It's Claire as mud

When it takes someone else pointing out that you’ve put on five kilos to realise it, when your attempt at a healthy breakfast means a smoothie down your freshly ironed skirt, and when your dog decides your favourite bra is his favourite chew toy is when the simple pleasures in life are more important than ever – not that a more complicated pleasure like winning $20 million and having to call in rich wouldn’t be welcomed too, but you take what you can get.

Yep, this seemingly innocent pup has a fetish for women’s underwear.

You know your day is turning to poop when it starts with you stuck on a bus with a pack of J’aime wannabes screaming out phrases like ‘he is totes gross’, followed by a longing look at the spotted youth on the left. Which is then followed by J’aime or the acne activated Adonis offering you their seat because you’re so old. Grrrr. Yes, I will sit down, but only because my shoes are so awesome I can’t walk in them, not because I am ready to be shipped off to the nursing home.

But all can seem right with the world when seemingly simple pleasures cross your fateful path. No, I’m not getting all freaky deaky, dream-catcher-y, path of enlightenment-y on your tush, but crawling into bed with fresh sheets last night just about made, what was otherwise an incredibly crappy day. Is there any better feeling in the world than fresh sheets on your bed? Or when you find a new cool section of sheet? Or am I completely batty?

What is it about a full tank of petrol that makes me feel invincible? Maybe it’s the thought that I could almost make it to Dunnedoo without stopping, except for a visit to the dunnydoo. Or maybe it’s just the fact I won’t have to make an embarrassing phone call to my lovely mechanic husband, Mr C, or the RACQ to say ‘Help me! I ran out of petrol half way down the street because I am so lazy I couldn’t be bothered walking less than a kilometre to pick up milk.’

And why oh why does nothing taste better than the first Jatz out of the packet or the first bowl of Cornflakes from the packet?

The lovely Rebecca Sparrow coined the term ‘Best Free Feelings’: feelings, activities or experiences that make you feel wonderful, but don’t cost a cent (or much). So what are your small wonders or best free feelings?

And because we’re talking about small wonders, this is a small blog entry. So there.

At my lovely friend’s birthday celebrations I found myself cornered by her friend Sara*, who had perhaps enjoyed a few too many shandies – evidenced by her shrieking loudly and tunelessly along to SingStar and admitting, without coercion, she loved Celine Dion (sorry, I just vomited in my mouth a little).  She had taken it upon herself to grill me as to when I was having children.  Despite sending out ‘save me’ signals to Mr C, he did not come to my rescue– what good are ya?!  I had met Sara about three or four times before this and I have friends I have known for a lot longer than even three or four years who wouldn’t ask this question.

Her heart might go on, but so will my upchucking if she’s doesn’t shut her trap.

Now, I understand that when a lady reaches the big 30, as Sara recently had, she might ask herself the question ‘do I want to have children?’, if she hasn’t done so already.  But just because you’re asking yourself that question, does not mean you get to ask EVERYONE that question.

Not entirely unfamiliar with this line of enquiry, I was quite pleased to have a good excuse to not give an actual answer.  It was exactly a week after some minor surgery on my stomach/womby bits, so I told Sara Stickybeak that it wasn’t really high on my priority list at the moment, and I was just concentrating on recovering.

‘You’re 32!  You don’t have time to think about it!  Your eggs are shrivelling as we speak.  Is there something wrong with you?  Why don’t you want to have children?  You’ll regret it if you don’t!  I know heaps of people who had the condition you had, and they had no trouble getting pregnant.’

Well thank you Dr Can’t-handle-my-grog, would you also like to find out how old I was when Aunt Flo first came to town and if I have an innie or an outtie?

I was rather taken aback by her interest in my reproductive plans, but also quite amazed at her ability to know how empty my life would be without children, considering she didn’t have any of her own.  I was also concerned that I must be presenting myself as a prize-winning nincompoop if she honestly thought I had no idea that a female’s fertility declines with age.  Thank you for alerting me to the fact I’m on the double black diamond ski run to barren-town, Captain Obvious.

It seems to me this type of questioning is becoming more common, but thought of as acceptable if it’s prefaced with ‘I don’t mean to pry…’ or ‘I know it’s none of my business, but…’ You’re right!  It is none of your business.  Why do you need to know how much I earn each year, how I voted or if I’m a devout Shintoist?  I will not give you that information unless you pay me $80 as part of a focus group or if I drink the better part of a bottle of Pinot Grigio and you don’t even ask.  It’s in the same ball park as: ‘No offense, but… you’re fat/you smell/ I hate you/ did you realise your hair-do resembles that of a person who ran through a bush backwards?’

Pinot grigio? Or truth serum?

It’s a slightly different category, but another ‘get your nose out’ scenario is when those bloody annoying men – yes, I’m generalising, but it is mainly men in my experience – who insist on directing you when you park your car.  I don’t believe that it is your trolley I am about to run into so please bugger off and annoy someone else with your ‘almost, almost, now turn right hard.’  I believe they just roam shopping centre car parks directing women on how to park – probably because they don’t have a woman at home directing them how to dress themselves.  Boardshorts are not appropriate to wear anywhere sand is not found.

Another example:  after hearing the lovely news that my boss gave birth to a little girl over the weekend, I began spreading the goss around work come Monday morning.  On the phone to IT officer, Abby, she proceeded to ask if my boss had her baby vaginally.  Ew.  I know how babies come out.  I have no issue with the word vagina (he he).  But seriously, we are not gynecologists, we don’t need to use that word in our work environment.  And I generally don’t like to spend any time thinking about my boss’s bajingo.   I told Abby I didn’t know and she then asked if I could find out.  No!  I will not be asking the person who keeps me in gainful employment how her hoo-ha is after pushing out a munchkin.  Bleccch.

So in the famous words of Kim, of Kath and Kim fame, you know your beeswax?  Why doncha mind it?  And in keeping with the reoccurring (sorry) Kath and Kim theme, what nosy parker questions really get up your goat?

*Sara is not her real name, but Nosy-Nelly-with-a-City Hall-sized-biological-clock doesn’t roll so trippingly off the tongue.

Nothing like a bit of Dutch courage in the pub to pull up a dirty pervert for gluing their eyes to your mammaries, but it’s slightly different in the workplace.

Hot damn, there are a lot of perverts wandering the halls of workplaces everywhere, but I can’t really go chucking my daily can of Diet Coke in an inappropriate boobwatcher’s face in the office, whereas I wouldn’t hesitate dumping my Corona on their head if we were at the Story Bridge Hotel.

I’m not exactly giving Pamela Anderson a run for her money, but far out, anyone would have thought I had that day’s footy scores tattooed on my boosies by the way a former workmate used to stare at them. I’m a gals’ gal, so wasn’t super comfortable about a secondment to a team full of men in the first place, but Pervy McStaresalot certainly did not help the situation.

In fact, his line of vision was so permanently stuck on my chest it became a rather large workplace health and safety issue, because I threw my back out from crossing my arms so much at work. Poohead. You owe me about $300 in physiotherapy fees.

Maybe she lost her keys in there?

I live a relatively quiet life with the ladies – they don’t get out much, and we all like it that way – so it wasn’t like I was flinging them around or leaning over his shoulder in low cut tops. I don’t even own a low cut top.

The poor fella acted like these were the first set he’d ever seen and all he had to do was look down or in a mirror to see a set not that dissimilar in size to mine. Also, there was a rather curvaceous lass on the same floor who defied the laws of physics by not falling over every time she stood up – so why oh why was he looking at my moderately sized and therefore not so fun bags every time I had to talk to him?

Even though we sat in the same cubicle, I rather lazily and cowardly resorted to sending him emails so I didn’t have to talk to him. I also avoided having to stand in front of him wherever I could lest I trip and inadvertently find myself in an accidental motorboating scenario – shudder.

But it’s still a fact that indirect sexual harassment is alive and well in the modern work place. My delightful friend Elisa relayed a story about a work trip interstate, where a rather uncomfortable work dinner scenario played itself out.

After a lovely main course and a couple of friendly glasses of wine with her interstate counterparts and their national manager, it came time to discuss the most important matter of business – dessert. Strangely, her boss insisted on sharing a dish with her, but Elisa tried not to think too much of it, until her boss defined his idea of sharing a plate meant prodding her mouth with the pudding on a spoon toddler aeroplane style.

Figuring it would be less embarrassing to choke the mousse down, rather than wear it home, Elisa did so, but losing all appetite in the process. She then endured ongoing uncomfortable comments from her boss for the rest of the evening and unrelenting teasing from her workmates for the rest of her visit to the national offices.

But how do you address these thinly veiled crack-ons without looking like a whinging woman or drawing other workmates’ attention to the situation? (Aside… why is it women only being defined as whingers?  Grrrr.)

…except if you’re Elisa’s boss, then absolutely not!

Well, you don’t. I’m sure my boss would have appreciated me storming into his office and saying ‘Alan*, unless you start paying Stuart* in $5 notes, so he can start shoving them into my clothing, I cannot continue to work here – my boosies and I cannot work under these conditions.’Because the fact of the matter is, apart from feeling quite embarrassed and finding it necessary to wear a sports bra and a skivvy to work every day, despite it being the middle of summer, it wasn’t really stopping me from doing my job.

So I am ashamed to say I let down the sisterhood by doing nothing.  I just let good old Pervy burn holes into my Hooty McBoobs and silently willed him to go blind in the process.  My secondment finally ended and I gratefully went back to my usual workplace, where 95% of my team carried the same booby burden as I did.

So, have you ever been on the receiving end of a slimy workplace mofo’s advances?  Or, more interestingly, have you ever been the instigator?

A former colleague and I were chatting about our resume layout and I asked for his take on the skills and interest section of a CV.  Some people like to list their skills (Word, Dreamweaver, Power Point… sorry, I just fell asleep) and their hobbies (netball, skydiving, taxidermy) and I kind of wondered why.  Surely if you’re applying for a particular role, if you’ve had some experience in the area, you wouldn’t need to list down the fact you can use a computer and why would a potential employee give a flying fig that you like to knit outfits for your cat and participate in fight club behind the supermarket every Friday night?

I’m not really a person with a lot of hobbies and definitely nothing worth listing on a resume.  I don’t think walking the dog, being an active member of a girls’ basket bike* gang, reading an obscene amount of crappy chick-lit, watching an unhealthy amount of television and squeezing my husband’s blackheads count as hobbies. Then I started thinking about skills, yes I can use a computer and sometimes construct a grammatically correct sentence, but I am capable of far more than this.  I possess mad skillz that need a whole new section of a resume… very mild superpowers!

DISCLAIMER: I cannot claim the term ‘Very Mild Superpowers’ as my own.  David O’Doherty is the inventor of the concept.  Mr O’Doherty’s song ‘Very Mild Super Powers’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghxnKDBadSk talked about the brilliantly mundane and mundanely brilliant skills we have.

My very mild superpowers or VMSP may not seem to be the most useful skills, but here is why they should be included on a resume.

VMSP #1 – I can guess most popular songs within the first couple of introductory seconds.  This makes me incredibly useful on trivia nights and most workplaces have a social club that have nights dressed up as trivia comps to thinly veil excuses for binge drinking, arse groping and angry co-worker rants.

VMSP #2 – I make a mean cupcake, including rainbow themed ones.  So not only would I be incredibly useful in a gay-pride cook off, you know I could bring it for workmate birthdays and farewells and surrupticiously make nasty workmates fat by caking them to death.

You wanna piece of this?!

VMSP #3 – I can iron a men’s business shirt with gusto.  I am however incredibly grateful I live in a non-sexist household where my husband does most of his own ironing because there isn’t much of it as he wears a non-crush uniform everyday.  Not sure how this goes on a resume, but if I was a fella wearing business shirts to work everyday, you can bet your sweet bippy they’d be fresh to death, just ignore the Milo stains, please.

VMSP #4 – I can ski.  Which may not appear useful for a born and bred Queenslander, but you know if I got caught up in some corporate espionage and was being chased by an evil mastermind down the Swiss Alps, James-Bond-style, I won’t fall down – well, I MIGHT not fall down.  I can’t promise anything.

VMSP #5 – I can make up a song about my cat to most top 40# songs.  ‘Peggy Cat’ to the tune of ‘SexyBack’ demonstrates my lyrical genius.  Not quite sure how this would benefit a workplace, but every office needs a crazy cat lady, right?

See, this is all really useful stuff for a future employer.  You don’t even need to interview me, you know I’m an excellent hire just from the list of my VMSP.

How could you not write a song about this stunning lady?

Your VMSP don’t just have to be useful for employment, they can be great life skills also.  My mother’s VMSP is being able to fix most small fabric tears in a fashion that is undetectable to the human eye.  My husband’s VMSPs include constructing a dog house for the grand total of 87 cents.

So, what are your very mild superpowers?

*Basket bikes are bikes made for style rather than speed.  Imagine a push bike in Paris, well that’s what our bikes look like.  Minus the beret, baguette, flowers and accordion music.  Oui oui.

Well, at least you know she’d be safe in the instance of a water landing…

Trying to enjoy my morning Weet-bix, while wrestling the dog away from my bowl, I was half watching the Today show when I almost went blind. No, Karl Stefanovic wasn’t showing off his hairy legs again – shudder – but an ad for the US Voice temporarily robbed my vision. You see, I had just copped an eye-full of Christina Aguilera cleavage at the funbag-unfriendly time of 7am. While black dots danced in front of my eyes in place of Christina’s bazoongas I asked, isn’t there a time where you should just put it away?Granted, I am not the best person to ask the important question of how much boob is too much boob – I say bring back the neck to knee swim wear of days of yore – but far out, when I asked for milk on my cereal I didn’t expect a B-grade starlet on telly to provide it to me direct.

What was so jarring about seeing some ta-tas on breakky television? A bit of boob canyon at 7pm isn’t offensive, so I wonder what the acceptable boosie changeover time is.

I am now baffled at how much cleavage is now an actual visual consideration these days. There is traditional cleavage, there is side boob and its associated cleavage, there is bum cheek cleavage (where your shorts are so damn hoochy that your bot hangs out), and the traditional plumbers’ cleavage. Seriously peeps, please buy clothes that fit you.

I believe we are on a slippery slope to Nudieville. It’s not unusual to catch a glimpse of bum cheek down at the supermarket most days and it’s freaking Winter. Perhaps if I was the type that would have Miranda Kerr refusing to be in the same room as me because I was just too much of a slammin’ hottie, I might strut around in outfits that could double as fishing line or dental floss. But even then the sheer maintenance involved – like having to shave your legs regularly, another reason I LOVE Winter – is enough to put me off this idea. Oh and the fact that I am about 50% made up of cake at the moment.

Yes, I have waxed lyrical about worrying about what young ladies wear into the Valley on a night out, but it’s not just the ladies that are letting it all hang out, it’s also the fellas. I’m sorry, I know blokes have nipples, but it doesn’t mean I need to see them while you trudge your way down the street in your slashed fluoro singlet, in your fluoro Ray-Ban Wayfarer replicas to whatever flouro, doof-doof festival is playing at the RNA showgrounds this week. Exposed man nipples only allowed in public at the pool or the beach, mmm-kay. Why do men have nipples anyway? What a completely pointless feature. It’s like an appendix or a Lara Bingle on their chest.

And why do men think it is ok to take their shirt off in public once the temperature gets over 24 degrees? It’s not that hot and I don’t need to see your man cans while you put petrol in your bogan-mobile. I’m sure they’d love it if women followed suit, but the saggy-boosie issue aside, no one wants to get arrested and we’re not at a Motley Crue concert.

I think I just wanted to write this because there are so many funny names for breasts. What are your favourite words for body parts?

No, he definitely didn’t fall out of the ugly tree.

How do you handle yourself when you’re in the presence of a truly gorgeous person?  I don’t mean run of the mill attractive, I mean so really, really, ridiculously good-looking that Ryan Gosling and Sofia Vergara would prefer not to be seen in their company. If you’re anything like me, you turn into a gibbering idiot.  Quite embarrassing considering I am used to very nice looking people – I’m married to an extremely handsome man.  Yep, batting above my average and loving it!  And no, he didn’t pay me to say that.

There are some people that glisten with an ethereal smattering of out-of-this-worldness that makes them so stunningly attractive it seems like they shouldn’t be walking the streets of Brisbane, rather on billboards over Times Square or mid-town Tokyo.  Some people are just so g-darned gorgeous, they’re not longed for this world.

Maybe it’s seeing these super-humans in a mundane setting, like the local pub or the Medicare office that throws me off, but I swear I can’t look directly at them.  It’s like staring into the sun – if I look at these stunners too long, I will permanently damage my retinas.  Or maybe I’m concerned that while drowning in the limpid pools of their irises, I will catch a glimpse of my own reflection and spontaneously combust after a very large shudder.

Several years ago at a friend’s birthday drinks at a famous Brisbane watering hole, a friend of her family turned up to help her celebrate.  To say he was handsome does not do him justice.  A modern day David combined with the dashing charisma of George Clooney begins to just touch the surface… Another friend, who happened to have her husband in attendance, grabbed the birthday girl by the arm and whisper-shrieked ‘Who is that?!’

‘Oh that’s just my friend, Blah-Blah.’  I can’t remember his name, I don’t think I was listening. I was busy trying not to feel the effects of whiplash from my neck swivelling between Pub Adonis and my shoes.

Anyway, Blah-Blah hung around the group all night and seemed to have the same effect on every woman, even when her husband or boyfriend was standing right next to her.  ‘How can someone that good-looking even exist?  He looks like he belongs on the cover of a romance novel, but I actually mean that in the nicest possible way.’  Hissed one of the girls.  ‘Sorry, hon.’ She said quietly to her boyfriend.  ‘Don’t worry.  I get it,’ he kindly excused her.  The boys seemed to be chatting away quite merrily with Blah-Blah and jostling to get closest to him – so the preternaturally good-looking have magical powers over any and all sexual persuasions, probably animals and bebes too.

I have personal experience that proves extraordinary good-lookingness defies gender.  Despite being straight, I’ve found myself tongue-tied and flushed in front of a lady telly journo at a press conference because she was so startlingly pretty.  Am I completely shallow that I was hoping she would want me to be her best friend just because she looked like the human embodiment of a flower and smelled better than just-baked bread, freshly mown grass and a baby’s head combined?

But after all this completely superficial nonsense, it’s amazing how the gloss can be so quickly removed with one poor taste comment, one stupid question (yes, there are stupid questions) or one racist/sexist/bigoted remark.  Case in point, an astonishingly gorgeous gent standing next to me at a bar was discussing the Indigenous All Stars Rugby League match in rather unsavoury terms with his mates.  Despite him using actual words, all I heard was: ‘blah blah blah, I’m a racist pig.  Yak yak yak, amazing I can manage to dress myself everyday considering my level of stupidity.’  Suddenly, the veil of attractiveness was removed, and there sat the elephant man’s less attractive brother.  And if it really was the elephant man’s less attractive brother and he told a very funny joke or gave up his seat for a little old lady, then his elephantine features would soften a little.

So I guess the moral of the story is, admiring gorgeous-ness makes me one superficial rabbit, but I know you can only stare into the sun for short periods of time before you go blind or get bored*.  Wow, that sounded really grubby.  Staring into the sun is not a euphemism for something else.

* Except for you, Mr C – I could stare at you all day long.

I’m embarrassed to say it, but I already miss the Voice. Monday nights will be seriously lacking in the over-blown power ballad and wind-machine stakes now it’s over. Who’s going to hump the swivelly chairs now that Seal and his male polish (see what I did there?!) have headed back to being Heidi Klum’s ex-husband? Who’s going keep Australia’s hair extension industry in business if Delta isn’t on air every week? God, think about the toothpicks that will start piling up now that Joel isn’t here to chew them. And Keith, oh Keith – you made us believe that short country singers from Caboolture could be attractive, something we never thought we’d witness in our lifetimes. By the way, what is it with Nicole Kidman and short men? That lady goes through shorties like a boss.

Peace, y’all.

Say what you like about reality television being the demise of family entertainment, but I don’t care. I can’t get enough. Any form of media that allows me to yell at it is ok by me.

Don’t you love that reality television allows you to become an armchair expert in anything? Ooh, that Lakyn (seriously, what did that kid ever do to his parents?) was just a bit flat, his singing style is so affected. Andrew’s oil is definitely boiling and he needs to remember to pack his terrine in tightly or he is going home. I can barely manage to make spag bol, but I do love being able to speak with authority on what elements that stoopid cry-baby Emma from MasterChef needs to include in her stock. That whingey one (I don’t know their name, but there is always one) from the Block really has no feel for textures in their soft furnishings.

I also love that you can make loud and completely unfounded judgements on reality television participants’ personalities. Julia on MasterChef is a flaming beeotch. She is so completely up herself. Case in point: ‘I find it hard to be bad at things’. Oh, Jules, I can give you an example, you’re bad at being humble and likeable. Oh look, I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl and sister sure can rock a pair of glasses – unlike her 2012 Alumni, Alice. I swear my mother wore those same glasses in 1984 – but I do like that I can make this entire personality summation based on a poor choice of words. Celebrity Apprentice was also fertile ground for this. Deni Hines, if you ever get a job that is of higher calibre than Twin Towns or its ilk I will drop dead from surprise. Her misdirected sense of importance and delusional measure of her own star power was absolutely astounding, but highly entertaining all at the same time. You can’t look away from a car crash, even when it’s a metaphorical one played out by a Z-grade ‘celebrity’.

Oh finally! My Mum’s been trying to find her glasses for the last 27 years!

I’ve always thought that combining the physical challenges of Survivor and Australian Idol would be quite entertaining. It could be called Singing for your supper or I’m (almost) a celebrity get me out of here. Wait, I think that’s an actual show. Anyways, competitors are placed in a remote wilderness, but to get food and stay in the competition, they have to compete in regular physical challenges, while performing musical numbers. This would be far more entertaining than listening to dirt-streaked outward-bounders whinging about having to eat cockroaches for dinner. They could instead talk about their musical journey and do Lady Gaga medleys while standing on a post for eight hours.

I don’t care if reality television is scripted… meh. I don’t want to watch some person stammer and stumble over their words like I do all day – in that respect, reality is very much overrated.

Mind you, not sure about jumping on the Big Brother bandwagon second time around. Watching peeps scratching their bits and listening to them bitch about someone drinking all the Milo is not my idea of a fun sailboat ride.

What is your favourite reality show or what type of reality show would you like to see?

Mean Girls? They’re probs not that bad.

Our team’s admin assistant pointed out to me the other day, in her own very kind way, that she didn’t know I was ‘totes’ old until she realised I was not using the word ‘probs’ correctly.  When I enquired what the ‘correct’ use of this made-up word was she explained that it was ‘probably’, not ‘problem’, as I was using it.  How was I to know though? Being born in the Neolithic Era and remembering 90210 the first time around and all.

Apart from the thinly veiled, backhanded compliment, this whole conversation concerned me, because it made me realise that some of the things I say or do might make me appear to be trying to kick it with the young folks – even though that is not my intention.  So, am I too old for this shiz?  Shiz like saying shiz, for example.

I’m embarrassed to say I usually pick up these words when I’m watching snappily written television comedy like ‘Scrubs’ or ’30 Rock’ and think I’m going to sound like a sassy, less attractive version of Tina Fey, rather than a superannuated Mean Girl.   I’m even more embarrassed to say that I also pick up these words from sharing lifts with students training for higher degrees at my workplace.  Is it sad or more worrying that the future science wizards of the world pepper their sentences with far too many ‘like’s and ‘OMG’s?  Yep, they are the ones that will be like totes curing cancer one day, mmmkay.

I genuinely am not trying to act young, I promise, but I should probably stop saying things like ‘peeps’ and ‘whatevs’.  Because:

a)      I’m not from the ghetto; and

b)      I’m not a teenage girl in the depths of the Princess Bitch-face stage.  Grumpy woman? Yes!

The age gap is also apparent in the area of clothing.  Skirt and dress lengths get me so g-darned annoyed these days.  I lean more on the more is more style of dressing, hence the urge to run up and down Brunswick Mall on a Saturday night and yank on the bottom of all the 18-20 year olds dresses lest their bottom cheeks get chilly.

Here are some fashion rules I think everyone can abide by, whatever your age:

1)      If you can’t wear it in front of your Grandma, you can’t wear it in public (this goes for tarty clothes and clothes with swear words on them); and

2)      If they’re not swimmers and you need a bikini wax to wear it, then it’s too low or too short, and no one wants to see your hoo-ha.

So I’m probably closer to dressing too old for my age, but what stage is it that leggings go from great way to wear a short dress without looking like the village bicycle to freaky art teacher trying to cover up her cellulite?

Hair is another example of the gaping age chasm.   When I was younger, I wanted it flat and dead straight, now I definitely want more air in my hair and am trying to muster up a new millennium bee-hive most days.  Do I think the additional inches on the top of my head may subtly distract from the Pepe Le Pew patch that is slowly creeping across my hairline?  Next time you’re in the gym changing rooms, try and guess the age of the person in question by how they are blow-drying their hair.  Head upside down, older.  Blow dryer directed at the top of the head and a brush frantically combing downwards, younger.

Most of the time, I’m pretty happy being the age I am, but occasionally I long for the days where a hangover wasn’t a guarantee after a night on the turps, or when I didn’t feel the urge to punch bouncers in the neck when they don’t even pretend they want to see my driver’s licence upon entering a bar or night club.

So while I teeter on the line of young and old, the fact I’m wondering if I have tipped over the edge of the cultural zeitgeist and asking who the young folk listen to, but not really caring, probably demonstrates which side of the line I am actually on.

Oprah has told us to be our best self and live an authentic life, but the two are not mutually exclusive.  In fact, one has its feet firmly planted in reality, while the other enjoys a fanciful existence, where mining magnates think building the Titanic 2.0 is a good idea (because the first one worked out so well) and Mel Gibson doesn’t consider himself an anti-Semite.

I don’t think we consider him to be Australian any more.

My best self inhabits a world shared with resumes, online dating profiles and job interview banter, while my authentic self can be more likely found on the couch reading Who Weekly, eating Nutella with a spoon, arguing with advertisements on the telly and lying in my food diary. My authentic self is a disgusting, lazy slob with introverted and bitchy tendencies (aren’t I a delight), while my best self is Miss Sally Sunshine, who generally sees the glass half-full.  Don’t worry, I hate that cow too. The dual-identity duel came to mind while sitting listening to the fifth candidate in one day give their best self spiel during a rather painful recruitment process to hire my replacement while I fill in for my boss on maternity leave.  Although the disturbing thing was their best self spiel probably didn’t hide enough of their authentic self

to stop me thinking ‘please don’t kill me’.In a job interview, telling people you’re a born leader, when it’s not a leadership role, and that you need a camera that costs no less than $2000 to do your job properly – when the job isn’t a professional photographer – means you probably need to work a little harder on blanketing your authentic self with a convincing version of your best self.

But it got me thinking about the giant porkies, oops I mean the best self description, I use when I go to job interviews.

I know in one interview when asked to describe myself I actually said I was a happy and easy-going person.  Which, if anyone who knows me is reading this, will have them rolling around on the floor and laughing.  Also, in another interview when asked to describe a time I had to resolve a conflict I conveniently left out the tale of me crying after a journalist called me unprofessional and several other unprintable names when SHE failed to read embargo details properly.  I also left out the part where we’ve seen each other since and have both pretended nothing happened at all.  Ahhh, confrontation.  It’s highly overrated.

Sometimes these things just fly out of your mouth without thinking.  I think we’re so trained to know what we should say that we are automatically programmed to utter rubbish like ‘My work style is approachable, but professional’ and ‘My biggest weakness is having difficulty letting tasks go’ and ‘Please back up my hard drive, it’s getting too full of crap, auto-pilot answers’.

Unsuspecting employers are not the only victims of the authentic self vs real self battle.  Singles looking for potential partners also beware.

I lost a considerable volume of festive lemonade through my nostrils when a friend showed me her RSVP profile.  ‘I love sport and the great outdoors’, she spruiked, next to a photo of her looking ‘sporty’ on a beach.  While a picture is worth a thousand words, the picture failed to mention this was probably her only trip outside that didn’t involve public transport or standing in line for an outlet sale in the last five years.  The sport she participated in usually involved carrying flagons of wine up the stairs from her garage.

It didn’t really matter in the end, because she met a lovely fella who said he liked art, but his version of high art probably involved dogs playing poker or a velvet horse.

When it comes to the crunch, does anyone really want to be their best self?  Because no one likes a Princess Perfect.  You might have all your ducks in a row with a fabulous job, wonderful partner, beautiful home, wicked sense of humour, committed altruism, kind heart and terrifying intelligence, but you will be putting an ad out asking for some new friends, because your old friends have dumped you for being so annoyingly perfect.  And after all, bitching and complaining really is such a satisfying past time.

Are we better off doing away with the farce and turning up to job interviews and first dates and fessing up to not quite completed degrees and living on a diet of cup-a-soup and Kardashians?  Or does it make awkward social situations more comfortable and add to the intrigue of a potential partner?

Do you think your best self is a cruel unreachable target, or a useful goal to strive towards?

I’m going commando… No, I’m not completely nuddy under my office frock.  Jeebus.  I would wear neck to knee swimwear if it were easy to find.  But I do think I’m in love with the Commando from The Biggest Loser.

My husband had to sit through the Fattest Fatties finale last night, just so I could catch a glimpse of the Commando in a lovely suit and smiling his gorgeous mischievous grin.  Mr C has come to accept there is another Mr C in our relationship.

Commando… call me, maybe!

I’m probably very late hopping on the Commando train, but I’m strongly considering parting with almost $1500 just so I can flip a tyre up and down a hill at Binna Burra and have the Commando yell at me for three days at his trademarked boot camp.  If I happened to hurt myself, accidentally on purpose, so he had to carry me up the hill, then I suppose that would be ok.

I can even make peace with the fact the Commando has to spend six months of the year acting like a bastard coated bastard, with bastard filling, making grown men cry.

Am I the only one that can see he thinks his TV persona is completely ludicrous?  I can see him stifling a smile when he stands there with his arms crossed and his biceps bulging, watching people who previously thought a trip to the fridge was sufficient exercise, yelling at them to crawl through knee-deep mud.  And he’s not smiling because he enjoys their pain, but because he knows he’s playing a silly role and he normally would be shouting encouraging words, while thinking about how much he loves puppies and making people feel good about themselves and what a good book ‘The Alchemist’ was.  Because the Commando is actually a Renaissance Man – we just never get to see that side of him.

I am technically too old to have a crush on a ‘celebrity’, but sometimes the universe has other plans.  In fact, the universe is shouting at me ‘Take up cross-fit and hang around with smelly, grunting people running around holding bars over their heads, just so you might possibly run into the Commando at some point’.

It’s embarrassing to say this isn’t the first time in my adult years I’ve developed a crush on a famous person.  I would run away with either one of those Flight of the Conchords fellas.  Yes, they’re slightly funny looking and extremely nerdy, but I do like a bit of geek (like attracts like, after all) and anyone that can sing ‘Bowies in space’ with a straight face wins my vote.  And that gorgeous ranga doctor from Grey’s Anatomy is about the only decent reason to watch that ridiculous, manipulative, overdramatic cack… that I can’t seem to give up and makes me cry every time I watch it, even though I feel violated and dirty afterwards.

Bret from FoC, doing Bowies in Space… yep, that’s a unitard and I don’t care.

It’s not even confined to straight men.  I would elope with Tina Fey and Carson Kressley, if the opportunity if ever arose.  Can you imagine the bitchy comments and one line zingers flying about the place?  I think the three of us could have a really lovely life together.  Any woman that can write one of the funniest television shows that ever existed and makes glasses look that good and a man that could pick out a fabulous wardrobe for you is definitely worthy of admiration and a small amount of fantasy stalking.

During all this ogling and objectification, I did start to think is a strong fantasy life a pathetic pursuit after the age of 18, or just a healthy imagination at work?  Or a distraction from daily drudgery?

While a person with the- entire- population-of-Logan’s worth of barbed-wire tattoos on their body has stolen my heart, please don’t feel too sorry for Mr C.  He gleefully called me up the day Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds announced their split to tell me the number ones on our respective celebrity hit lists* were single and ready to mingle…  In his mind, with lowly Brisbanites who don’t wear figure hugging rubber suits to play super heroes for a living (thank God).

I’m quite certain I am not alone.  Who is on your celebrity hit list?

*Celebrity hit lists may also be called your free pass.  A notion explored in the early days of Friends, where despite being in a happy relationship, you may choose five celebrities that you can cheat on your partner with, should the opportunity ever arise.  Ryan Reynolds, the Commando, Grey’s Anatomy ranga and Flight of the Conchords, you have been warned.