching for the glass slipper.
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