Systematically Coping

Swotvac, or as its known to most of us students The-week-before-finals-when-you-try-to-learn-a-whole-semesters-worth-of-work-in-7-caffine-filled-sleep-deprived-unwashed-days always manages to bring out the strangest parts of me. Maybe it’s the sitting at a desk for 17 hours a day, or my body growing accustomed to artificial light to the point where I avoid direct sunlight because I actually think it’ll hurt me, or it could even be the complete overload and jumbled mess that is my brain trying to remember, in photographic detail, everything I am supposed to have learned these last few months. What I know is that my system always finds some strange method of dealing with the stress of this week. Last Swotvac I was in the uni library from an unmentionably early hour till I got kicked out when it shut just to go home and cram some more. I dealt with the stress that time by eating entire tubes of Berrocca, without water, and building pyramids out of coffee cups with Miss M and Miss Newspop. The Swotvac before that I dealt with my overload by spending long hours thinking of something to write in the copious email newsletters I sent, and after writing them eagerly checking my inbox every few minutes to see if I myself had gotten any emails. The Swotvac before that I used retail therapy – adding several, ok more than several, pairs of shoes to my collection in less than a week. The Swotvac before that I … well actually I don’t remember what I did to cope then. In fact, now that I think about it I don’t remember that week at all.

Needless to say I am once again enduring Swotvac and being half way through am realizing something I already knew. I don’t cope so well under stress. Well I guess I do, in that I always manage to get through it, but that’s only because my afore mentioned system starts going wacky as an outlet. This Swotvac seems to be no different. I’ve reached the point where I actually feel ok about going to uni in my trackies and thongs (for those of you who don’t see me all the time this almost never happens. The one time it did previously – also during Swotvac – I managed to bump into almost everyone I know at uni and they all independently commented on my attire). I currently consider biscuits and olive dip a fitting meal. For breakfast. Lunch. And dinner. When I actually do come into contact with other people I get all excited and nervous and full of pent up energy, like a puppy that’s been locked in a house alone for several days. My concentration on anything outside my studies is defunct – as proven when I tried to eat my highlighter and highlight with my toothbrush (what my toothbrush was doing in the living room is beyond me). I call a friend to have a break but don’t have anything to talk about because I have no life outside my homework. 15 minutes later I call them again and still have nothing to say. After typing my uni password a bagillion times I suddenly can’t remember it, or my log on (which is ldamman by the way – yeah, tricky).

This year’s coping mechanisms my system has developed? Late night TV and Exercise. I know, I know. First of all late night TV. By the time I go to bed it’s after 2.00am and I’m wiped but my mind is still buzzing so I can’t sleep. Instead I lay in bed and watch those quality shows on in the early hours of the morning. And those great late night adds. I now know the phone and txt numbers for Gaymatchmaker.com, Lesbian Lovers, Dirty Texts, Manga Porn for you Phone (yeah that one weirded me out) all by heart. I also have an urge to buy Proactive acne wash, even though I don’t have acne, and a robo-gym, which just scares me. As to the shows themselves, well as I lay here writing this ‘Life Talk’ is on. Don’t be misled by it’s catchy title, this show is actually an American chat show-style indoctrination program that just goes on and on, and on, and on, and on about how great it is to be Catholic, how it solves all your life problems including relationships, debt and financial needs, education and, oh yeah, spiritual well being. Not to mention Catholicism is the cure for world poverty, hunger and AIDS. If this blatant propaganda wasn’t so nauseating and offensive I might actually stop to wonder about how if Catholicism is such a fix-it-all and has been around for just over 2,000years why hasn’t it fixed? Then again I usually just switch over to the robo-gym infomercial and try and figure out how it gives you abs like that. Or the unknown Eastern European country’s news on SBS.

My other newfound … activity, seems to be exercise. This in itself is drastic. For long ago were the days when I welcomed, with well-toned arms wide open, extensive and highly beneficial exercise. Nope, these days I get my heart rate going by spending a whole day on uni campus in heels, or a whole night dancing, or some serious (or not too serious) sex. Or all of the above, preferably one after the other. However these past few days I’ve been getting a serious urge to build up a sweat on a treadmill (I hate running) or pull on my runners and head for the nearest park. So finally, this morning, I caved and did just that. I now know just how unfit I am, especially compared to what I used to be. Upon arriving at the carlton gardens I picked a moderate pace and chose a course covering the perimeter of the park. Turning my ipod up off I went.

45 minutes later I collapsed onto the ground gasping, red-faced and sweaty to the point where it looked like I’d been swimming. I was only ¾ of the way around but I couldn’t run, walk or crawl another step. Too hard, too soon (hehe, that sounds naughty, in a good way). Bad move Leah. My obvious distress at my body’s betrayal actually attracted the attention of a kind-hearted dog-walker and concerned she knelt beside me and asked if there was anyone she should call. The woman thought I was having a heart attack, or some kind of attack. Well that punctured my self-righteous I’m-a-hard-core-runner ego that I’d sorta half formed. When I managed to get my breath, and energy, back I thanked her for her concern and explained that I was really fine as her little dog continued to climb with his muddy little paws all over me. I didn’t have that much energy that I could stop him, or even flail about a bit to make him desist. The woman, clearly not believing me insisted on staying until I was able to get back on my feet. I waited until she was out of sight before attempting to walk. Thus, shakey-legged, clammy from old sweat, covered in dog footprints and disheveled I slowly, oh so slowly made my way back home. I almost wept as I crawled up the stairs and practically threw myself into the shower. Hopefully that got this urge for unfun exercise (aka not the three preferred methods i listed above) out of my system. I think the stiffness and soreness I am now experiencing whenever I, well, move will help with that.

Thus another Swotvac passes and I must content myself with the knowledge that in a few days it’ll all be over and I can detox my system’s latest kinks by going out till all hours of the night, drinking exciting new drinks, meeting highly unsuitable men, sleeping in, eating a regular diet (well regular for me), watching as much tv at regular viewing times as I want and having fun. Yes, it will all be worth it. I have to tell myself that.

Kisses, L.

Sick of being Singled out for being Single

A guest blogpost by the ever wonderful, brilliantly delightful Miss Lucy

As a single veteran I feel I am more than qualified to write on the subject of being single. Normally I would not give this more than say five minutes over coffee with a girlfriend, but events at my aunty’s 60th birthday yesterday drove me to such despair that I feel I have hi-jack Leah’s blog and get my feelings heard, if not just for my own peace of mind, for the greater good of all those single gal’s out there.

Family get togethers in my family, as I assume with most large family gatherings, are at best, a few hours spent over-eating, drinking, looking at the latest photos of aunty June’s grandkids; or at worst, shrinking away in disgust as aunty Margaret changes her colostomy bag, whilst your mum argues loudly with her sisters about who gets to host Christmas and why. Yesterdays 60th however, was an exception. After the annoying hour and a half drive out past Geelong, I spent the best part of three hours sitting around chatting to my gran and watching the younger generation pick up chips with there dirt stained fingers, lick them, then put them back in the bowl for another unsuspecting relative to pick up and eat. After the usual lull, the conversation inevitably turned to the subject of boyfriends, or in my case, lack thereof. My brother had dragged his girlfriend to the party and consequently spent the entire time sitting on the couch with an assortment of foods and drinks, not socialising with anyone. I made the effort to say hi and inquire about the health and well being of my relatives, only to be verbally abused and driven into a corner, simply for the fact that I wasn’t sitting on the couch, isolating myself from everyone with my boyfriend.

My gran was first. “So, are you seeing any boys at the moment?” After my negative response, the follow up was, “Why not? Are you not interested? How come your sister can get a boyfriend but you can’t?” How to respond to this baragement of questions? I felt like saying, ‘Why gran, didn’t you notice? I’ve got a second head growing from my shoulder, and a third eye, as well as a harelip.’ Instead however, I answered meekly, “I don’t know gran, yes I am interested, no I don’t know why my sister can and I can’t.” I slink away as fast as I can, only to run into another group of relatives who grasp at me and continue the boyfriend interrogation. “So Lucy, have you got a man on the scene?”, “next time we see you, we expect to see a handsome young man on your arm, hey?”, “So your brother and your sister both have girlfriends/boyfriends now, I see.”

Why I ask you, am I made to feel like I am somehow inferior, and socially retarded because I’m single. My cousin who is the same age as me, and also single, but male, does not receive any of this attention. In fact, my uncles and aunties laugh and joke about him being single, “that’s right, lad, don’t tie yourself down this young”, “have fun being young, that’s what I say mate”, “plenty of time for serious relationship later on, enjoy the single life my son”, they all say, patting him on the back, congratulating him for playing the field, for not getting attached, in other words, for staying single.

I don’t know why most of the single people I know are single. We’re all bright, attractive, intelligent and independent women, with no major physical or psychological flaws, yet single we are. The thing that really drives me crazy about my family, however, is that none of them even seem to consider the idea that maybe, just maybe, I’m doing ok without a boyfriend. I mean, it’s not like I’m about to graduate from a university degree, I have a job and support myself fully financially, have travelled successfully half way across the world by myself…Oh wait, it is like that! I am not saying a boyfriend wouldn’t be great, hell, at the moment I’m sick of the single life and would love to have someone to hangout with, to catch the train home with and to take to these heinous family gatherings, but lets just get one thing straight, in the wise words of the Pussy Cat Dolls, I don’t NEED a man. I have a great life, I have a wonderful bunch of girlfriends who are always around whenever I need them and we have loads of fun together. I don’t need to sit at home waiting for my knight in shining armour to come and carry me off into the sunset, I can drive myself.