Little lycra victories

Every spring I am tempted by the bright colours and patterns of the new summer fashion ranges glowing from highstreet windows to buy a bikini. I’m a magpie for fun clothes and when hung and folded nicely, bikinis look fun. They’re always yellow and pink with palm leaf prints and often with frills, sequins, craftily arranged string and holes in odd places. They leave little to the imagination but when on those tiny hangers somehow have a Siren way of fooling me into thinking that a certain shade of neon is enough to hide all the bits of my body I don’t like.

Every spring I will duly arm myself with these sets, each half probably costing more than 6 x the price of the material it's made of, and head to the fitting rooms optimistically. A shop assistant will give me a number tag and I will hunt for a curtain without a stressed, wiggling woman behind it. 

Every spring I will gently cry in my fitting room, staring at my flat chest, wobbly tummy, broad shoulders, red arms and ghostly white legs. Carefully I will hang the lycra back onto its hangers, struggling to navigate the string and failing to make it look anything like what tempted me before.
 

Today I tried again for this year, picking out the same pink palm-leaf printed set that’s featured in varying ways in every summer collection. I took it to the fitting room and tried it on and to my surprise found a plot twist in my bikini narrative. Looking in the mirror, I smiled. I don’t know whether this was because the bikini itself was different to previous ones I’d tried, or whether my body has changed to become something I can more easily accept, or whether (and I really do hope it’s this) I’m just more content and my eyes are kinder.

The ironic thing is I don’t actually have an appropriate trip planned this summer to wear said bikini, but I am happy enough simply owning one and feeling confident in it.

Little victories, ey? 


Ro is listening to: Changing of the Seasons by Two Door Cinema Club

Try shouting instead

Three weeks ago a friend of mine admitted to thinking that "generally, women talk too much" and I've been thinking about this ever since.

When I was a child, my Dad always used to tease me that I talked a lot and would tell me that I was very early to learn to talk because I was so desperate to communicate. The story goes that at age one I would be visibly frustrated if I couldn't articulate how I felt, which is where the nickname Roro originates from; Rosemary is a little difficult to annunciate as a baby. But my Dad always spoke of this personality attribute of mine as a positive thing. He teased me for it but only because he's naturally very shy and he's proud of my confidence and ability to express myself. There was also my year 7 form tutor, Mr Griffiths, who only ever referred to me as 'chatterbox'. But again, this was always said as a term of endearment and never made me feel ashamed or embarrassed, because it wasn’t meant to.

Before I continue, I feel obliged to make a disclaimer. This response to my friend’s comment is not fuelled by a feeling of having been attacked and I am not personally insulted. There are just a couple of key issues with the statement that I recognise as sadly being a product of certain societal misconceptions. So it is for that wider context that I write this piece.

People can say the wrong things. People can speak without thinking first. People can speak loudly. People can speak with unusual voices. People can speak at the wrong moments and people can, on occasion, talk too much. But it cannot be said that this is a commonality found only in women. I can name plenty of men that must always have the last word and plenty of women that dare not open their mouths. But that’s entirely beside the point. Imagine being told that "generally", people of your gender, or your race, or your age, or any other group to which you belong, talk too much. How would the implication that what you say is of a lesser value to that of someone else feel? Or that by belonging to the group that you do, you must surely share the same traits with everyone else. That by being a girl, or Asian, or over the age of 40, for example, you by default have this indicative vice. Ridiculous, right? People are people. You can’t reduce personalities to simply a collection of traits supposedly belonging to a race or gender. People are wholly unique and complicated in entirely individual ways.

It goes without saying that we all enjoy or avoid the company of different people, because we are all different people. Our thresholds for what is “talk[ing] too much” vary as much as the pitches of our voices. It’s okay to think that an individual talks too much and it’s okay to not enjoy their company for this reason; that’s part of what it means to be human and to exist. But I feel uncomfortable with the notion that it’s okay to try to change or challenge this trait in any way. The risk of reducing someone to silence is not a risk I see ever worth playing with. To feel as though what you say is superfluous, worthless and not of interest to anyone is not something anyone should ever have to feel. It’s dangerous because the truth is everyone has a right to self-expression - to sing and to shout and to feel comfortable doing it without the fear that someone in the room would rather they supressed themselves. Because really, is it a lot to ask to just put up with people? Leave the room if you must. Excuse yourself and put your headphones in. Challenge yourself to listen for longer than you would normally. It won’t kill you, but silencing someone might.

It may be that my friend has had countless experiences where he has had something to say but the women in the room at the time made it difficult for him to speak. If this is true, I can empathise and I can understand how this may have made him feel. But these potential situations are not a ground with which to justify stereotyping. You can’t let your past experiences predict your future. Let people surprise you and treat them for the individuals they are!

To summarise, I hold two issues with the discussed comment. The first is the stereotyping; the blasé sweeping statement that suggests that all women share the same tropes and habits. The second issue is the insensitive attitude towards the subject of talking. We all, as human beings, have a duty to make everyone feel free to express themselves and we must all try to be better listeners.

If anyone ever tells you that you talk too much, try shouting instead.


Ro is listening to: Lousy Connection by Ezra Furman

Green eyed memoirs

When I was six years old my Granny and Grandpa got a cat called Jasper. As a pet-less child at the time, this was a big deal to me and I fell in love with him pretty instantly. My brother and I would spend hours upon hours for so many years squealing with delight as we rolled marbles across the floor for him to chase and we would shout at my Dad whenever he picked him up because we were convinced Jasper didn't like it - as if he was our younger brother being bullied in the playground by a bigger kid.

Jasper had a fantastic intuition for human identity and emotion. I suppose any animal lover or pet owner will claim that of their furry friend, but it's true. Jasper knew when people were arriving and leaving and he remembered them from their last visit. Jasper knew when you were relaxed and he knew when you were busy...and would interrupt you regardless.  Jasper was beautiful, funny, clever and greedy all at the same time and had a permanent throne in my heart. When I was 14 I did an art project on him for a whole term, and to this day I still have a huge folder full of these sketches and paintings in my bedroom at home. I have truly never met an animal with more of a vibrant personality.
When I was about 10 years old I developed an allergy to cats. Whenever I'm near them now I begin to sneeze continually, almost without pause for breath, get a chesty cough and my eyes water. And yet, I still love cats. I love cats wholeheartedly and unconditionally.

Unconditionally - that's a word that I learnt from Jasper. When we met I had no allergic reactions to the feline world; they all appeared after I'd grown to become very fond of him. But for 10 years more, 'in sickness and in health' as they say, I would pick him up, hold him and play with him regardless of consequence. (There would always with a box of  tissues and Piriton allergy tablets nearby.)

Yesterday I was told that Jasper had been put down. I'm heartbroken and hurt in a way that is new and raw and tender to me. But my comfort in the news is that we did say goodbye. Animals drop hints when they're leaving. The last few times I saw him I could feel his spine a little more and it was clear that he was an old man now. When I last left him in summer, I picked him up and held him tighter than normal and my Mum said 'Rosemary don't be silly, don't make yourself ill' and I said 'I'm not being silly, this might be the last time I see him', and it was. I think Jasper knew it too because he didn't squirm and he waited at the door as we left.

I feel silly pouring so much emotion onto a page for a cat I saw 3 times a year. But that was 3 times a year for my entire childhood. All Christmas and birthday cards for the last 13 years have been signed from him and any phone calls to my grandparents included updates about Jasper. He's left a hole bigger than I'm willing to let adulthood fill.

But I like to think he's residing somewhere lovely now - somewhere warm, with children to play with and strategically placed meat scraps to snack on.

And with that thought, I end this post. Sorry it was sad and sorry if it seemed unwarrantedly so, but one of my first ever friends just died.

Ro is listening to: She's Got You High by Mumm-Ra