Scrubbing too hard

It’s Tuesday Fit-Day.  An occasional  meditation on physical and mental fitness goals, successes and failures. 

At about 30, I realized that my body and I were one and the same.  This might be an odd statement, but let me try and explain.  I have always had a few issues with my body, but it wasn’t until I turned 30 that I realized that these issues are not divorced from me.  I have a hand in doing something about these issues. 

I had relatively bad acne until about that time as well.  I hated my acne.  I hated my face for having acne.  I would scrub my face raw, pick at these red, throbbing bumps until they bled and then scabbed and then would pick again, they would bleed again, etc.  I used the most caustic treatments I could find (and stained some towels and pillowcases in the process).  While I was in the circus, my face seemed to explode.  I was cold, sore and now my face was exploding.  Oh, and I was noticing my first ‘wrinkles.’  Party Time!

But it was also around this time that I began to realize that my face, and my body, were not entities unto themselves.  They did not operate according to some separate agenda than ‘me.’  I know I sound crazy, just hang in there. 

At some point in those circus days, I realized that I had a different water source everyday and it was affecting my skin.  This realization came on a day that I didn’t have water and had to break into my drinking water supply for bathing.  So I bought some spring water to wash my face and it made a difference.  A big difference.  Then I decided maybe I should just use an astringent to get rid of the traces of unknown water.  This worked as well.  Then I decided to try moisturizer.  That’s right, I didn’t use moisturizer (or sunscreen) until I was 30. 

It was like a miracle!  Instead of attacking my skin, I was caring for it and suddenly it was better.  Lightbulb!!

But it took awhile for the same thought process to work its way to my body at large.  Let me be clear, I have never been what some would call obese (although a scale in a Paris gym did) and I have never been deathly skinny.  But I have never been happy with my body, and for some reason, I never took responsibility for that disappointment. 

I lost weight for my wedding, but mostly through stress and for the wrong reasons and you shouldn’t be surprised that 6 months later, it all came back and then some.  I was at a pretty dark place at that point.  Not because of my weight, there were other life issues going on at that point, but the body discomfort didn’t help.  I needed to get control of something.

Just after my 32 birthday, I joined Weight Watchers.  It was a really hard decision but it has been a really interesting journey.  Yes, I have lost weight and can go shopping without crying (as long as it isn’t for jeans) but more importantly, I have finally realized that my body and I are connected. 

Just as it went with my face, when I care for my body, it feels better. 

Recently, I have forgotten this connection.  I got overly obsessed with the number on the scale and forgot to be mindful of my body.  I stopped paying attention to what I was putting in my body.  I went back to assuming my body would take care of itself.  I turned my attention to other things.  

A lot of women have been talking about body image lately.  I always feel a bit weird about these conversations because, as many of them have said, women take this conversation personally and approach everyone’s body journey through their own perspective.  It is a hard relationship to be honest about with yourself and faceless readers.

These past two weeks, my body is reminding me that we are attached at the hip and what I do, it does too.  I am pasty, bloated, sluggish, blocked up (TMI) and am now farther from my goal than I have been in awhile.

I got complacent and forgot to be mindful. 

And the thing is, it isn’t that hard to be mindful of that body/mind relationship.  That was the most surprising part of the WW journey.  It was such a simple concept, why was it so hard to finally embrace?  As hard as it is to accept sometimes, my body can very much tell the stories of my mind and priorities.  Taking care of myself wasn’t a priority and it was written all over my face.  Maybe it was because it sounds a bit indulgent to be so concerned with my physical being.  The same with my mental being.  Self-care can sound like an exercise in pure selfish indulgence.  Maybe it is, but I have come to believe it is a healthy indulgence.  It doesn’t take much time (as indulgence can sometimes imply) but it does take effort, although not as much as I expected. 

Through the last (almost) three years, I have come to the realization that I am fully responsible for the condition of my physical self.  I do not want to become obsessed with my physical appearance, there are too many other interesting things out there in the world, but I have realised that being mindful of that relationship is beneficial to both my body and mind. 

Time Marches On

Oh dear readers, where does the time go?

The weekend goes by so fast and then, before you know it, you’re walking along to the dry cleaner and post office and there, on the sidewalk, a redish-yellowish-orangish maple leaf.  It’s Autumn and the start of another year. 

For me the year starts in Autumn.  I have been in school too long.  I don’t know if this will change anytime soon.  Come to think of it, it is a weird time to think of a new year beginning when everything is slowly winding down for the long winter.  But it is around this time that I get a hankering for a new box of crayons.  You know the one.  That yellow and green box with 64 colours, most of which you have never imagined, and a sharpener in the back? 

When I was a kid I didn’t always get a new box of crayons for the school year.  I don’t think it was because we didn’t have the money, I think it was because a new box of crayons, when the old box was still perfectly usable, would be wasteful.  I get the lesson now.  Then, it was just another item on the ‘hey-look-at-me-I’m-not-like-you’ list.  Right up there with brown bread and tofu-spread sandwiches, carob ‘chocolate,’ and brown rice balls in the lunch box with a generic picture.  No My Pretty Pony or Jem lunch boxes for me.  Although, I believe I had a parent-approved Muppet Show lunch box for awhile, but it was metal and had sharp edges and somehow it turned into the storage container for clown make-up. 

As I say, I get the lesson now.  I will probably insist my children use their crayons until they can no longer be fished out of the crevices of that yellow and green box or get lost in the sharpener.  I will also insist on a ‘timeless’ lunch receptacle (minus the tofu spread, carob, and rice balls). 

You live, you learn.  However, while I never have a hankering for tofu spread, carob and rice balls, I do still yearn for a fresh box of crayons. 

This weekend, I discovered there is also a time when you will unwittingly learn (and follow in) your mother’s fashion choices.  Choices you once mocked.  My time has come.  Take a look at these two photos.  (Ignore the facial expressions…I was more concerned with the fact I was standing on our sidebar trying to get a photo in the mirror above the mantle than smiling.)

What do you see? 

Let me tell you what you see.  An off-the-shoulder styling.  When I was a child, maybe still-I don’t know, my mother routinely cut the collars out of her shirts.  She said she did this because they were too tight around her neck.  This may be, but it also created an off-the-shoulder style that became her signature for awhile.  At least to me.  (If I had access to the Rubbermaid-box-o-photos in the parents’ basement, I would provide proof.  For now, you just have to trust me on this one.)

I remember a lot of comments/jokes about being a member of the Flashdance cast.  If I recall correctly, there may also have been a half mocking tutorial about how to properly cut a collar in the playground of the day-care center where she worked.  Maybe. 

I may be making this up.

Regardless, it appears I have come to that age where it feels like a good fashion moment to wear the ‘good’ bra because the strap will be on show.  Hmm….  This could go horribly wrong and the next thing you know I will be wearing patchouli, going without the bra altogether and attacking my t-shirt drawer with scissors. 

I’m not sure where I am going with this, but I will tell you that I love this new-to-me shirt (a swap piece) and was seriously considering getting some more.  After this realization, I may leave it at just the one. 

I'm not ready to become my mother, just yet.  

Mindful Mrs.

It’s Friday!  Welcome to ‘The Chronicles of a Reluctant Housewife’ where I document my love/hate relationship with my current occupation.

Have we all heard about ‘Mindfulness?’ 

It’s about being in each moment.  It’s suppose to keep you from dwelling in the past or agonizing about the future. 

It’s hard work.  Every thought and action needs to be recognized and acknowledged and then released.  Then you move on to the next moment and do it again.  And then do it again. 

It’s exhausting. 

But it’s not just recognize, acknowledge, release. 

Recognize, acknowledge, release.  Recognize, acknowledge, release.  Recognize, acknowledge, release.

You also have to decide whether these thoughts and actions are helpful to you.  Are you stuck in a routine that is unhelpful and perhaps even harmful to your wellbeing?  This is the hardest part.  This is where you have to suck it up and recognize, acknowledge and release routines that you may very well have spent months putting into place.

I mean, I have invested a lot of time in my morning coffee-TV-internet routine.  But it may very well be unhelpful.  Actually, that routine may not be unhelpful, but the one that follows could be the problem. 

After my coffee-TV-internet routine, I hit the shower and an hour later I am dressed and tressed.  This is where things start to go a bit pear-shaped. 

I gather the work together on the kitchen table and then I notice that the dishes need to be done, and then that the floor needs to be swept, and then I remember that Nigella is on, and then I notice that the living room is a bit cluttered and needs a spruce (a clean, not a large conifer).  It goes like this for a few hours, and then, before I know it, it’s 4 o’clock and getting close to traditional quitting time.  But of course, as I am a housebound housewife/freelance geographer I don’t actually have an official quitting time.  However, despite my somewhat untraditional upbringing, I do have a soft spot for tradition.  So, at 4 o’clock I begin putting away the piles of work I got out earlier and prepare for my evening routines, a run (if weather allows) and dinner fixings.   Then Pete is on his way home and its couple time. 

So If I am following the recognize, acknowledge, release prescription…

I recognize somewhere between the showering and the run, there may be a problem.  I acknowledge I am doing my housewife work and I am not doing my freelance geographer work.  I have yet to release the pattern. 

Or maybe it’s the guilt I have to release.  I read somewhere that guilt stifles creativity. 

I have been feeling guilty about enjoying Housewife Ariel more than Dr. Ariel.  This guilt keeps me from doing any work for Dr. Ariel.  Granted, some of the work I don’t want to do and am only doing because I feel guilty. 

I don’t like being a quitter.  I have quit quite a few things in my life, but there are other things that I should have quit but held on until the bitter end.  And that doesn’t go well. 

So instead of quitting, I am releasing.  That sounds better right?  I am releasing the patterns and activities that are unhelpful. 

Recognize, Acknowledge, Release. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I recognize a particular growling in the belly, I acknowledge that I am hungry and haven’t hit the breakfast part of my morning routine yet, and there is some leftover cake in the kitchen that is begging to be released from its Tupperware. 

Happy S'mores

Two weekends ago I had a hankering for s’mores.  No real reason.  I just decided I had to have some melted marshmallow.  Actually, I think it started when we popped into an Antipodean food shop a few weekends ago and in the Canadian section they had bags of proper marshmallows.  I bought two. 

I was hard pressed to find the other ingredients.  Maybe if I had planned ahead they wouldn’t have been, but I decided Saturday morning I wanted s’mores Saturday night, so I was limited to the local shops.  Instead of Graham Crackers I got Digestives, and instead of Hershey’s I went for a bunch of small Lindt Dark Chocolate bars, and instead of sticks from the woods for roasting I dug out some bamboo skewers. 

We fired up the chiminea (which makes it sound like a faster process than it is in actuality) and got to roasting. 



I won’t lie, it was a tad dangerous.  The skewers were short and we had to basically stick our hands in the flames to get the right roasting angle.  I was going for the nice uniform camel brown that my mom was always so good at obtaining. 

Well that didn’t happen.  After waiting like an impatient child, skewered marshmallow in hand, for the chiminea to be ready, I was waiting no longer.  Into the flame it went.  There is nothing like a flaming marshmallow to bring back memories of childhood camping mishaps.  How many burnt fingers and tongues?  How many lost mallows in the fire? How many flying flaming mallows?

Ah memories. 

Then, yesterday I heard it was National S’mores Day.   See?  I am psychic!  So we just had to have s’mores again.  However, this time I wasn’t willing to wait for the chiminea. 

This time the chocolate had bits of orange.  (I had eaten all the bars I bought for last time.)

YUM!!! 

Again, we went for the flaming option.  What is s’mores without a bit of charring?

New Job: Fortune Teller

Did I call it? Or did I call it. 

In the last two weeks, the circus has popped up in random places.  It is now trendy.  What did I say?

The top left is from Sainsbury's Magazine.  This is the magazine from my grocery store.  The movie Water for Elephants, is listed as style inspiration for champagne saucers. 

The top right is a TV listing.  Last night, BBC4 ran two circus documentaries.  They were focused on British circus history and surprisingly actually interviewed retired circus performers, owners, etc., despite the write-up describing it as 'wistful academics wax lyrical on the thrills, spills and enduring allure of the big top.'  I have to admit, I was a little annoyed.  I am a wistful circus academic!!!  Oh well.  I missed that boat. 

And finally, we have Marie Clare with thier trend report.  Circus, circus everywhere.  Apparently the makers of the Twilight movie series have bought the movie rights to a new circus themed debut-novel that hasn't yet hit the shelves.  Great! 


As I write this, Kelly Miller Circus is beginning to stir and preparing to move on to another town.  Trendy or not, they have a show to put on and a life to lead.  In fact, they are the opposite of trendy.  They are timeless classics, enduring economic downturns and rising interest rates and whatever else the world can throw at them.  They are Chanel. 

There I said it, Circus Chanel.  You heard it here first.


*Editor's note: this afternoon I was flipping through VOGUE and there was the circus, and then, 10-ish pages later, there was Chanel.  So, there you go.

Running in the Rain

What I did this weekend…

Thursday I went to a clothes swap for charity.  This is the second one in three weeks.  I find these a great way to get rid of stuff that I normally don’t want to drop off at the charity shop.  I have been hauling big blue IKEA bags full of clothes and stuff to charity shops every six months for years.  This is a problem.  Not the donation part, the replacing part.  Why do I constantly have enough stuff to carry to the charity shop every six months.  Somebody stop me!!!!

There was a time when I could fit my material life into a small car.  Those were the days.  Granted, those days I was living with my parents and so didn’t actually own a lot of things on my own, but still, it’s something to shoot for, especially when there is a very good likelihood of some international housemoves in your future. 

However, what I want to talk about here, is what I have been taking to the swaps.  A lot of these items travelled across the pond with me five years ago.  I haven’t worn them for probably about three years.  So why have they been in my possession for so long?  They have memories.  You know that shirt you bought when you were first on your own? It doesn’t fit anymore, it is faded, it probably isn’t your style anymore, but you hold on to it.  You can’t bear to put it in the donation bag that sits in your hall/bedroom/laundry room.  Or more likely, you have put it in that bag numerous times but taken it out at the last minute.  What is it about these items?  Why is it so hard to let go of these items?  Why is it so hard to accept that you have grown?  Why not celebrate the fact that you have grown?

I find it is easier to give these items away at swaps.  There is something about telling the story of this item to ladies that understand and have similar stories.  You know it is going to a good home.  You know that these ladies understand the history of the garment.  And what they do after that doesn’t matter so much.  They have their own items with their own stories.  In telling the story, you tell your own story and you own up to, and own, your growing process.  I mean, who wants to be the same person they were 7-10 years ago?  We keep growing and that’s usually a good thing, but it can be hard to admit as well.  Good Luck and godspeed.

Friday I got into a huff about academia and finally owned my decision to get out and tell my geography stories the way I want to tell them.  Now I just need to power through the last three projects in the next few weeks so that I can leave it behind.  I long for the day I can read a book and not feel guilty that it isn’t a journal article.  I’m not saying I won’t keep reading articles, but I don’t want to feel obligated to read them anymore.  So now I just have to power through.  Easier said than done.  One day at a time. One reference at a time.  

Then I went for a run.  It has been a long time.  It was painful.  But the body was craving the activity.  It is a strange thing when you realize that exercise is actually good for you and not just a way to fit into your jeans again.  It seems like that should be obvious, but it wasn’t to me for awhile.  I admit I was running to get into my jeans.  Now I am running because it actually makes me feel better. 

I know.  Who am I? Believe me, I ask myself this every time I go for a run.  But it goes along with the clothes swap.  We grow.  Embrace the growth, yes?

Saturday we went for a wander.  We tend to take the city we live in for granted.  We live in London.  London.  How awesome is that?!  So we have decided to go for a wander one day on the weekend.  This also makes us feel like we have a proper weekend instead of lounging around and watching David Attenborough documentaries (Pete) or reruns or noses in the iPhones.  This weekend we walked the South Bank. 

This is not necessarily new territory for us, but we wanted to take our time with it today and enjoy the rare sunlight.  Except when we actually made it out of the house the incessant light rain that is the hallmark of the Great British Summer started and didn’t let up for the next five hours.  We would not be deterred.  You really can’t be, or you would never leave the house.  It was well worth it.  We discovered some great shops and a great pie shop and saw some great sand art.  That evening we had dinner and good conversation with some new friends.  A good day to be sure.

Sunday didn’t go as well.  We enjoyed our morning coffee and had breakfast on our deck in the sun.  Lovely.  We made a trip to TK Maxx for a pair of running shorts and came out with a new suit, shirt, cookbook, tablecloth, computer bag and running pants.  Oops!  We may have found the culprit (see above).  We were feeling good, despite the excess baggage.  The sun was shining.  It was going to be a beautiful day.  We decided to go for a run and then take some books, bread and cheese to the park and enjoy the day. 

A minute into our run it started to sprinkle.  No biggie, although I did have a mini panic attack about the laundry hanging out.  We pressed on.  It was just a little drizzle. 

By the time I got to the end of the block it was that big ‘ole fat rain, falling at a diagonal.  Great.  However, as my grandfather always said.  The bigger the drops the shorter the shower.  Another half K and that seemed to be the case.  The showers had stopped and the sun was out.  A little humid, but doable.  1.5 K later and the rain started again.  Annoying, but so it goes.  At this point I was concentrating on running and had forgot about the laundry.  One song later and I was running in a full on hail storm.  Big slushy rain coming down in diagonal sheets.  Pete had just passed me going the other way and when I turned to see if he had taken cover all I could see was a white sheet of moisture.  S***! 

I kept running. 

I kept running?  I can’t believe it myself.  I kept going.  I guess I figured I was already soaked, why not finish the run?  Or maybe it was something else.  I don’t know, but I kept going.  The rain let up fairly quickly and I was still going.  Incidentally, it probably wasn’t the best day to wear the white tank to run.  The last block and the sky was pure blue and the sun streaming down.  Of course.

And now it’s Monday.  It’s time to power through.  If I can run through a hailstorm I can finish these projects.  I never thought it possible, that I, Ariel-passed-gym-purely-by-attendance, would be a runner.  But there I was-here I am-pushing myself to run.  When I run, I am fully in the moment.  I am aware of every step and it can, and does, suck.  Like really suck.  Like I can’t breathe and I might die, suck.  But then it’s over and I feel better.  There is something better waiting for me on the other side of these projects.  I can feel the clear skies and sunlight coming.  I just have to run through the hail for awhile.  One day, one reference, one interview, one summary, one chapter, at a time.

Look at me.  I’m growing. 

Surprises and Party Advice

Welcome to ‘The Chronicles of a Reluctant Housewife’ where I document my love/hate relationship with my current occupation.

It has been an interesting few weeks.  I apologize for my absence.  I haven’t been much of a housewife lately.  These 20 days of employment have turned into the most annoying research project that won’t end. 

The paid research has been illuminating, but perhaps not in the way the organizers had hoped.  By running all over the City and East End chasing down interviewees, I managed to chase down myself as well. 

That’s heavy, I know.  But what I mean is this: While I was running around being a professional, I really wanted to be home taking care of laundry and prepping dinner.  OK, maybe not totally.  I did really like getting dressed and navigating the city and hearing people’s stories.  I really liked that.  What I didn’t like is the guilt I felt that I didn’t have the energy to keep the house clean, organize dinner (we have been eating take-out like crazy) or go for a run (fit fail), and I haven’t baked anything in weeks!!!  This is self-inflicted guilt, but it is also a bit of sadness.  I really enjoyed those things.  (I also don’t like the slap-dash organization of the project, but that is another issue and this is not the place for it).

I know, I sound like every working woman in the world (it's a stretch, go with it).  It’s a perpetual problem, yes?

So while the work has made me a less reluctant housewife, it has also made me decide, without a doubt, that I will not be happy as an Academic.  This does not mean that I don’t want to teach and/or tell geography stories.  It means I think there is a better forum out there than the hallowed, sometimes, out-of-touch, halls of the ivory-tower Academy. 

But here’s the thing….

There’s always a thing.

I have three rather major academic projects to finish before I can move on and wave good-bye to Academia for the time being.  These projects are drawing out and the energy it takes to complete them is massive.  (I still harbour a strong desire to teach undergrad Geography on a part-time basis, or at a community college.  But that’s not going to happen right now, so I am putting it aside for awhile.  When I return to the Academy, I would like it to be as a well-worn, full-lifed, slightly eccentric, ‘older’ woman.  You know, one of those spunky ladies with a fab back story and a way of rolling with life.)  I’m attempting to power through!!

We are hoping to go on a fairly major holiday in September (when the Border Agency finally returns the passports they are holding for ransom).  I am trying to view it like I did the wedding/thesis deadline.  This holiday will be a clean break, hopefully.  If I can finish all this stuff before we head off, when we come back I can focus on my own stuff and leave the academic guilt behind.  I think the fact that I haven’t embraced the ‘Dr.’ title, even though I am now employed, albeit temporarily, as a ‘Doctor,’ may have been the first clue to my discomfort.  My newly minted colleagues have no qualms throwing the title around.  I just feel a fraud.  I feel more comfortable using the Mrs, than the Dr.  And that’s saying something!

Here’s an interesting tid-bit.  Remember when I was having fits trying to decide what to tell people I ‘do’ upon introduction?  I now thrown out ‘housewife’ without thinking.  However, after yesterday, I may have to rethink this action.  After my introduction, I was presented with the question, “Oh! How old are your children?”

Did you catch that?

Somehow, housewife immediately translated to Mom.  WHAT!!!  This followed a separate conversation about how it is not acceptable to just be a housewife.  Kids must be involved for it to be acceptable.  WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!  Let us enjoy each other for a bit! (Not that I am saying kids will keep us from enjoying each other.)

I countered with, “No kids.  Just Wife.”  Which was met with, “Oh………”

This obsession with titles is exhausting, yes?  I mean, how often does one’s job title reflect them?  I think I have said this before, but when meeting someone for the first time, or when thrown together at a dinner/cocktail/birthday/holiday/clothes swapping party, find other questions to ask than, “So? What do you do?”  And if you insist on continuing to ask this question, don’t be surprised when someone eventually answers, “I sacrifice my soul for 10-12 hours a day at a job I can barely tolerate or understand to fund my average, yet enjoyable lifestyle.” 

Because that really is the most honest, and possibly common, answer and a real conversation ender and party killer.  Find another question.

So, to more important things….

Where to go on holiday?  Where we will enjoy each other’s company as a young married couple.  No kid guilt required. Thankyouverymuch.

We are thinking two weeks.  We have floated the following ideas:

Mini-expedition to Morocco, Med cruise, mini-expedition to Columbia, resort in Mauritius, train through Italy, road trip through Britain.

Thoughts, suggestions, advice?  I think we are leaning toward the mini-expedition in Morocco and taking on a few days in a nice hotel at the end for a little extra relaxation.