Square peg

Sometimes you just don’t fit. No matter how intelligent you are, how beautiful you are, how accomplished you are, how cool you are, sometimes you are the square peg in the round hole. Life also has a wicked sense of humour when it comes to showing you your misshapen nature.

Heres how it went for me:

I was sitting in the car on a glorious Sunday afternoon in a Suburb of Sydney I don’t know well. I was supposed to have a morning to myself working but my other half and I got into a D&M and instead of dropping me off we kept driving so we could finish the conversation. Thankfully my work only needs a pen and paper, so failing to find a nearby park in the street directory and having already experienced the atrocious service at the local cafe I turned on the car radio and dug out my notepad and pen.

I was busy wiping bird crap off the inside of the car door (some clever bird aimed its arse at the perfect angle such that it’s excrement flew in through the open window) when I was the lucky caller to win concert tickets for the following night. Fantastic! The only painful bit was that I had to pick the tickets up between noon and 6pm, from the radio station, the night of the concert.

The station happens to be situated in a beautiful skyscraper with water views. I used to belong in buildings like this, but haven’t had the need to be in one for, quite literally, years. I arrive in my typical ‘mum uniform’ jeans, a top, cute flats, basic makeup and hair up in a pony. Surrounded by business men and glamazons in skirt suits, stiletto heels and cufflinked blouses, I felt like the world’s frumpiest housewife.

My only concern was to get to the station’s office, get the tickets and get out of there as soon as possible, whilst avoiding the self-esteem shattering looks of the people who looked like they belonged in the sleek setting. I make it to the desk and collect the tickets.  I jump back into the car (my lovely partner has been circling the block) and drop my handbag onto my lap. I notice two things at once 1) my lap is now wet & 2) there is a strong smell of apple blackcurrant in the car.

A string of four letter words run through my head as I put my hand into my bag and bring out an exploded popper (juice box). As if looking like I got lost on my way home to Kansas wasn’t humiliating enough. I call the radio station reception to let them know that a popper exploded in my handbag and that the carpet in front of the reception desk probably resembles a purple puddle.

Like I said, square peg, round hole and damn the universe for making it abundantly clear.

Lets talk about…sexiness

A few weeks back, on my hens’ night I witnessed a phenomenon I am only just beginning to grasp. Walking ahead of me (up the enormous hill that is William Street, Sydney) were 3 mid-20something happily coupled women. They were laughing, confident, natural and oozing sex appeal. While they passed scantily clad teenagers, it hit me. I think for a moment I saw what men see.

I remember watching an interview with Naomi Watts where she mentioned that she felt unattractive as a young woman. In her late 20′s her cheekbones ‘arrived’ and she came into her beauty. I think Naomi’s experience about coming into her attractiveness in her late 20′s is more typical than we like to admit. Until we, as women, accept our bodies and own our sexuality we are merely teenagers playing dress up. And it wasn’t until  saw the two extremes juxtaposed on William St that night that this truth really became evident to me.

This is a post I would not have been able to write a few years ago for fear of earning the immature label ‘Lezo’. But the things that make a woman sexy have absolutely nothing to do with the shape or size of her body. Her hair colour or style makes no difference. Her clothes have far less importance than we like to think as well. These things merely catch the eye. What makes a man stare, smile, fantasise about a woman is… ineffable.

What makes a woman sexy cannot be bought. No cream, wonder bra, shaping underwear, surgery, stiletto, hair style or dress has the capacity to make a woman sexy. Sexy is certainly paid for. Sexy is the result of living with gusto. Of putting yourself out  there. Of trying new things. Of a life well lived and a self actualised. Experience is sexy. Experience comes at a price – tears, pain, failure, change, growth.

What makes a woman sexy is behind her eyes. It is the promise of a woman who can stand toe to toe with a man and make him moan without lifting a finger. You must know pain to understand that kind of pleasure. You must know longing to conjure that depth of desire. You must be capable of ugliness to be that beautiful. You must have lost yourself somewhere along the way to own your self that completely.

That night, a few weeks back we were goddesses in motion. Men were magnetised to our sides. Flocked to our table. Fought for a glance. We were playful and open and owned our selves. We bought and paid for our own drinks. Oh and handed out little red heart lollipops. (The tackiness of this gesture offset by the dept of character of the women dolling out the sweets, perfectly aware of the irony.)

I found it life affirming to see that men evidentially agreed with my mantra for the year (maybe longer):

Healthy is Beautiful ~ Happiness is Sexy ~ Soulful is Irresistable

*photo credit

Things you probably don’t know about me.

I have a million blog posts floating around in my pretty-little-head, all of which are too introspective, profound or unformed at this point for me to write articulately about. So I figured I would write the least profound post that is in me to write – a little about me.

1. I am getting married ridiculously soon.
2. I am not a morning person. I am definitely a night owl.
3. In fact when left entirely to my own devices with no responsibilities I wake at 11am and sleep at 4am.
4. No one has ever figured out what colour my eyes are. Blue, green, blue-green or blue-grey.
5. I make pretty shit-hot brownies. Over the weekend a naked man told me so. Really.
6. I will do pretty much anything for honey saffron chocolates.
7. Diets don’t work for me. My body and I are on much better terms when I respect and fuel her.
8. I used to sing. I wasn’t half bad either.
9. The song I sing most now is twinkle twinkle.
10. As hard as I try I simply cannot understand men.
11. Anything I can’t understand bugs hell out of me.
12. I swear entirely too much. So I cringe now that my son has reached the mimicking phase.
13. I have studied mediumship, seership and card reading. Not kidding.
14. I started meditating just after I turned 15.
15. A decade of meditation has mellowed me, but I still have quite a temper when you get me mad.
16. I don’t hold grudges. But I learn my lesson.
17. I used to have a side of the bed… now so long as I have a comfy pillow I’m happy.
18. I can rock hats, sunnies and fascinators, but I find it hard to find shoes to suit my feet.
19. My phone is perpetually nearly flat. I can’t work out if that is because I use to so much or if I don’t charge my phone often enough.
20. I am like Sheldon when it comes to my seat on the couch.
21. I am a sucker for tattoos (tasteful), facial hair (stylish stubble or a sexy beard) and strong hands.
22. I have worn fishnets, wings, a dog collar and a halo. But not all at once. And not all for fancy dress.
23. My favourite piece of fashion are my pink pumps. I love them so much I am wearing them to my wedding.
24. I have scars, stretch marks and a ‘cherry spot’ birth mark.
25. I have sucked snot from my sick infants nose, and yet olives still make me gag.
26. I have one younger sister and two girlfriends I would fly to their side anywhere in the world if they asked.
27. So, I kind of have 3 sisters.
28. I was born on the same day (not year) as Audrey Hepburn.
29. The simplest things soothe my soul. The sound and smell of the beach, rain, a full moon, a gentle kiss, a cup of tea, a great song.
30. I love quotes. These are my current faves:

• • A woman can say more in a sigh than a man can say in a sermon. ~Arnold Haultain
  • Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be. ~ Clementine Paddelford
  • A woman who cannot be ugly is not beautiful. ~Karl Kraus

Lets talk about… body modification

This is such a wide and diverse topic. Controversial. Like boiling a frog we are comfortable with the gentle cooler manifestations of the practice, but are we in danger of boiling alive as the accepted mutilations become more extreme?

Body modification is defined as the deliberate altering of the human body for non-medical reasons, such as sexual enhancement, a rite of passage, aesthetic reasons or self-expression.

Most of us think of female genital mutilation or facial piercing when we think of body modification. But these are only the more extreme manifestations of a sliding scale. Cutting our hair and piercing our ears don’t really register as body modification, but indeed they are. The list of body modifications the ‘regular’ western woman may willfully undergo, many on a regular basis, is huge:

1. Hair cut
2. Hair perm
3. Hair straightening
4. Hair colouring
5. Eyebrow shape
6. Underarm hair removal
7. Leg hair removal
8. Pubic hair removal
9. Arm/face hair removal
10. Manicure
11. Pedicure
12. Tanning/ Melanin pills
13. Ear piercing
14. Belly piercing
15. Tattooing
16. Breast implants/Breast lift
17. Tummy tuck
18. Liposuction
19. Botox
20. Tattooed makeup

I know I am ‘guilty’ of a number of the above. I don’t know a woman who isn’t. Even my grandma vainly perms her hair and during the second world war stained her legs to mimic the appearance of her absent stockings. We do these things of our own volition - willingly following the conventions of our culture. Endlessly making ourselves more attractive to our desired mates. Continually pandering to, for the most part, the male gaze.

We do it to feel beautiful, often without thought as to why these arbitrary characteristics are deemed beautiful. Why is it that perky breasts, shaven armpits and pubic mounds are beautiful when they effectively rob a woman of her womanhood and visually return her to the realm of a child. Are women more attractive when they appear less fertile, less powerful?

We do it because it is what women do, unaware of the point when we made the decision that these standards are sufficiently important they are worth painfully or permanently altering our bodies to achieve them. How is this forgotten decision any different from mothers in Cameroon who Iron their pubescent daughters’ breasts with hot stones? Or the 2 million mothers world-wide who help hold down their daughters as their clitoris is removed, by way of an initiation into womanhood and to curb their sexual desires (often with no anesthetic).

Yes these are extreme, but the recent internal bra (soon to become a part of a breast lift) is equally as painful and unnecessary. It is only more palatable to our delicate sensibilities because it is performed by doctors in hospitals on consenting adults.

My question is this: If clitorises were removed, in the pristine theater of a renown plastic surgeon, would we find it any less offensive?

Lets talk about…Hair

Hair is such a trivial issue in some people eyes. Yet ask any woman the easiest way to make her feel sexy and I guarantee a fabulous new haircut is high on her list. In fact I know a couple who consistently have ‘haircut sex’ when she comes home with a new do. I have spoken to women undergoing treatment for cancer, they cope with the fact that they lose their hair as it is preferable to losing their lives. But they find it much more difficult to get in touch with their inner sex goddess.

Indeed hair is so integral to the visual concept of femininity that the icon for woman is distinguished from a man by one of two things – a dress, or long hair. Unconsciously we make assumption about women, especially, by their hair. On a side note we do the same about men, salt and pepper is distinguished, bald is less virile, long and curly like my partner is seen as less conventional. And there is a reason why so many male fantasies about women involve healthy, shiny flowing hair. It is iconically feminine. (Not to say women with shaved heads or pixie cuts are somehow less of a sexy woman.)

What isn’t factored into our identities is that our hair is linked to our hormones. As our hormones change so does our hair. You remember how greasy your hair got during puberty don’t you? And the exciting or terrifying advent of pubic hair that puberty bought with it. The same is true as you get older. Your skin, hair and nails look amazing when pregnant due, in part, to the different hormones your body is producing. And also because you don’t lose much hair when pregnant, so your mane becomes thicker and glossier.

Then during menopause everything goes to hell in a handbag. Not only are you more likely to cut your hair, if not from the social pressure not to appear mutton dressed up as lamb, out of necessity as hot flushes and night sweats make your locks a giant sweat trap. Worse than this your hair may thin or grey or both – seen as the ultimate sin for women. The hair from your head may reappear in blemishes or moles or on your chin, as the archetype of crone becomes manifest in your body. A process that should be revered for its significance, is instead demonised as we unfairly expect crones to appear maidens. Because we are uncomfortable with female wisdom perhaps??

I discovered today that even your eyebrow hairs grow at strange and wonderful angles as you age. I would like to be able to look forward to my gracefully aging body as opposed to lamenting the direction my eyebrow hair grows. How about you?

Lets talk about…Breasts (boobs, knockers, tits, jugs, fun-bags, globes)

I have never much been ashamed of breasts. I come from a long line of well endowed women, so I have been comfortable with the idea of cleavage for as long as I can remember. Breast were normal.

In my final year of primary school I had the largest breasts in class. By far. I found them awkward, over sized and embarrassing. I didn’t know quite what to do with them, and felt uncomfortable in my bras. Breasts were mortifying.

In my teenage years I was known for my outrageously plunging necklines and I quite liked provoking reactions from boys my age, and relished the opportunity to lecture them on their sexist behavior should they look for too long or make a comment. Then, breasts were powerful.

When I settled into my relationship and began rediscovering sex as tender and romantic, my breasts had yet another role. They became lovely, sensitive, adored and an important part of our sex life. My breasts became feminine.

A few years later I fell pregnant. Other than the constant vomiting, one of my first signs of pregnancy was breasts so tender even my bra hurt. Throughout the pregnancy they grew and changed in shape, colour and even function. Before too long my breasts had become mammary glands.

When the beautiful baby boy finally arrived he almost instantly began rooting for a nipple. He came close to finding his father’s before he was placed in my arms. I was flabbergasted at the force with which he began to suckle and bemused by the process of organising the breast and baby correctly (yes there is such a thing, and it is tricky to achieve in the beginning). My breasts became a learning experience.

Five weeks later on my second trip to the early childcare nurse with my happy and settled newborn I was faced with a different prospect. “It isn’t a personal failing dear” she said, “it is just that god didn’t give you enough milk.” With instructions to buy formula as soon as possible, my breasts became a failure.

It turns out the nurse was wrong. My breasts became their ultimate purpose, nurturers.

18 months later my toddler still feeds a few times a day. Now he feeds for his immune system, to top up his nutrients, for comfort, for bonding and to soothe the busy toddler to sleep. Like the proverbial Swiss Army knife, the one tool has millions of uses. My breasts became utilitarian.

I would like to point out that as varied as my experience of my breasts has been my breasts have never been any of the following: lewd, inappropriate, dirty, obscene, pornographic, offensive, a problem or anybody else’s business.

I think it is time we reclaimed our breasts. Inherent to our femininity, as they are, they should be revered and respected. A woman accentuating the feminine curves of her body or feeding her child is as natural and normal as can be. If you disagree then the problem resides with YOU not breasts or the woman they belong to.

What would your tatoo say?

This is one of my personal pet peeves at the moment. Yes, I do need to get over it. Yes, I know I do it too. But being on the receiving end of it really just sucks. Yes I am talking about judging a book by its cover.

We have all been judged on the way we look since birth. Babies are assumed to be ‘good’ if they are chubby and  ‘unhealthy’ if they are not. If you put a little baby girl in boys overalls and take her to the park onlookers are happy to let the toddler fall, dust itself off and keep playing. Even if this child cries from the fall, you will most likely hear “Oh you’re alright. Up you get.” Change the same child into a dress and if she falls she will be immediately scooped up for cuddles and comfort.

There is no need to discuss the way we were all judged on appearance in High School either. We were all there. Like it or lump it our worth was dictated by our image. Furthermore we were all judged daily on everything from our hair to our shoes, and some bits in between.

I found a reprieve from the judgement, for the most part, in the workforce. Wearing a suit in the city to work and cute outfits out in clubs and bars my friends and I found a niche of sorts. The judgement changed from soul crushing to categorising. We were seen as young professionals, 20-somethings. Full stop.

Then I fell pregnant. It was like going back to school. Instantly I was viewed differently; less capable, less stable, public property. Suddenly people felt they had a say in where I sat, what I did, what I ate and how I dressed. Things they would never have said to me a few short months earlier.

I thought things would go back to the happy medium I discovered in the workforce when the baby had arrived and things began to settled down. It got worse. I now fit into 3 categories. However do I keep up?

1. When I am in casual dress I attract the label ‘Mum’. It is grossly assumed the only interesting thing in my life is my son. It is assumed that I have all the time in the world and no schedule to keep and that my time is not worth much.
2. When I am in a suit, with or without my son, I fit the category of ‘Professional’ or ‘Working Mum’. Instantly my time is considered precious and I am almost revered for my ability to ‘do it all’.
3. When I am out with friends without the baby I revert to my previous niche of ‘young professional’ or ’20-something’. Strangers in a bar for example see me as their kin and my cleavage is ogle worthy. Interestingly when a guy asks me what I am doing later and I reply ‘going home to feed the baby’ the cleavage is instantly non-ogleable.

I know it is way too much to ask. I know it is a fantasy that will never happen. None the less I dream of a day where regardless of which mode we are in, which uniform we are wearing, what setting we are in, people judge us only by our actions and words. But hell will probably freeze over first. Instead I think we could try harder to resemble books. Yup you heard me. Look like the books we treat each other like. I propose we all tatoo our personal mottos on our foreheads (like a blurb) so we can be quickly judged for who we really are.

What would your tatoo say?

5 steps to feeling great in your skin

What has been niggling at you for months? Is it an item on your ‘to-do’ list that gets transferred from list to list when everything else has been checked off? It it something you haven’t dared to even put on the list? Something that you haven’t even admitted that you want?

I want a new wardrobe. Not the structure to put clothes in, but the fashions to fill it with. I have clothes, tonnes of clothes in fact, but I don’t wear many of them. My wardrobe consists predominately of clothes I can breastfeed in or the crap that I haven’t sent to charity that I was wearing over 2 years ago, before I fell pregnant. So as you can imagine my wardrobe is full of stunning dresses, silks, delicate embroidery, tailored pants, flirty skirts and fitted jackets – NOT! My wardrobe has way more stretch cotton than should belong to one woman and is mostly a few basic colours that wash well and work with tan skirts or jeans.

To make my wardrobe woes worse, my body is alien. The pants I wore pre-pregnancy are too big now and the tops from the same era and way too small. (Pretty much everything else stretches, so it still fits). My hips and thighs need a L, my waist is a M and my bust is somewhere between an XL and an XXL, depending on the store and the cut. So most of the time I aim for ‘presentable’ or ‘good’ and try to avoid looking like Betty Boop.

I would really like a wardrobe that is classic, effortless, comfortable and flattering. Clothes I can wear to a café, to see a client and take the baby to the park all in a day. Why does this blog find a home in the category of personal development I hear you ask? Because I deserve clothes that make me feel good. So do you. There is nothing wrong with wanting your clothes, and indeed your style, to reflect your personality. There is no hard and fast rule, despite the glossies telling us otherwise, that says that you must be a size 0 or even a size 4 to look and feel good. Our bodies are wonderful pieces of kit – we will never own anything as versatile, useful and fun as our bodies so lets celebrate them.

As a coach I feel it is important to follow-up each epiphany with action steps. So here are my steps that I think would work for just about anybody:

1. Make a rough list of what I wear from my wardrobe (DONE)
2. Make a list of what is missing to mix and match with existing pieces to make desired wardrobe (DONE)
3. Go through existing clothes, sort out what the keep, what to throw out, what to pass to charity and what to gift to friends (like the stunning designer gown my bust no longer fits in)
4. Book an appointment (in the new year) with a stylist to do my colours and styles. (I am desperate to work with Coby from Stylewish and if you are a Sydney local you should check her out too.)
5. Go shopping! Gradually….

We might even save money by avoiding purchases that we won’t wear more than once, time in looking for clothes because we know what we are looking for and avoid horrifying fashion mistakes. That is my justification and I am sticking to it

*This blog was not a paid recommendation

I’m wrong… a lot

My near and dear just died from shock at that title. If you ask those who know me well personally, they will tell you that one of my least favourite things is ‘being wrong’. In fact, few of them have ever witnessed me admit an error or mistake. But, despite my utter distaste for the experience, I am wrong… a lot. We all are.

• When I walk in a room I am sure everybody is noticing the flaws in my figure… I’m wrong
• When I think I can’t take it any more… I’m wrong
• When I think people care about when the last time I mopped the floor was… I’m wrong
• When I think I have nothing intelligent to say… I’m wrong
• When I think I simply must do everything… I’m wrong
• When I think the world will stop turning if I take a break, put my feet up and have a cup of tea… I’m wrong
• When I think feeding people will cure their ills… I’m wrong (but at least they are fed)
• When I think it matters if my son’s shirt matches his pants… I’m wrong
• When I think I have remembered everything… I’m wrong
• When I think I can be calm when we get lost en route to a new destination… I’m wrong
• When I think I can please everybody… I’m wrong
• When I think no one is listening… I’m wrong
• When I think I understand… I’m wrong
• When I think there are enough hours in a day (I am writing this at 12.01am)… I’m wrong
• When I am convinced I am not good enough… I’m wrong
• When I think raising my voice helps… I’m wrong
• When I think I suck at learning languages… I’m wrong
• When I think something is more important than responding to a call for “Mumee!”… I’m wrong
• When I think change is an external process… I’m wrong
• When I think I don’t have time to meditate… I’m wrong
• When I think I should feel guilty for eating chocolate… I’m wrong. Very wrong.

Care to share what you are wrong about?

Bras

Our bras, ladies say a lot about us. Any male readers already know this. And, no, I don’t mean that a red bra says  that you’re sexy and a tan bra means your boring or safe. The print, colour and material of your bras are a personal choice – that’s not what I’m talking about.

Your bra supports your breasts. Yes, thank you captain obvious. Our breasts are, for most women, integral to their sense of femininity. You disagree? Speak to a women who has undergone a mastectomy or women who has had a breast reduction about how the operation has affected their femininity. Our breasts are a sensual, integral part of our womanhood.

Just writing those words I feel the wave of resistance and objections flying at me through the web. But, I honestly believe it is true. I hated my breasts for as long as I can remember. They were always too big, too saggy, too heavy. That was even before I fell pregnant and then they were too sensitive, too sore and downright enormous – no stores would stock bras in my size (Yes my partner was stoked, I on the other hand broke down in tears right there in the store). Breastfeeding is another saga altogether. All I am saying is that I hear your objections, but accepting my breasts feels better.

We are taught that our breasts are only beautiful if they look plastic. We are not taught how to appreciate our breasts. They are soft and warm, regardless of the weather your breasts radiate heat. The skin is some of the softest on our bodies. They are capable of pleasure and adorned with our glamest top and stunning beads they can be hypnotizing – regardless of their size. There is so much to love about our breasts aside from their size and shape, but alas, they are most womens’ hang-ups.

I was buying new bras on the weekend and can vouch that a great bra can boost your self esteem and totally change your figure. But what shocked me were the conversations I was overhearing in the change room. 3 women were being properly fitted by professionals. Each of the women was recommended a bra and a size that would fit them perfectly. Each woman chose a different bra to the recommendations. Why? Because they were planning on losing weight and so preferred to squish their breasts into a too small bra than to have a bra that was too big if and when they lost weight.

Isn’t that insane? To me it’s like saying ‘no’ to a date with the man of your dreams today, because you are planning on snagging the perpetual bachelor George Clooney next month! The likelihood that these women (none of whom looked at all overweight) would ever be truly happy with their weight and body shape is arguably slim. I mean, are you? But still they, and indeed so many of ‘us’, would prefer to continue to strive and punish ourselves trying to fit into an imaginary ideal than to work what we have.

What I am really trying to say: Give up the need for it to be different to what it is. Love what you have got, work what you have got. You will loose it one day and wish you had treated it better and enjoyed it more.

Fascinating

Capable of arousing and holding attention.

Capturing interest as if by a spell – bewitching.

I don’t know a woman who wouldn’t love to be considered a ‘fascinating woman’. The art of captivating others is more than a charming skill; it is a quality of spirit. There is no higher compliment, no greater task than to be so authentically you in all your intricacies that others feel compelled to watch, to be near you, to learn what it is that makes you tick.

The catch 22 is that if you are concerned with charming others, being the life of the party, being liked, being admired & being interesting then you are probably not being authentic. You may however come across as 2 dimensional, a try hard and particularly non-fascinating.

A truly fascinating woman is happy to follow her desires. She speaks her mind. She expresses her authentic emotions. She is high maintenance. She is unapologetically herself. She is not consistent. She doesn’t pander to popular opinion. She goes with the flow, but not necessarily the flow of the masses. She is unafraid of upsetting others, but she is not intentionally inflammatory.

The trick is that most of us modern women lack some of the foundational keystones to being a fascination woman; being self assured and the ability to flow with our feminine nature.

I know I am not the only one guilty of listening to a band, or reading a book (or even pretending we have) because it is so very chic’. So many women dutifully trawl the magazine pages to construct their wardrobes. Forgetting that, dressing to suit their personalities and shapes, the style icons didn’t follow trends – they started them. We adopt a seriousness designed for the workplace and allow it to permeate other areas of our lives and end up allowing that very seriousness to extinguish our playfulness. In the end we look like we stepped from a magazine spread, drinking cosmos in a tight little huddle as we compare, contrast and analyse the men in the bar as opposed to chatting to them.

A fascinating woman is mysterious, but not unattainable. She is open and warm. She radiates a vibe that draws others to her; it is possible effortless to talk to her. Fascinating women are interested in others and are great conversationalists because they don’t give everything away.

Fascinating is the reason I think we have the best night when it is not planned and that we tend to attract a man when we aren’t looking for one. When we are happy being ourselves with reckless abandon, when we aren’t worried about what others think of us & when we aren’t trying to change the situation we are fascinating.

Facebook’s saving grace

It took me forever to embrace Facebook. Now I use it daily, but initially I had no intention of using it. I saw no point in publicly messaging friends I would much rather call or have coffee with. The lure of seeing what old school classmates were doing and voyeuristically peering at their personal photos seemed creepy to me.

But alas, a friend posted the photos of her newborn on Facebook and I had to become a ‘Friend’ to view them. So I manically created a profile planning on deleting it as soon as I had seen her beautiful baby. It didn’t quite pan out that way – I spelt my own name wrong, and couldn’t figure out how to delete the damn profile before my friends found me.

Since that fateful day I have witnessed Facebook bring out the worst in people the way a 50% sale does in shopaholics. We passively view each other lives, post and make comments on the drunken photos, judge people by the size of their friends list and post photos of our engagement rings as profile pictures. Although Facebook can be used for good the lure of the dark side is just so powerful. There are apps that force you to inflict random, often unflattering, polls on your friends in order to view the results of a poll about you.

Despite the darkness interwoven in Facebook we have an uneasy truce. An old photo was posted of me on Facebook. Initially I was mortified. Not just in the ‘OMG I don’t believe I wore that’ way either. This photo was taken from a time when I used to sing country music and line dance every Tuesday night. (I don’t believe I admitted that in a blog)  Worse still was the fact that the other girls in the picture were all more beautiful, skinnier and more talented than me.

Then I actually looked at the picture. I looked at the figures on the screen and not the images as tainted by memory. I glowed with genuine joy, I looked innocent, beautiful and nothing like the chubby girl in my mind. I was flabbergasted. I had never seen myself that way before. Facebook’s saving grace – it reflects you. Good, bad or ugly.