The things you don't want to have to see at gym

(all of which I saw tonight ... sigh)

The Gym Couple
Matching outfits, matching iPods, matching killer bodies. I sometimes wonder about the advantages versus disadvantages of going to gym with your sig other. A built-in gym partner, someone to keep you motivated, sure. But what about the whole sweaty, flushed face, panting ... oh wait, starting to get it. Still, 'Squeeze baby! Work those glutes' isn't my idea of foreplay.

The Model
Flailing limp-wristedly at the air with her spaghetti arms. What is this girl doing in a Kata Box class? (Or the gym at all for that matter.) One needs to have consumed more than carrot sticks for the past few weeks to attain the necessary degree of aggression such a class requires.

The Perfect Girl
You can't hate her being a waif, but you can hate her for having the perfect 'normal' body (read: not underweight, but very fucking far from your average), shiny bouncy hair and not a sweat drop in sight. And she looks better in her gym vest than you do after an hour's grooming for a night out.

The Chubby Girl
...who for once in this hub of toned, taut bodies makes you feel slightly superior. And then immediately after like the worst human being in the world for having such uncharitable thoughts.

A Kauai Cappuccino Muffin
I literally ran to the car to escape temptation. They shouldn't spring that stuff on you.

Moose Knuckle
Enough said.

Word of the Day

Fugacious
(fyoo-GAY-shuhs)
Lasting but a short time; fleeting.

Learn something new every day kids...

I've been a shamefully irregular blogger this week (and I mean irregular in terms of infrequent posting ... stop sniggering, your toilet humour does not amuse me).

So, time for a quick update before the madness of Monday begins (gosh I remember when that phrase applied to Mercury drinks specials, not production dates and print deadlines. Funny how quickly things change).

The Trivial
My hair is turning brown. I'm thrilled.
My ghd came home last week. It was received with all the love and affection usually reserved for kittens rescued from trees. It's settled – I'm a hair-obsessed materialist.
Swam 50 lengths at gym today. How is it that I'm seemingly swim-fit but still can't climb more than a flight of stairs without being a litle out of breath?
I've developed a dirty little lunch hour habit of Vida and fashion magazines. Not only is it terribly indulgent, I'm having stabs of guilt at what it's cost me in both pennies and kJs this week.

The Tragic
Boyfriend is coming home next Thursday, but is being whisked away for just about the whole four days he usually spends in Cape Town by his company for their end-of-year celebration, which is taking the form of an employee-only weekend away. I ask you...

The Tranquil
A 6 am pilates class on Friday morning. Yes, I was as blown away by my dedication as you are. I haven't been up so early to exercise since swim practice in high school.

And so far as ringing in the changes goes...
Last week things kind of got away from me, what with the Daisies recovery and the disappearing Boyfriend sadness and the work-getting-busy stress, and I kind of, er, forgot to think of a change for the week. Which means I also forgot to make one. Whoops.

So looking ahead...this week I will: learn to accept a compliment. Not that they shower from the heavens or anything, but from now on instead of saying, 'It's just these pants/It actually needs a wash/I'll tell the people at MAC/I was just lucky anyone could have done it/Oh this old thing?', I am going to actively remind myself that refusing a compliment is actually kind of rude (you may as well say the complimenter's opinion means nothing to you) not to mention annoying, that accepting compliments is a damn easy way of building some self-esteem and that Grace Kelly probably never turned one down. And just imagine how many she got.

From now on it's the gracious smile-and-say-thank-you all the way. I'm going to go practise in front of a mirror. Sleep tight bloglings...

Okay so I finally feel recovered enough to post about the weekend.

And what a weekend it was...

Rocking the Daisies 2009 was a little more chilled than last year – everyone kind of just doing their own thing, lying by the dam, napping, listening to the music. None of the 10 am funnelling or falling asleep clutching an empty tequila bottle that characterised 2008's debaucherous festival (only the second part of that was me, I swear).

Even better, there was none of that pesky mud, and the portaloos were actually bordering on hygenic, so that was nice. Really nice.

Seattle coffee was a godsend too. As was a bacon-and-egg-and-toast breakfast on Saturday morning courtesy of Simone and Shannon. Thanks guys. You are, hands down, the knees of the bees.

Of course, the icing on the cake (I can't use the cherry-on-top metaphor, like ever, because I don't actually like cherries) was spending the weekend with Boyfriend. Sadly our usual four days together are being shaved down to barely 48 hours lately. Long distance...don't try it at home kids.

So now for a little numbery numberness:

Number of hours spent searching for wellies I didn't actually need: too many. And then there was no mud after all. Fuck murphy. (Sorry, last 'fuck' for the week I promise.)

Number of self-administered anti-histamine eyedrops: about a bottle. Pretty much abused them, but what with the sneezing and the itchy eyes and the runny nose, well ... how can you stick to the three-a-day prescribed amount? I mean really now. Rocking the Hayfever ... sigh.

Number of vodka redbulls/limes/lemonades (not all together obviously) consumed: innumerable.

Number of showers: one. Can you handle it? This is me we're talking about.

Number of painful oddly shaped sunburns: zero. Laugh all you want at my SPF 50, I will not be having a repeat of the ankle embarrassment.

Rah-rah-rah-rocking the Daisies

Hello weekend – you're finally here.

Forty minutes and counting till I get to ditch the office for Darling (after wading through Friday afternoon traffic of course). Boyfriend arrived last night and we're off to frolic at the Cloof Wine Estate for the next couple of days – with about 11 998 other people.

Oh yes. Daisies here we come.

Trivial much?

OK so it has just occurred to me that my last three posts have been about my hair.

Have I always been this superficial, and maybe just didn't realise it? I mean, Noodle and I have been known to while away a good fifteen minutes' worth of conversation talking about hair ... but in the public forum? Bad Jade. My apologies everyone.

And in the midst of the black-hair-miserable-Jade saga I've all but forgotten about my little regime of weekly changes. Tsk Tsk.

So obviously last week I became a blood donor (finally). I'd say that counts as a good thing? And it's something I fully intend to keep up. I even have the little card that tells me when I'll be due for another donation (29 November, if you're wondering). See? I'm a fully paid-up, card-carrying saint, I am.

This week ... hmmm. I was thinking about something esoteric (curb my bouts of self-pity?) or something body-conscious (stop eating bread for a month maybe?) but I've settled on...

This week I will: improve my vocabulary.

If you know me, you know how much I love the written word – or words in general really. One of the reasons I love iGoogle so much (apart from the sporadic Katherine Hepburn quotes – 'Life is hard. After all, it kills you.) is that it gives me dictionary.com's word of the day. It's like a mini intelligence booster on my homepage every morning. Some of the words are boring (burgeon? ameliorate?) but some are pure tongue-tingling loveliness. Like this morning's for example: foofaraw – excessive or flashy ornamentation; also, a fuss over a trivial matter (for example, I made a bit of a foofaraw over my hair the last few days).

See? It's easy. Pretty soon nobody will be able to understand me. I'll be spouting off sentences like, Oh what a crapulent weekend, I was downright esurient. Pity my ankles are still rather incarnadine, but no need for a foofaraw, I'm sure they'll ameliorate.

Moohahaha.

OK enough

I agree. Stop with the self-pity (yes, I know you were all thinking that after my last two posts, don't deny it).

I'm trying to look on the bright side with this whole hair dye story. Although, for me, looking on the bright side means looking on the dark side – I always try to imagine all the horrible things that could have gone wrong, trying to lessen my perceived severity of whatever pickle I'm in. Usually works too. The human mind is ocassionally amazing in its stupidity.

So:
My hair could have come out orange, instead of black, which has been known to happen when you fuck (sorry) around with chemicals and hair.
I could have fallen prey to some horrible scalp-eating bacteria that caused all my hair to fall out, leaving me bald and forced to wear bad barbie wigs for the rest of my life.
I could have been hit by a bus crossing the road to the salon, meaning I would have died with mousy brown hair. The horror.

So when you weigh up all the horrible things that could have happened but didn't, really I'm in quite a good position with this non-orange hair that's still attached to my head which hasn't been knocked off by a bus.

How's that for positive thinking?

Also, the lovely people from ghd sent a courier to pick up my straightener today, so it's on the path to being fixed. Now we wait...

Well washing didn't work. My hair is still about three shades too dark.

What I wanted was Catherine Zeta-Jones. Rachel Bilson. Charlotte from Sex and the City. What I am is Bellville emo kid.

Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck fuck.

I really don't want to spend another year growing this out, so I might have to call my hairdresser and ask her what we can do to rectify the situation.

This is something I'd rather not do. Not only do I have a fear of confrontation, I also do believe it's not her fault (we had to do the colour twice because it didn't come out the first time, which I think is where things started to go black ... literally.). I haven't complained to a hairdresser (or anyone really) since high school when my mom's stylist got scissor happy with me the day of my Valentine's Ball.

The clock is ticking though. Boyfriend will be here in two days. Boyfriend who begged me not to dye it in the first place.

Also some nasty little spider has bitten me on my cheek.

Oh and also it's raining.

Sigh.

Tragedy has struck

My ghd is dying.

Was trying to use it this morning and something funny seems to be happening when the cord swivels. Not so much funny actually as catastrophic. The little 'on' light goes off and it lets out the saddest little buzzing sound, like it's in pain.

Only other ghd devotees will understand the magnitude of this situation.

I now have to check that it's still under warranty (which is probably isn't) and then package it off to Durban for two weeks to be fixed (if, by some miracle, ghds come with a five-year warranty I don't know about).

Thank God and Meryl Streep that there's another straightener in the house. Can you imagine if there wasn't? I'd have to stay inside for the next two weeks or more, which would seriously ruin my Rocking the Daisies plans.

Add to that the fact that I spent an obscene amount of money having my hair dyed this weekend, only to find that instead of the lovely sophisticated chocolate brown colour I wanted, it is in fact bordering on black. I'm hoping it'll lighten after washing and spending some time in the sun, but I fear that's overly optimistic – my hair tends to hold onto colour in the same way my hips hold onto toast, so it's more likely I'll have to grow it out.

Why why why?

All makes for a pretty gloomy Monday.

OK so the whole blood donating thing was slightly anti-climactic. It really was just one little prick (two if you count the iron test). And while watching your blood pump out of your arm and into a little bag is weird, there were no dramatic fainting spells or anything.

The juice box and cookie combo is a nice touch though. I firmly believe that doctors should give adults a post-visit lollipop too. Sometimes we need the comforting more than kids do.

Anyway, I feel like I did a good thing, maybe swung my karmic balance into credit again.

And what do you know? Woke up this morning and my blotchily sunburnt ankles have faded from blood red to a pinky colour, which is nice.

Just a little prick

Going to donate blood this afternoon. Apparently the national shortage has reached critical status again and they have something like two days' worth of blood left – which means if you have an horrific accident on Saturday, sorry for you.

So off we go, copy eds minus one (disqualified for beginning a new love affair within the past four months) to have our veins harvested. Gulp.

This is the first time I'm donating – though not for lack of trying:

Attempt 1: too young, no permission slip
Attempt2: had a piercing too recently
Attempt 3: had a tattoo too recently
Attempt 4: iron too low

If I manage to get all the way there without chickening out and they turn me away again, I might just accept that the universe doesn't want me to do this.

I'm also kind of hoping they'll tell me I'm not allowed to go to gym tonight. Is that wrong?

Reasons today is a good day

Reason one
Have finally finished a huge chunk of work that's been sitting on my head for the past couple of weeks. That whole weight-off-my-shoulders thing is really nice.

Reason two
Also finished my freelance work for the month. Happy dance.

Reason three
Got a little pressie from one of our mag's editors to say thanks for all the hard work (not just me obviously, all the copy eds). And I thought I was just doing my job. Bloody fabulous.

Reason four
Am leaving shortly to celebrate Noodle's birthday with a pink champagne and chocolate cupcake party at her place. Does that not sound like the definition of happiness?

Reason five
Its t minus eight days until Rocking the Daisies...

Reason six
...which means it's also only eight days till Boyfriend's back in Cape Town.


Six very good reasons to smile :)

I'm alive!

Which I am every Tuesday, yes, but it was touch and go for a while this week.

Went on a team-building exercise yesterday (read: copy eds looking for an excuse to get out the office). We did the Postberg Flower Trail in the West Coast National Park.

Yes that's right. A hike. A five-hour, fourteen-kilometre hike to be exact. And I enjoyed it. Me, the poster girl for laziness, walked for fourteen kilometres (a bit more actually, since we got lost a couple times and did a few loops to get back on track) and enjoyed it.

I'm as shocked at myself as you are.

Of course, we stopped for tea multiple times along the way (what did you expect?), and had lunch and a nap on one of the West Coast beaches. It was all very pretty, what with the flowers and the aminals (yes I said aminals) and the views and whatnot...

Sorry can we go back to the fourteen kay part? I like that part. It sounds impressive.

Scratched my ankles to pieces, and I have some of the dodgiest sunburn ever – why do I always burn in strange patches? why? – but even with that and my achy legs I still feel really good about the whole thing. Woke up exceptionally happy for a random Tuesday morning in the middle of September. Must have released a boatload of endorphins yesterday.

Can I say it again? Fourteen kilometres. Arm pumps for Jade!

Happy Heritage Day

This blogger celebrated with a family braai complete with all the trimmings – assorted salad, baked potatoes, garlic bread and enough meat to bring a Peta representative to tears.

I haven't been to a braai in aaaaaaaages, a fact evidenced by the way I was shovelling food into my mouth this afternoon.

Is it me, or are my jeggings getting tighter?

Now I won't bore the reading public (all seven of you) with my insecurity and body issues (read: self-loathing) but I will say that I am less than satisfied with my assorted cuddly bits and this evening (after the Heritage Day munch-a-thon) something went click and now all I can think is ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod it's
a) nearly summer and
b) nearly Rocking the Daisies.

Two events (can you call summer an event?) for which I'd hoped to finally be a bambi-legged waif, like the rest of Cape Town's female population. Instead, I am still more of a Renaissance painting – you know, all curvy hips and thighs and bum and breasts (oh sigh the breasts).

Please nobody say, Real women have curves. I will kill you.

Anyway so was thinking fuckfuckfuck (does reporting my thoughts count for the no swearing thing?) what am I going to do? And I've decided that since it's exactly two weeks till RTD (I have a thing for perfectly ordered time frames) I'm going to use those fourteen days to detox a little and whip myself into some sort of shape (again, anyone who says, Round is a shape – you're dead).

I know, I know ... two weeks probably won't make a blind bit of difference to how I look. But it'll sure as hell make me feel better than I do now, which is something like a cow stuffed with starch and marinated in chocolate.

Yes that's right – 'yuck' is exactly the same word I'd use.

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.'

I think, Galileo, that in the case of Julius Malema, we're just going to go ahead and accept that he's not very well endowed.

This ignoramus and his increasingly ridiculous comments and exploits make me decidedly un-proud to be a South African. I try to ignore him as much as possible, but his latest little house party stunt – awash with Johnny black and Moet that you can be damn sure he didn't fund out of his own pocket – makes me growl.

Grr.
Grr.
Grr.

Read something quite interesting in Elle over the weekend:

'People who are excessively concerned with their hair,' says this writer in a feature about how our hair makes us happy, 'often have a deep-rooted anxiety about their attractiveness or appearance.'

Well.

There are moments in life when you read or hear something and it just makes sense. Something goes ping and you think, 'Hey, that's, like, me.'

This was one of those moments. I've been hair-obsessed (and I'm not even using the word lightly) pretty much since I was old enough to wash, rinse, repeat. My most prized possession for years has been my GHD, which I saved up for in unprecedented penny-pinching teenage diligence. The thought that I'll be minus my hair dryer this December holiday in Botswana has me quite, quite distressed. And, but of course, my hairdresser is one of my favourite people in Cape Town (She's lovely, she really is).

So this little line of text which I happened upon while waiting to board my Mango flight to Jo'burg sent a jolt of recognition right through me. It's me ... down to the ground. Other people add 'bad hair day' to their list of things going wrong on any particular day. For me, a bad hair day is a bad day. It's over. I may as well not get out of bed. No good can come of a day in which my hair is not shiny, sleek and straight. It's superficial. It's shallow. It's silly.

It's also, according to this article, self-esteem. Low self-esteem.

Hey at least I have an excuse now.

What a lovely weekend of lovely loveliness :)

Popped up to Jo'burg for the weekend to visit Boyfriend. Need I say more?

And as if being with Boyfriend wasn't giddy happiness-inducing enough, it was fantastic to be in warm weather for a change. Makes me all excited for summer in Cape Town – I'm already dreaming about this season's wardrobe. Think I'll go shopping this weekend (bad Jade).

So it's Monday, but it looks like The Weekend in Numbers is getting replaced by The Weekly Change for a bit. Speaking of which...

This week I will: be more decisive.

I'm sure everybody who knows me is doing a happy dance right now. I'm by far the most indecisive person I know, and it drives everyone around me crazy. I annoy myself sometimes even. One really shouldn't quibble for so long about the choice between a chocochino and a latte. That's fifteen minutes of my life I'm never going to get back.

It costs me money too, being so indecisive. Can't decide between two pairs of shoes? Easier to just get both and deal with the financial fallout from my comfort zone of not having picked the wrong ones (pop psych would probably say this fear of making the wrong choice is the very foundation for my indecisiveness). Worse, I recently bought two different colours of the same top.

There's also nothing more cringe-inducing than hearing myself say, like an uncertain timid schoolgirl, 'I don't know. What are you going to eat/drink/buy/see/wear.'

From now on, whether it's what to wear, what to eat, where to go or whatever, it's ruthless decision-making all the way...

I never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back.

Zsa Zsa Gabor

Favourite quote of the day.
Short post.
Busy girl.

Zzz

Tired of winter.

Tired of rain.

Tired of cold.

Tired of my winter wardrobe.

And also, just a little tired...

So in all of yesterday's numbery numberness, I forgot to mention what this week's little change is going to be (also ... I hadn't thought of one yet).

Drum roll please: this week I am going to make an effort to swear less.

OK so it's a bit half-arsed (whoops), but this week's already a killer and it's only Tuesday so I'm giving myself a relatively easy one. It is something I've been meaning to do less of though anyway. Not that I swear often, usually only when I hurt myself (which is quite often actually – I'm a little clumsy), but all the same, it's not very Grace Kelly of me.

And besides that, I think saving my expletives for those times when I really just need to have a good 'Fuck!' (that came out wrong) makes it all the more expressive than if I said it after every little stubbed toe or crashed program, or because it's easier than thinking of an adjective sometimes.

So I'll save it for when I really mean it. I'm sure even Grace Kelly said 'fuck' at least every now and again...

The weekend in numbers

Yes it's that time again. So...

Number of Friday night parties: 1. Sweat.X at Assembly with Noodle and Darling. Yes that's right, I – me, of the always bailing at the last minute because of late I love my PJs more than my vodka limes – left the house.

Number of creepy guys that hit on me: 2. So not cool. Something about being hit on by a guy no sane woman would touch with a barge pole makes me feel cheap and nasty. Not that I'm especially keen on the cuties doing it either (I have eyes for one boy only after all) but one of Friday night's charmers had serious sunburn and smiled a lot – not a good combo, it looked really painful.

Number of drinks at above night out: 3. See? How good am I?

Number of fathers returning from Scotland on Saturday: 1. Suddenly too many people in the house again. I need to move out...

Number of hours spent doing very overdue freelance work: 0. Sorry Charles. They'll get to you I promise.

Number of hours spent trying to make my iTunes folder do what I told it to: Too many. I heart Mac in a big way, I must just remember not to let it think for itself too often.

Number of Sunday Beluga sushi-special lunches: 1. Managed to get all five of our high school bestest best buds together in one room at one time for the first time in ages. Ladies, we need to do that more often, if only to keep the Beluga staff on their toes – who else would discuss their sex lives in graphic detail while the poor, innocent-looking waiter tries to put down the side plates as quickly as possible and make a run for it.

Number of laptop sleeves bought: 0. Really need to get on this, but most of them are desperately ugly and just as expensive. Does anybody know where I can find a cute, reasonably priced one? I want to take my baby with me to Jo'burg this weekend but don't want to resort to some kind of bubble wrap/jersey solution.

I'm such a nerd...

...but I am loving iGoogle. Maybe I'm the last person in the universe to cotton on to this latest ingenious installment from the Google Gods (Larry, Sergey, the world owes you) but I'm going to blog about it anyway because it is fan-bloody-tastic.

Welcome to Jade's iGoogle homepage ... whimsical Manolo Blahnik sketches scroll across the top behind the search field, multiple gadgets (with pink-topped tabs) populate the lower regions, including (but by no means limited to, and there are about a million different ones you can add) my email account, my GoogleDocs list, the weather, word of the day, reason-to-drink of the day, my blogger 'new post' window (oh yes, loving this), sticky notes (only Mac users will understand the genius of these), my to-do list (you know, the thing I live by)...

My goodness but don't I heart iGoogle.

Edit: Oh. So boyfriend has just informed me that iGoogle uses loads of bandwidth, which is why not everyone is as googley-eyed (haha couldn't resist) over it as I am. But while I won't be using it at home, I'm happy to indulge in my pretty, super-organised little page at the office. Sorry for everybody else.

Ranty ranty rant rant rant

Okay so I'm sorry, but it's time for a little rant.

It really bugs me when people who get paid to write – as in, for a living – turn in work that sounds something like, 'Blah blah blah ... brain fart brain fart ... oh look a fact ... blah blah blah ... what was I saying? ... oh yes ... blah blah blah ... whoops a typo or seven ...oh and let's throw in a sentence that makes no sense whatsoever just for fun ... blah blah fucking blah.'

And no, if they wrote properly, I wouldn't be out of a job. Copy editing entails fact-checking, knowing weird intricacies of grammar nobody else understands, checking consistency, being meticulous about layout and generally making sure everything is absolutely, 100% perfect being going to print.

Not rewriting entire articles because some people couldn't be bothered about things like – oh I don't know – general narrative structure and not using the same word six paragraphs in a row because they've suddenly decided it's their favourite combination of letters, like, ever (use a thesaurus for christ's sake).

Grr.

Some mornings I really wish I were a boy...

Just think...

No multi-step morning routine with GHD, makeup, choosing an outfit, choosing shoes, choosing a bag and all the rest

If it's cold you can shrug on a hoodie or jacket, without having to change your entire outfit to match

No wondering whether your coworkers will understand that these are leggings, not tights, and therefore function as pants and therefore this is a long top and not an inappropriately short dress

No complicated process of packing lunch for the day that includes counting out almonds and weighing slices of cheese (maybe this is just me?)

Nope ... just roll out of bed, pick a decent-enough-looking shirt to go with your decent-enough-looking jeans, run your fingers through your hair and run out the door (okay so maybe its a little more complicated than that for guys these days – but not much).

Look! My blog is white!

Yes I know ... incredibly bold change. Next I might start wearing multi-coloured underwear, or putting sugar in my tea after the milk. Can you imagine?

So anyway, I just got home from a lovely little dinner party with Darling and MichMash at Noodle's place and I'm full to bursting with good food, honey cake and tea (she and I are incapable of being in the same room without a cuppa).

Spent most of the evening – when we weren't alternately cooking and bumping into each other in the kitchen – laughing at people on So you think you can dance?

And then laughing at Mich, who knows she can't, but does anyway.

Random pointless blog entry ... to be honest I think I came online just for the little thrill I get from sitting on my bed with my pretty baby (that'd be my new MacBook for those of you who aren't following ... and really now, keep up) on my lap.

Time for beauty sleep though methinks. Especially if Photo Booth is anything to go by – when you look better with your head morphed into a square cartoon-looking shape than you do normally, you know it's time to call it a night.

The MacBook has landed...

Yes that's right. I am the proud owner of a beautiful, shiny, latest-edition MacBook. It's so lovely, I nearly kissed it goodbye this morning before work. It's all I can do to stop myself from periodically stroking it and whispering, 'My precious...'

And sure, I'll be paying back my financier (she also answers to 'Mum') for quite some time, but as a wise friend of mine said, 'It's not just an expensive toy, it's an investment in your future career.'

So I'm as pleased as the proverbial punch, and spent most of last night (nerd that I am) playing with iPhoto's scrapbook slideshow functions.

I <3 my MacBook.

So it's Monday, and in keeping with my spring resolution to make one positive change every week, this week's change involves taking a few seconds (I'm a busy girl okay?) every day to be grateful for all the incredible things in my life. I know ... it's very Oprah. But I get so ahead of myself all the time, thinking 'and then ... and then ... and then' and ticking off my innumerable to-do lists that I forget to stop and appreciate how good things are right now.

And they are good. Really, really good.

A few little-known facts about me

(that I'm sure you're probably never supposed to admit, let alone in the public forum)

I secretly indulge in chick lit, late night rom coms and vapid TV shows like Gossip Girl about beautiful people in beautiful places wearing beautiful things. Their lives are just so hard...

I have the incredibly politically incorrect wish to be Asian.

I can finish a whole pizza, and then, not ten minutes later, contemplate dessert.

I'm incredibly smug about managing to maintain a long-distance relationship for a year now.

I get irrationally and quickly irritated by having to repeat myself, even once.

Two of my goals, aside from a 19.5 BMI, visiting at least a quarter of the world's countries and finishing (okay starting) Crime and Punishment, include being published semi-regularly in a world-class glossy and having a novel or book of essays on bookshelves worldwide.

I don't eat fruit. No, not even an orange. No, not even strawberries. No, not even peaches with ice cream. (What part of 'no fruit' do you not understand?) Please don't try to make me have 'just one bite, I promise you'll like it'. I don't. I also abhor tomato sauce.

For an English major, I'm shockingly under-read. Proust who?

I'm quite materialistic. I get the same buoyant sense of joy from buying a new mascara that more worthy people get from, say, feeding the homeless. I'm not proud, I'm just saying.



Short, unflattering character sketch. I think I do this self-deprecating writer thing really well.

Okay so I'm lame...

but I'm really excited for this weekend.

Do I have big party plans? No.
Going away for a repeat of the magical, romantic weekend? Sadly, no.
Anything remotely special or exciting planned? Nope.

What I am doing is having my first ever (fine, maybe not ever, but not for a long, long time) two-day weekend, all to myself. That's right ... no part-time work, no urgent freelancing to do, nada.

I know this is a common, every-week affair for most people, but oh my god I get to sleep in. For two days straight. And I have all the time between waking up and going to bed to do with exactly as I please. I don't even have any banking to do or errands to run or don't-really-feel-like-it-but-must-go-out-and-see-so-and-so plans. Nuh-thing.

It's great to get excited about the little things isn't it?

Perspective

Last night I found myself in the middle (quite literally) of a rather interesting situation.

Was getting my fix of cardio and Sky News on the step machine at gym, the funny skiing one that supposedly gives you fantastic glutes ... although I secretly worry that what it's actually giving me is man calves. Can this happen? Does anyone know? It would be tragic really, to think I was slugging away at a perfect bum, and all the while I was putting myself in the running for Achilles Lookalike of the Year.

Sorry, let me continue...

So there I was, when two very different women got on to the machines on either side of me.

To my left, ladies and gentlemen ... short dark hair, a cute gym-bunny outfit and a body that looked like she'd been starving herself and/or throwing up her food since somebody called her fat in primary school. This woman was going for it, although what source of energy her body was burning is anyone's guess – it certainly wasn't food or body fat. On closer, side-eyeballing inspection, she looked old, but before her time, and tired, with sallow skin and sinewy Madonna arms. And yet there she was, still caught in a probably endless cycle of trying to get what she thinks is the perfect body.

And to my right ... well she wasn't skinny (let's say a few kilos above average, though certainly not a fatty). But she had shiny, bouncy hair, glowing (if somewhat flushed) skin and she looked like she didn't quite know how to operate the machine's fiddly minute-timing, calorie-counting, optimum-heart-rate-for-burning-off-vida-lattes touch screen – which leads me to believe she probably spends her time doing much more worthwhile things, like having a life.

And there I was, in the middle. As usual by the way. That's me – Jade, the ultimate average. But for once I was quite happy where I was. Perspective is a wonderful thing, especially when you find yourself smack-bang in the centre of it. I'm proud of myself for at least trying to maintain a healthy body by getting fit and losing weight, but I'm also sure as hell glad I'm not on the slippery slope to letting my appearance – or what I perceive it to be – become the sole concern that the rest of my life revolves around.

Having said that, I forgot to tell you yesterday what my change for this week is going to be:
Gym a minimum of three times a week, and like I said that's a non-negotiable until the end of the year. Thought it was a nice, healthy, non-obsessive, easy-to-do way to start things. Got it off to a good start last night...

Spring has sprung...

... a leak. Trust Cape Town weather for a miserable, misty first day of spring huh?

Nonetheless, I'm determined to be all very fresh start-ish today, despite the rain-threatening clouds. We've got exactly a quarter of the year left, and four months until I turn 23.

Some changes need to be made.

Luckily, I woke up this morning with A Plan – for the rest of this year, starting today, I am going to make one small change for the better every week. Yes that's right ... every week. And anything I change will stay changed, so if I decide I'm going to drink two litres of water a day or be nicer to my brother or not eat crisps, I'll have to stick to that for the rest of the year.

Now that's a plan. By 2010 I am going to be godly...