Flying overseas tomorrow! Taking a little break.. Please message me ANY questions, advice, feedback OR suggestions you may have. (Part 3 of Skinny Love will take some time for me to write, so please be patient.) AC X
Part II – La Deuxième Partie
‘That’s why I say that the darkest place in the world is under the brightest lamp.’
I just had the worst day of my life, when I received this email from Los Angeles, with some good news. Bikram had chosen me to award the full teacher training scholarship to become a Bikram Yoga Certified Teacher. It had been a steady climb to get back into the game of life, but this email meant even more that that: I was back on top.
When I talked to my mentor at the time, ever so cautious, he said: “Ash, you will need to put on more weight.” He was understanding that it was a sensitive subject, but alluding to the intensity of the training it was a valid piece of advice. He let me know that no matter what he would always be by my side, as a mentor and a friend.
By the time I had hit my late teenage years, I had hit a brick wall. Bored senseless at uni, studying a profession I had hardly knew or cared about, in a relationship that was crumbling beneath my feet. It was getting more difficult to see the bright side of life and the future prospects seemed futile.
“I know”. I replied nervously. And I did. But the fact of the matter was there was a huge distinction between my perception of weight with others. Worries about my body had been burdening me for the past year. The pressure was mighty and constant. The very thought of not being able to control at least one aspect of my life was daunting.
I used the next few weeks as momentum to get into the best shape possible for training; both physically and mentally. I sought the advice of fellow teachers, who each lamented their experience was grueling, and so correct hydration and nutrition was essential. I took in their advice, yet part of me was convinced they were lying. Or that they exaggerated the truth.
After a month of preparation, I was ready. Or perhaps overly prepared. I had studied all the necessary requirements, exceedingly so. Physically, well not much had changed by way of weight. Nethertheless, I pressed on. Nothing could slow me down or get in my way.
The training was another world altogether. Picture this, Palm Springs, paradise in the desert, some 90 minutes away from sunny Los Angles. Our training base, a breathtaking luxury resort and spa, with two championship golf courses and expansive swimming pool complexes. This is where we spent the next nine weeks.
The background was idyllic, magnifique, spanning lavish gardens, enormous pools. The rooms were more like suites, with room service answering our beck and call. The atmosphere was lavish and decadent. Yet the training was anything so.
Exciting, amusing, intensive. Hard fucking work. The course includes six days of yoga, twice per day, with endless hours of studying asanas, anatomy, physiology, and philosophy of yoga.
In essence, some twenty hour long days, with insane temperatures of 40 plus degrees. It wasn’t enough that the room where we practised our yoga was cranked up to temperatures off the radar. But even the walk to our lectures was strenuous under the blazing sun.
The meals were cumbersome. The time we had for each meal was limited. We had no means of cooking. Nor could we eat outside our ‘allocated’ meal time. Thrifty-ness was a must. We had no cooking amenities, and the cost of eating out was expensive. My diet consisted of salads and fruits. I was by no means stringent with my food, nor was I calorie counting. But the intensity of the days events had me running on empty.
As the weight, again, started to shift, the attention on me began to expand. In a hope to remain unnoticed, I had cut my hair and dyed it brown before leaving Australia. This action failed abysmally. Outwardly I embraced the criticism that was delivered by Bikram my guru, inwardly I was more and more uncomfortable with the constant public taunts.
It was about week five of the training, and I collapsed. I was beyond exhausted. The energy reserves I had once been able to draw from were no longer there. My immune system was so low that any invading pathogen could have knocked me for a six. In a pit of despair with my body flailing, I nearly gave up and left the training.
It wasn’t until one lecture that I heard something resonating within. “The most important thing in your life is your life… You need to treat it like a brand new Ferrari – physically, mentally, spiritually.. In helping yourself, you can help others” In a state of delirium, it was almost as if it was intentionally directed towards me, despite the fact there were more than 300 people around me. I felt something stir from within. I knew that I needed to face that last dreaded part of me that was still hiding. That part of control I desperately was still clinging on to. I needed to let go, and silence those demons I had listened too for far too long.
“Eat! Eat! Eat! Every day and every night – I don’t fucking care. Because you, Blondie, are going to be a star”- Bikram to me
And that is precisely when the game changed..
à suivre .. One more part to go..
Skinny Love – Premiere partie
As a teenager, I was imaged obsessed. Entranced and mesmerized by the top models – Kate Moss, Natasha Poly, and Gisele. Size zero was the ultimate goal.
I am a product of a generation quite different and contrasting to that of my mother’s. Hers was the curvy, Hollywood bombshell ladies that I watched on-screen growing up. Mine was the lollipop look imbued controversially by Rachel Zoe, Nicole Ritchie, and Lindsay Lohan. To be de toute beauté:
this was the thing.
Accordingly, a number of girls I knew stifled their bodies, unconsciously eroding and often destroying, the most important of all relationships: with themselves. They were enamored with only one model of fulfillment: the ‘parfait‘ body. I watched as those around me began to compete with themselves, with improbable earnestness, going further and further
to feel some sort of validation in our skinny-obsessed culture.
As women, we are rejecting our innate sensitivity and femininity in place for having utter control over every aspect of our lives. That is, essentially control of our bodies and emotions. Instead of triumphalism and acceptance of our womanly traits- intuitive, gregarious and volubule- we are cultivating dispassionate approval and prioritizing of the material things.
Not one to be left behind, I joined in the race, and my focus and unrelenting determination led me down a path of self-destruction. Which, some feared, I would never recover from.
Seeking control, I too, began a disordered relationship with my food. It took only but a few comments from the boyfriend at the time, to catapult me to a whole new level of scary. Early on in our relationship, I remember him commenting on my body – noticing how my backside had become markedly bigger, and cheekbones were no longer as pronounced. Instead cushioned by fat deposit –according to him anyway. I blushed, never really surveying the exact size or proportions of my anatomy.
That night I hardly slept. The panic that ensued helped conjure a controlled based demon that began to take precedence over my every thought and resultant action.
A lot changed from that moment on. I remember whenever we went out for dinner, instead of opting for my favorite chicken Caesar salad dressed in heavy mayonnaise, oil encased croutons and bacon – I chose a garden salad, with a light vinaigrette dressing on the side, always seeking his approval. I started to feel uncomfortable even eating in front of him; Instead, I sat there detached and desolate. The problem with this was that I spent a lot of time with him, and so resultantly, my body started to shift from its supple, curviness which had used to be one of my main features. My focus and determination for perfection, was personified . As the weight started to shift, his praise for my incredible stomach, and tiny thighs, encouraged me to be even more constrained. I felt compelled in his company to think, act, and feel in a certain way. If not, I feared I would lose him.
And I wanted to keep losing. Size 6 wasn’t small enough. Fait accompli. One day, at a promotional modeling gig, the size 6 dress had become a pool in which I was swimming. Enthralled, I looked around the room for someone to high five. Waif-like I had become.
It was the first time I really felt confident and satisfied, and was gleaming with accomplishment. Never had I ever been a ‘fat kid’, growing up, but I did have breasts and a butt that captured the attention of many.
I never really identified with anorexics or bulimics, at the time. In retrospect, I could call myself a ‘passive anorexic’ – What does this mean? I simply and intentionally forgot to eat. This is the easiest way I can explain it. Everything in my life began to be masculinised, in a way that was devoid of emotion. I loved the feeling of transparency, especially of lightness. Dissociation with my self felt oddly intoxicating.
At this time, I was working in the most exclusive bars and clubs, and was constantly surrounded by beautiful people. The who’s who of the city. I remember being glorified by having ‘The body’ – and was constantly asked what my secret was.
This baffled me. Quite significantly actually. My secret? To what exactly- control or happiness? But I am not happy, I thought. It’s a strange thing, because I never once looked down on woman who maybe the opposite of how people defined me as ‘The Body’. Women who had body fat, no protruding collarbones, full bellies, dimpled legs – I never judged. The judgement was only for, of and by myself. And so the equation to get that was simple.
Starving, exercising, partying, hardly sleeping. An incredible array of thoughts and actions that I felt I had to maintain in order to be worth something. I lost any ability to see myself for what it really was. Validation came from others’ opinions. When I looked in the mirror, I saw nothing.
Praise and affirmation from whom the person I thought was the love of my life, was the only thing that kept me elevated. Uni at the time was
boring the shit out of me. My friends were obsessed too with their image, spending hours on end getting ready for a night out of escapism and seeking lustrous adventures. Their prerogative was of themselves only.
I scorned suggestions that I was getting ‘too thin.’ The disconnection with my physical self impeded me able to empathize with what my friends were trying to tell me. Much time would pass until I finally had an awakening..
To be continued.. à suivre ..
What happens if your It-bag makes you a true fashion victim?
I’m sky high in the Sofitel, sitting with an exaggerated regality, overlooking the people in the streets some 35 levels below me. At the same time, sipping tea from a fine china cup, feeling intoxicatingly pretentious, drinking in the sights of the city. My attention is averted by the sound of clomping across the firmament; a woman, in her improbably high statement McQueen’s and arming an elusive Hermes Birkin bag. My eyes followed her, completely entranced, as she started up the stairs to the elevator. Then just before she reached the top, she tripped and almost fell down the stairs. I shuddered. She nearly dropped her Birkin!
Bags and heels- the most wanted accessories a woman lusts over. While a complete outfit overhaul may seem overwhelming, a new accessory is well within grasp, to transform your look-from meek to chic. Just any bag won’t suffice, one needs to get her hands on the crème de la crème. Cue in, the Birkin. This bag is unlike any other. It suggests your place in society. It screams success, riches or celebrity-esque status.
No doubt women everywhere are salivating over fine pieces of art that the handbag embodies. Women would beg, steal or borrow to lay their hands on such fashion coups. Despite recent economic times, luxury is unabashedly back.
Fuelled by an obsession with a beautiful handbag, nowadays, size does matter. Women are racing in-store or are languishing on exclusive waiting lists of up to two years, to make the oversized it-bag of such total gorgeousness theirs. Super-sized is in – from classic satchels to creative clutches. A dazzling sensory overload of eye-popping colours, and high drama, or a sleek, minimal and streamlined look. Taking you from day to night is essential, practicality a must- women are packing it full to the brim; everything from shopping, to makeup, to gym gear, and even children’s toys. The problem is, after about 6 weeks of lugging it around, this must-have accessory can start to take its toll.
Muscle spasm, tendonitis, pins and needles – fashion injuries that as a chiropractor, I am seeing increasingly. Think about how many women out there are lugging around, what could be the equivalent weight of a small child, dangling off their delicate elbow joint from work meetings to coffee dates, every single day. Over time, it is not surprising the tendons would stretch, producing potential nerve damage and inflammation.
Pain is beauty, right girls? It cannot be ignored, there is a certain allure to big bags – an element of boastfulness that is more about authenticity than status. Take the brand new Hermes Kraft Birkin, for spring and summer 2013, which will set you back about 20 grand, and a 6 month wait. What’s all the fuss about? Well, the designer handbags are rich and well-rounded with the gravity of grandeur, yet maintain a level of femininity and simplicity. And the quality stands for dependable yet audacious luxury. Every time you wear it, you enter and experience it in a different way.
Whether you are willing to fork out the equivalent of a month’s rent, or content to settle with a knock-off version is beside the point. High end does not suggest low load. That is not the only fashion trap that exists.
Notorious health hazards also come in wedge and stiletto form. Women are walking around, daily, on spikes, some as high as 12 cm. Falls are inevitable. Imagine the double threat of handbag and heels, one will eventually get you.
Imagine telling a woman not to carry a handbag or wear heels… If you told me that, I would be tempted to high-five you with a leathered tote across your face!
So what’s a girl to do? Well, might I suggest a solution. Carry the bag closer to your body, to help disperse the force of the weight, rather than loading undesirable strain onto the joint. Stretching is also an amazing therapy – for elbows, bending the hand in a pressing down on the back of it. Similarly, to stretch those tight calves, find a step and place the ball of your foot on the end of the ledge, slowly dropping your heel whilst keeping the ball of your foot on the step.
After all, fashion accessories aren’t a necessity, it’s a whim. You don’t need it- You want it.
Photo: Humphrey, T. (2013). Chanel Bag [Photograph]. Melbourne. Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151336431783491&set=a.445363293490.217910.570413490&type=1&theater
Photo used with permission.
It is 8pm on a Friday evening, at one of Melbourne’s classy bars, and I was dressed to impress. Perched on a barstool in a thigh-skimming, black dress and don’t-mess-with-me leopard-print heels, my blonde locks falling over one eye. Arms folded defensively, I barely noticed the stares I was getting from the suits in the bar, not wanting to be approached that night. One tall, dark man in a freshly laundered white shirt and jeans, who I’d noticed hovering in the corner of my eye, confidently strolled over to me. He leaned in, seductively, and asked, “so what do you do?”
It could have been “a scene” from the movies with the two leads haphazardly meeting, and then embarking on the most whirlwind romantic adventure of their lives. However, as this stranger continued making stilted conversation, I felt myself mentally making a check-list of everything that was not quite right with him. It was then that moment that I realized, I was haunted by ghosts of my relationships’ pasts.
Dating is tough work.
Anyone who claims otherwise is dreaming or delusional. For anyone, freshly single or on a self-imposed hiatus, reentry to the dating scene is daunting. And if any of your single friends tell you otherwise, they are in downright denial.
As the secrets of the human organism are unlocked and technology moves apace, so too, the dating scene is burgeoning to greater heights. Online dating is now de riguer. Apparently everyone is doing it. I, however, was vehemently opposed to it. The idea that a stream of pre-screened candidates with carefully constructed answers, was all too much for me to contemplate and quite honestly quite contrived. Besides, I had seen far too many movies and read one too many Jackie Collins novels to know better. In my mind, random dates wreaked of desperation, and so I quickly dismissed the thought of them.
The problem was, I was holding onto my past. I realized, as women we can easily allow the douchebags we were used to distort our view of single men in general.
Its a funny thing about douchebags- and ladies’- we all know we’ve dated one or two of those. They are funny, edgy and often get the best girls for a reason. They are not ordinary, nor are they boring. In fact, they can provide hope for an interesting experience.
Desiring not to remain dull and dateless, I decided to plunge deep into the scary world of single-ton.
Desperate not to appear desperate, I texted a guy who had tried to catch up with me many a times, yet I had given him doughnuts, nada, zilch. We had met at an impromptu event, late last year, and he’d caught my eye immediately, yet we didn’t get a chance to chat. At the time, I was involved with a man who, I thought, exuded debonair, charm and maturity, who led me to be apathetic toward any other.
I had remembered this guy, lets call him Dave, encompassing an alluring blend of handsomeness, confidence, and wittiness. Dave had added me as a friend on Facebook- all those months ago, so I contacted him, gave him my number and agreed to meet him for a coffee a few days later.
In the hours that followed, I dreaded our eventual meeting. Upon arrival, I decided to place myself in an appropriate seat that would navigate a quick escape, if necessary. I waited. And finally, in walked Dave.
He looked a lot different than I’d remembered him. Different, holy shit, Dave was a double whammy of dangerous and debilitating. Quite taken aback by his looks, he was more intelligent and sexier than I had remembered. He was also funny, spirited, and incredibly charming. I was distracted and completely disarmed. I was silently cursing myself, disapproving my choice of outfit. What followed was what I considered to be an almost perfect first date, and the comparative check-list of no no’s seemed to be lost on me.
At least for the time being.
What happens next, well its anyones guess. But for me, it didn’t really matter. This was a gutsy divergence from the past, disallowing previous experiences to taint future prospects. After all, every rendevous, is a lesson, teaching us to be more open and aware of what is out there, and what it is we really seek.
So be daring, darling. Don’t derail your whole dating life, based on a delinquent that seemingly wasted your time. Instead, embrace a new adventure and remember… No expectations, no disappointment.
Mirror mirror on the wall: Who’s the fairest of them all? Up until now, I ignored the word romance. I thought of it only as the stuff of gesture from another. A fairytale. The whimsical magic that happens only in great love affairs.
Imagine my bewilderment, last week, sitting with some friends discussing my previous relationship fall-out, that her friend, one that I had just met, started to tear up. I almost laughed, embarrassed by the intensity of her emotions, and then she apologized. She mused she was quite taken aback by how I could be so disillusioned and think so little about myself, which astonishingly, lured me back to a distant memory.
Once upon a time, I was on this mesmerising date with a guy whom I felt was as equally amazing, as the effort he put in to woo me. It was picture perfect, you know the dates where it’s as though there is no one else in the room except the two of you! Bewitched by his charm, he looked right into my eyes and told me “you look beautiful tonight”. Ordinarily, any girl would melt at those very words, but not me. Instead of taking a compliment for what it was, I turned it into a negative, an empty line- I thought he was a liar! It can be hard to accept compliments at the best of times, but It was at that precise moment I realised that I had lost the confidence in myself, therefore mistrusting anything said from the outside. Reminiscing, it is not the way to be, I then knew I needed to regain the love I have for myself as a priority.
During my teens, my prophecy of life was: school, boys, and fabulous outfits – and not necessarily in that order. Romance to me, was about the most extravagant date, expensive gifts, or the grandest gestures. In essence, measurable entities. Still there existed a rebellious streak, like in all of us – and one that demanded attention. I mistakened love for lust, a consuming urge to discover and be immersed in great breathy dollops of it. Intrinsically, I had complete insouciance of any boy’s heart. The magical connection I had with another was transient, sometimes awkward at times, dishonest, yet disgustingly infatuating.
I had a penchant for magic, which lured me to a relationship that conjured up an incredible infatuation with my looks. I was involved with a guy that made me feel I had to think, act and look like a barbie doll. Imagine, waking up every morning before he did, furiously scurrying to the bathroom and applying a full face of makeup before he awoke and laid eyes on me. I feared that if I allowed him see my true self – completely bare, I would lose him. The impact on my soul plunged me deep down the rabbit hole; faster and faster I fell. Why didn’t this supposed man didn’t love me for me? And thats the precise moment when the chapter changed.
Once I reached my 20s, my divinely inspired revelation metamorphosed dramatically. I realized I was searching for validation, and in that, I was enamoured by perfection. Obsessed even. For a girl who never once felt beautiful, any attention was intoxicating; otherwise I felt like nothing. At this time, my inner-virgo nature emerged, and became more entranced by my impending career. The perfect hair, the perfect outfit, the perfect boyfriend. I had cast a spell, disillusioning myself, and others around me, creating nothing enchanting except anarchy.
To add to the tale, I had suffered severe personal setbacks, and the resulting chaos rendered me indifferent to starlight. I desired only to play second fiddle. I wanted to vanish myself completely. Every intimate moment felt fake. Or perhaps I felt my responses to these seemingly romantic gestures were unnatural. I let amazing opportunities turn to fairy-dust in my hands. I didn’t care. My interactions were almost exclusively with a mirror. My life’s narrative had become about me.
Not only was I searching for perfection within myself, I was aimlessly trying to discover it in the men I had been dating. I had let my break-ups of the past sour my perception to relationships as a whole, and so, let those experiences distort my perception of these amazing individuals wanting to spend more time with me. Trapped in my tower, I had created a wall so high, that no one could climb it. Or at the very least, the may have thought they were close, but were in fact so far from victory
My prognostication is now in question – indeed, it possesses a certain spirit and nonchalance that comes through, still carefully put together, but in a way thats not overly contrived or precious. Interestingly, some of us have an image of what our lifes plan should be, or what you’re going to be, or what the dream is, and in a funny way, that image can be quite destructive. I certainly had this unrealistic view on myself, as well as relationships in my life.
It was quite a prodigious awakening, and still I find myself wondering what romance actually is. I scorned my inner voices’ past suggestions that it is about immaculately presented dinners, or being whisked off to faraway lands, or lavish affairs. Why? It simply fails to satisfy me.
The question still begs, how then, can I be entirely intimate with someone, if I can’t let anyone in?
What I have now come to realise is that intimacy, an essential part of romance, is slow. It is a process of deepening consciousness, an interaction that evolves over time, that is mistranslated as a torrid desire for sex. I had masculinised this romantic act- as a matter of goals, stress relief, and stimulation, in place of connection, diluting any emotional importance it possessed.
I needed to shift my thinking from romance being a grand gesture, to more of a connection. Raw, honest, unwavering. And that started with myself! I needed to be my own fairy Godmother. I am not saying that I now look in the mirror and think wow, you look phenomenal today! I can look at myself and just be comfortable. This to me, is far more seductive and important, and infinitely more resonant.
Happily ever after? Maybe. Or maybe not. Regardless, romance begins with acceptance of oneself – warts and all. And this, to me, provides hope. After all, it is possible that when the princess finally landed her prince, she realised he was just as fucked up as the rest of us. Nobody is perfect and neither is romance, but that’s just the magic of it all, take it as you will… The end.
A friend of mine, who is at the age of fabulous 40, went through a tremendous life change, when the love of her life left her and their children for another woman; leaving her feeling insecure and naturally doubting her physical appeal. She found herself considering something that was once upon a time quite alien to her – the decision to go under the surgeon’s knife.
Fantastic plastic? Or is it? The discussion is certainly shifting from whether getting ‘work done’ is acceptable, to whether the work done, has been done well. From breast augmentation, to tummy tucks, now rhinoplasty is so easily available, and these procedures can be done within an hour! Filler is like heroin to a junkie and surgery is the new working out, with people today seeing it as the new body maintenance. False has become the new real. ‘Plastiholism’ is rife. This most definitely raises the question; is fakery now so ubiquitous that we accept it so willingly?
Most women want bigger breasts. Well not all women; but those opting to have breast augmentation surgery do. This may be ridiculously obvious, however according to a spokesperson for the Australian Society of Plastic Surgeons; in general, the sizes of the implants have increased since the 1970s and there are fewer women requesting implants that look ‘natural.’ Instead, women today prefer to have more rounded fuller breasts that could be perceived as more obvious and more unnatural. There is this new mentality that if you do not look a little bit fake, then the surgeon has not done his job.
Cosmetic procedures have been both a bane and boon for many women. The peaks and valleys of the silicone orbs have been controversial to say the least. The fortunes of implants have waxed and waned in the last century, but with tremendous advancements in surgical techniques, they are back in demand: bigger, safer and more popular than ever.
As a woman surrounded by all these forgeries, it is difficult not to notice that for some women today; their top priority is merely to turn back the aging clock. It seems we are lured by pneumatic Hollywood bombshells. The physical body is a never-ending project and there is so much pressure to look timeless. Still, when is enough- enough?
Our exposure to digital social media and increasing advances in science and technology, present with more and more options to aid in taking control of one’s body. Everything is available on the internet, simply one click away. The introduction of applications on iPhones and easy access to Photoshop, allows the accessibility to tools for editing, enhancing, sculpting, lightening every tiny detail of our anatomy – to our very perception of ideal.
Does this cynical approach to our physical form have any effects for us as a whole? Is it positive, in that it is a marvelously empowering thing to do? Or a negative, in the unnatural standards of beauty we set for ourselves, imposed by today’s society?
On one hand, those women who have taken the surgery plunge brag about the wonders it has done on their self-esteem. Tinkering with the laws of nature seems to embark a sense of great empowerment and confidence in the brave.
Yet, on the other hand, one friend believes its nothing but a bandaid approach, a lazy way of denying one’s own beauty. She suggests going under the knife provides no effort whatsoever, other than making an appointment, having the procedure, than charging it on the credit card. In doing so, we are denying the very feminine essence that makes us unique, that separates us from the rest.
Perhaps we should begin by accepting ourselves, engage in a mind-shift, silencing the internal critic within that constantly reminds us we are not good enough. If we can encourage women to speak out about their strengths, and what they do well, this may make an enormous difference.
Ultimately, it is every woman’s choice, and one that cannot be made lightly. Maybe the answer lies within, and if we could only see the gift that nature had destined upon us, we could start to use it to our advantage. Whatever the case, whatever choice we make, should create a sense of happiness and fulfillment within us all, I think this is the most important thing.
It is an expectation for women to be married by the time they reach their 30s. However, for the majority of the ‘modern’ female race, this may not be the case.
This week, I found myself at a cafe with a very attractive and quite successful girlfriend of mine, discussing our favorite topic – relationships. To my bewilderment, this thirty-something independent woman, was asking my twenty-something self for advice on men!!
My friend, newly divorced and currently single, has been stunningly perplexed by her current spin in the dating scene, and brought up many pertinent points that sparked my interest. First point: why are there so many successful women out there who are single?!
In modern day times, women are now procrastinating in seeking marital status. The priorities have changed. The modern day woman is more career driven and is prepared to put on hold love, marriage and kids in order to achieve financial stability, security and status all on their own!
The fall back? Well, that is plainly obvious; by the time these women are ready, the men and partnership they seek may no longer be available. They have missed the train!! Men want young nubile women. Not women in their 30s as their counterparts. This is rather discerning for the generation of women who are in the third or fourth decade of their lives who find themselves still single. This is not a joke, and not one to be apologizing for. It simply and sadly is a fact.
There are two types of men: ones who like to be on top and ones who prefer to be dominated by a sugar mummy. The power driven women who are assertive and opinionated can be quite a ‘turn off’ for some as men do not like to be seemingly made to look insignificant, inferior and incompetent- most especially in social situations. However, there is the other half of the equation: these men are turned on by this type of power driven, successful, attractive and intelligent woman. The resume can bring on an orgasm for some!
So in my girlfriend’s recent dating experience, she explained to me she couldn’t help but attract men that are younger than her. And some of them conjured up a sense of shame and naughtiness to even be inquiring about the extent of their youth.
I believe women in their twenties are still quite ‘young’ and lack finesse and sophistication. They are also not as well versed or qualified in life matters in comparison to their female counterparts who are in their thirties.
Naturally if you are a brilliant conversationalist then you are attractive and synonymous to that would be ample oozing of confidence. These are very sexy attributes that men like to show off, as they attend events, dinners, catch ups with a very astute woman entering the room with them. This is enough to make a man’s chest puff!
Be that as it may, the older woman/younger men situation is generally fleeting, lasting only but for a NEW YORK minute, and generally is more for right now, rather than the forever. It is easy, and less dramatic.
I thought about myself and my twenty-something girlfriends. Each of us tend to go for the older man, and for the most part, have put chasing success first, before love. Maybe we are unconsciously following the footsteps of this movement, and may be faced with the same dilemma some years down the track? When it comes to love, some of us tend to build up a big wall, that takes only but inexorable strength to penetrate, the type of man to blindside us, sweep us off our inexperienced feet, and refuse anything other than our focus on them.
Hi. Were you always so flexible before you started yoga? Did you used to be a dancer?
- Louise D.
The season of failure is the best time for sowing the seeds of success.
Failure. Defined as the condition or fact of not achieving the desired end or ends. A cessation of proper functioning. Fail, fail, fail. How does it feel to hear these words? Motivating? No!
Repetitive failure can create two mental patterns that contribute to disease. Anger and Fear. These may manifest in many ways, which both limit us, and do little to restore faith. And faith is required to heal. So why on earth do many claim failing is actually a good thing? Why is it that the ‘how’ you fail becomes more important than what you have failed? Can you fail successfully- and if so, how?
The answer is your reaction to failure.
Indeed, we are all human therefore we all make mistakes. Yet, some of us find this so upsetting that we miss the chance to see the actual benefit of failing. Our ego takes charge, and prevents us from seeing the silver lining, the light, the hidden gem. We deny, can become anxious, and may try to convince ourselves that the failing does not matter. We blind ourselves, robbing ourselves of our own magnificence.
Recognizing failure is key. This is where our awareness becomes so important. From what I have observed in the universe, the most successful people are just ordinary people who fail more. They recognise failure as a benevolent teacher, opening their mind beyond possibility, whilst, remaining observant and present – at every opportunity. The ability to recognize a mistake allows us to re-cast it into something that is likely to be a lesson, and hence an eventual success.
Remaining impartial is perhaps the hardest thing to do, however, it is necessary. Remove all of your emotions and rather, employ logic to the situation. I have failed many times, and remaining dispassionate is very difficult for me. Instead, I try to look at the benefits and loses of continuing from where I am. Take a breath, write a list, be pragmatic. It can take time – I have to accept that, have courage and faith. And then I choose to charge forward.
To fail is divine – over and over again. Satisfaction thrives on challenge. Celebrate faillure- not only in yourself, but in others. Forget about the past, move on. Heed the lessons, wipe the slate clean, and be motivated to do even better than ever before. Turn the very word into success. And you too will learn to embrace failing.