WTS DAY XXXIV

Am not really in the form for doing anything, but am writing this so as not to miss an X on the Seinfeld-inspired calender. I have been starved of social outings and right now I am supposed to be at a MeetUp, but I amn't, obviously. The bus into town passed me as I crossed the road to the shop to purchase a San Pellegrino before it closed at 8 o'clock and I did have a mad notion of hopping on it (I should have been on it really) but being in my Penney's jeans and old shirt, with my make-up untouched since one o'clock, I decided against it. I am a flake. 

I am an exhausted flake. It is so hot! It's gone beyond funny at the stage. Am having an Fe tablet along with the San Pellegrino, in case the problem is anaemia. I got up late and was going to spend the day at home but the boredom got to me and I went into town. Yes, I fell. No, I did not purchase anything style/beauty related. Instead I went to Vibes n Scribes and spent forty-two euro on books. I got four books for that, which is good. I have one almost finished already: Jamie Bartlett's "The People v Tech". It confirmed what I already know, and was almost enough for me to spontaneously delete my Facebook account. I have considered this in the past, not just because of their data-gathering and ad-targeting, but also because of the baby photos and the holiday photos and the whole nauseating #blessed #family smorgasbord of smug. It's long gone from my phone. It is impossible to cut the cord though. How would I know? How would I know that the man I was in a relationship with this time two years ago has gotten engaged? How would I know that my university-friend who is at least two years older than I am is pregnant with her first baby? How could I keep watch for evidence that the Man Who Went to the Far East has finally settled-down out there? [the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence]. On a practical level, I am in two professionally-linked private groups. Facebook is handy for that kind of thing. It would be possible, of course, to close my personal account and rejoin the professional groups using a new account. They would know it was me, but I could pick a name that would not be recognisable, and have no pictures. That would be a solution. That I'm not considering it means I am afraid. Facebook does seem  like a way to "keep in touch", but this is an illusion. 

The other books I bought were James Comey's "A Higher Loyalty", "Move Fast and Break Things" by somebody (similar in theme to the Bartlett book) and a reference-guide to Greek mythology. I had intended to buy two Joseph O'Neill books in the secondhand section. They had at least two copies of all his books last week, but I had taken a punt only on "Netherland" and when I went back today for the others they were gone. Will end up buying them full-price in Waterstones. For my morning reading, I am going to switch back to William Trevor. I heard a Gretchen Rubin podcast yesterday that suggested, if you want to reprise a discontinued activity, to recreate the conditions under which you engaged in this activity regularly and with enthusiasm. When I was writing a lot I

-lived in Dublin

-was reading a lot of William Trevor

-was seeing a lot of plays

-was going out all the time

-had no laptop and was writing/typing on the communal computers in Trinity.

Maybe I could try the last strategy when I have my student ID for UCC. By the time I get one though, I'll be in the school phase of my bimodal work schedule. I don't think an internet café would work in the same way. In fact, the computer labs in summer would be the perfect place to be writing. I will get on to this problem next week. Of course, an alternative would be to bring the laptop over to the college and find a place to work over there. I'd need to buy a decent case to carry the thing in. Now that's a shopping expedition I could engage in without feeling guilty. 

WTS XXXI

So I opened a Twitter account yesterday and tweeted a link to this blog, but I have since deleted the tweet. I still have the account and may use it as an alternative account to my main one. I deleted the tweet because even though I wanted views on the blog, it's a case of being careful what you wish for. Quite a few of the views were from Ireland, and I did not like the thought that some of those people were people who know me IRL and there's me going on about my photophobia, my period knickers and my feelings about my family situation. 

Why put these things on the internet anyway? Ironically partly because I had read an article on Swedish Death Cleaning and I didn't like the idea of dying suddenly and having whoever cleans out my house reading through the paper diaries I have kept since the age of nine. I can't bring myself to destroy the old ones, but at least this is a way of reducing the amount of new ones. This may seem at odds with my announcement a few days ago that I would discuss the big development in my paper diary rather than on-line. But it's not the thought of some-one discovering my musings on the big events of life that bother me: it's the embarrassment of them reading my compulsive recording of trivia and my cringe-inducing enslavement to the self-improvement industry. 

Looking at previous entries yesterday in the knowledge that other people were seeing them (a good few got themselves reverted to drafts) resulted in self-accusations of narcissism. I suppose narcissism has two elements: one is inflated self-regard, and the second is obsession with the self as opposed to more healthy engagement with the outside world. The two go together in some respects. There is definite evidence of the second, but what about the first? I think it's there to some degree. It's the belief in the possibility of Great Things, that I would be living a fabulous life were it not for the fuck-ups of myself and others. That I am only living this particular life as a result of a series of unfortunate events. And from that comes a sadness and an anger and lots of resentment. 

There is a contradiction in feeling a failure at being extraordinary and simultaneously a failure at being ordinary. Why couldn't I manage the simplest, most normal thing of all for a woman and have a child? Why has no-one ever wanted to marry me and for us to have a family together? Why am I so ridiculously sensitive? 

There are no self-help books on how to recover from narcissism, which is pity because it's probably the one trait that most negatively affects the consumers of self-help advice. The phrase "self-help" itself carries connotations of narcissism. A quick search on Amazon reveals lots of material on dealing with the narcissist in your life (a case of the mote and the beam?) but not a single one on how to become less narcissistic. Maybe such a book would be an oxymoron. Or maybe I've just discovered a gap in the market.......

WTS Day XXIII

Will have to become more disciplined with this. It's twenty-five to eleven already and I have been up since half-seven. That is more than three hours to meditate, walk up to the shop, have breakfast, read ten minutes' worth of Joseph O'Neill's "Neverland", call the person I'm not supposed to be calling (call lasted ten minutes which is much shorter than normal) and turn on the computer. All that except the phone call could have been done in under an hour. I still have not exercised yet. That is supposed to slot in before reading time, but I have been excusing myself on the grounds of stiffness and saying I'll fit it in later but of course that doesn't happen. 

It is good to get up early these mornings as once the heat sets in it's impossible to get anything done. I have ordered Dorothea Brande's book from amazon, even though giving up amazon/bookdepository is supposed to be one of my goals. I am determined to do some actual writing today. Yesterday all I did was enter the Moth Prize, and send a story to The Stinging Fly. That's important too though. I end up entering the same competitions every year and missing the same competitions every year because the deadlines pass me by during the year. This is purely a case of failure to prioritise. 

My latest discovery is the Emma Guns Podcast. In particular her series on 26Habits. She has a lovely speaking voice and covers topics I am interested in. I have decided to start my own 26Habits series, to run concurrently with WTS (which is soon to run concurrently with Plastic-Free July). My first habit challenge is going to be staying out of all TKMaxx shops for two solid weeks. I am a TKMaxx whore and spend far too much time and money in there. Yes, it is often very good value and I have bought good things there like my winter coat that I wear all the time, but I have developed a checking habit. It is the vestiges of my evolutionary hunter-gatherer past. Here was a good shrub for berries. It's not 100% reliable but that only adds to the urge to check, unpredictable reward schedules being the key to reinforcing behaviour and all that. My most frequent purchases from there are beauty products, and I do not need Another Cleanser or Lovely Shower-gel. I say this partly because there was excellent value in the Heathrow Duty-Free and I held back thinking of all my stash I still have to get through and the bulk of the beauty fatberg is product purchased in TKMaxx. 

I have only one more big event to go in my Win the Summer schedule and that is a three-day writing course. The week before I have been invited to join my brother and his wife at her parents' holiday home. I am tempted but the last thing I want is to be spending hours on the beach or going on enforced marches (sorry, walks) on long, low-hedged country roads. If I could go and just hole up in my room. One way it would be good is that I could bring the laptop but there is, AFAIK, no wifi down there. Will see. 

WTS Day XXI

I have made it to Day 21, but my 5 Minute Journal hasn't. I think I left in the hotel in Dublin , where I stayed on Friday night. I have rung them but they haven't found it. There is a possibility that it'll turn up here, but I doubt it will. That is because there is only one place in the case where it would have been, and it's not there. I wrote in it yesterday morning, but must have missed it when it came to packing up. Maybe it is a good idea to bring my packing list with me for packing for home as well as packing for departure.
The reason I was looking for it was to make a list of the Lessons of the Day I have been learning since starting WTS. Because it has been so hard I feel like I need to at least have learnt some lessons from the experience.
I certainly didn't feel like I was winning the summer when sitting on the 102 bus in from Dublin Airport. The sun was beating in on me and I couldn't get comfortable as the bus lurched and stopped and my case was banging against my legs. I was so sick of that case, having spent the week minding it and watching it and bringing it everywhere with me. The flight had started badly with me spilling half a bottle of Diet Coke over Keith Duffy's immaculate runners. Then we were held on the plane for ages as they didn't have the sky-bridge ready. Then I didn't know where the 102 went from (though in fairness it didn't take me too long to find it). Then I was the only person who wanted to get off at the tennis club, but I didn't press the bell and the bus was on to the next stop before I got off. I was frazzled in the extreme, but the hotel was lovely and I slept almost as well as I would have at home.
I was also pre-menstrual the whole time. These things happen. But that is probably the biggest factor in how overwhelmed I felt. I was having a nervous breakdown on the bus, hyperventilating and moaning, with other passengers asking if I was okay. I just couldn't cope any more. And my ears had popped  during the quick landing.
I felt relief this morning that I have my travel over with for the summer. I know that when it beds down it will have done me good. I saw things I hadn't seen before. Even though I though Bordeaux would be my main holiday and was pissed off with myself for booking the London trip at all, it was the London trip I got more out of in the end. I think I appreciated it so much after the experience in France. I saw the Westfield shopping centre, and the V&A, and I went to the big Waterstones in Piccadilly(waste really) and went to the National Theatre and I  met two friends on consecutive nights. I love London and am hopping mad over Brexit. Like most thinking people. I felt like I could have spent more time there, and I'm looking forward to going back in September. I think I might change my flight to earlier in the day that Friday, to give myself more time. The one thing I really missed was having the laptop to write in and blog as well. I think I could invest in a portable laptop, definitely.
The Westfield shopping centre was the most interesting thing I saw and I could have gone back there to do some shopping on the second day. The sales were on and all the chain-stores are cheaper there anywhere even outside of the sales. It is Europe's largest shopping centre but there is no bookshop there. On the one hand, the choice is intoxicating, but on the other the empty consumerism is nauseating. I am conflicted between wanting to have nice things and live as elegant a lifestyle as I can, and feeling that none of those things matter and they are a false trap for my attention. Coming to a compromise here is something worth thinking about. I think scheduling and limiting the amount of time devoted to shopping is part of the solution.

On Not Gving a F**k

In an irreverent move I have decided that this year's Lenten penance will be giving up giving a fuck. As soon as I write that, it seems coarse and vulgar and not how it felt in my head. Seeing the word "fuck" isolates it, and makes me think of its literal meaning, whereas the phrase hung as a unit in my mind. I was waiting to respond to the next person who asked me "What are you giving up for Lent?"
"Giving a fuck."
What do I mean anyway? Worrying? Caring? Caring what other people think? It's hard to pin down. Caring so much about non-existent or potential observers maybe. Or calculating the knock-on effects of my actions, or more usually inaction, to the nth degree. Maybe.
Yesterday I was asked, by you can guess who, what advice would I give to myself at the age of eighteen, or nineteen, or twenty. I normally skip over these ages as a time where little would've helped, preferring to castigate my sixteen year old and twenty-five year old selves. So what would I say to my twenty year old self? Twenty is harder than eighteen or nineteen.
Give yourself a chance. You are worth more than this miserable existence you're enduring. I think the latter is harder to say; you can't say it, you can only make people feel it. I go back to give yourself a chance.
Take a chance on yourself. Take a chance that if you work hard it'll work out. I was an awful slacker, almost the definition of a self-saboteur. I can see myself in Kristen Neff's book "Self-Compassion" in the character who leaves buying black shoes until the morning of his wedding. I've always been a Last Minute Lucy, hoping for a miracle or accident to save the day. Neff writes "Failure of some sort is inevitable when we only make a half-hearted effort." I would say to myself: I know you hate the pastoral section of the 16th century poetry course, but don't bank on mutability coming up. Remember Leaving Cert Irish when you left out "Fill Aris" and that was the poem on the paper? All the work you did (at least 90% of the course) was a waste because you didn't cover all the bases.
Give yourself a chance, as much as you give others a chance. So what if none of your friends are doing French and the classes are on at awkward times in awkward locations? All that matter is that you are doing French.
Focus on you. This is your time to focus on you. Stop being hung up on the parents/the family/ your mental health/ Sylvia Plath. In fact if there is one piece of advice that would benefit not just myself at half the age I am now, but millions of other post-adolescent young women it is this: You Are Not Sylvia Plath. Focus on you now, and as a result you'll eventually have more interesting things than yourself to focus on.
Take a chance. Go out with that nice boy who likes you. Take a chance. Eat those dinners and stop propping that exit door ajar. There's an awful draught.

Why Buying Books is Okay, Even When You Already Own a Copy

One week into the 90 day challenge and how's it looking? Today -  the first real test - was a partial success; I used two parking discs rather than paying for the multi-storey car-park; I escaped from TKMaxx with nothing more than an item of practical underwear, even though tempted by array of bargain-some beauty product. Why did I even go there in the first place? It's my habit: a habit compounded by the shop's addiction-forming variable-reward system.
I'd had lunch at home and met a friend for hot chocolate before caving and stocking up in M&S.  At that stage I was tired and knew full well that that was willpower-depletion. I could have chosen to push through, to go buy some real food from local businesses. But sometimes knowing why you're doing something doesn't make it easier to not do it. Or, it doesn't make it easier enough.
I also bought a book. Buying books is allowed, as I have rarely regretted buying a book. Even awful self-help books that seemed - on inspection in Waterstones - to hold the secret to transforming my life only to be lots and lots of wasted ink and dead tree. With books you have to kiss a lot of frogs. Not only will you meet some Book Princes, you will over time develop a sixth sense for a book's amphibian-factor. The book I bought today is a Prince. I knew it would be, being "Better than Before" the latest from Gretchen Rubin. Not only have I read Rubin's previous two books, I'd also read this book. I bought it last month. I am a Book-Buyer-Lender-Buyer. Lending books to other people is one of my life's greatest pleasures. It's akin to the hobby of match-making, although there is a downside. This is that a book on loan is not a book on the shelf. And a book on loan may sometimes become a book lost. So every now and again, I will deliberately buy a book rather than resent the very book-reader relationship that I myself set up.
I like Rubin's book. It's witty and thought provoking and I like that she eschews playing amateur cognitive psychologist (although there's plenty of reference to actual research) in favour of anecdote and personal musings.   I even like that she neatly insists that since I disagree totally with her unscientific division of humanity into four habit types (Upholders, Rebels, Obligers and Questioners), this very resistance indicates that I'm a "rebel".