Fake it until you make it

I learn a lot from my kids.

My 15-year-old has never been one to follow the crowd. She’s smart, strong-willed, opinionated, thoughtful, driven. As a toddler she would frequently demand “ball ah mah-self!” (All by myself.) At two she was in charge of her wardrobe, combining yellow rubber boots with a skirt, a cat tail and rabbit ears. I never stood a chance.

At 13 she discovered her look: an upgraded version of her youthful rebellion. Doc Martens, fishnets, choppy purple hair (cut by me or her), ballerina skirts, cat ears (it’s a Manga thing), gothic/theatrical makeup. (You should have seen the looks we got when we were hiking in the Australian outback.) A friend once told me that she likes to watch my daughter pass by her house every morning before school, just to see what she’d be wearing. No two days are the same.

Sometimes my girl looks elegant, sometimes she looks intimidating — but she always looks confident: a girl who knows who she is, what she wants and how she wants the world to see her.

I remember being 15; confidence didn’t even enter my vocabulary. I didn’t want to be myself; I wanted to fit in. I totally admire my daughter for being bold, authentic and confident — it took me 35 years to achieve that sort of self-confidence. How do you do it? I once asked her.

I don’t, she told me. I don’t always feel confident. I feel vulnerable. So I dress confidently. I pretend. I decide to look confident — and when I look confident, I start to feel confident.

In other words: fake it until you make it.

It sounds simple, but it works. Smile and you start to feel happy. Force yourself to chill out and you start to feel relaxed. Ditch the sweat pants and baggy sweater when you’re feeling fat and unattractive; put on something a little nicer, a little tighter, a little sexier, and lo-and-behold you start to feel a little more attractive.

And that’s what the world sees: a confident/happy/relaxed/attractive person. With cat ears.

40 — better than 31

I turned 40 a couple of weeks ago, and I’ll admit to having a mini midlife crisis in the preceding weeks. I didn’t buy a Mustang or get a facelift, but I did indulge in a little too much introspection and a few too many tears.

I’m not entirely sure why this birthday hit me hard; I’ve never been bothered by age, and have always felt younger than the calendar dictated. Everyone seems to have that one Dreadful Birthday, whether it’s their 30th or 35th or 50th. I guess 40 was mine.

And then, in the midst of a celebratory-champagne-fuelled-self-indulgent-weep, I suddenly realized how lucky I am to be 40. It was a much-needed wake up call.

My mum died when she was 31; that sounded so old when I was a kid and now I know it’s so young. Since I turned 31 I’ve experienced, learned and accomplished so much. My mum didn’t have that chance.

So no more weepy birthdays for me. From now on I’ll be grateful for every extra candle on the cake — and you will never catch me getting botox or a facelift. You may, on the other hand, catch me buying a Mustang.

It starts with a goal. A little one.

Every now and then I set myself a little goal: something achievable, but not easy. Something that requires a little extra effort or fortitude or courage, perhaps something that takes me completely out of my comfort zone. When I reach one of these goals, I get a little zing of satisfaction — and a feeling that my bigger goals are just a little bit more achievable.

I had a little goal, and a little win, this week. Inspired by Bike to Work week, I decided to cycle to work every day: 16.5 km x 10, or 1.5 hours of riding every day. I’ve never ridden more than three times in a week, and rarely without a recovery day in between; my muscles and lungs just can’t do it.

Well, it turns out they can. By day four I was feeling fantastic, monsoon-like weather, funky shifters and a too-close-for-comfort encounter with a car notwithstanding. By day five I felt like I could take on any challenge put in front of me. Endorphins pumping through my veins, I grinned the whole way up my last gruelling hill.

“You’re the fittest person I know,” someone told me today, adding how impressed they were by my commitment to commuting. “I could never do what you do.”

So I told him what I tell everyone: if I can do it, anyone can.

Four years ago, just after I turned 35, a friend convinced me to sign up for the Sun Run, a 10 km race in Vancouver. I was a smoker at the time, and a committed non-exerciser. “I’ll never be able to run 10 km,” I told my friend.

When we started to train I couldn’t run for one minute. Literally. So that became my first little goal, followed by running for five minutes, then 10… When I reached one goal, I set the bar a little higher, and with every week my goal of running 10 km felt a little closer within reach.

So now I know to start small, and celebrate the small wins. Focus on how far you’ve come, not how far you’ve got to go, and suddenly you’re doing things you never thought you ever would–or could.

Next on my list: replacing a bathroom sink and taps.Prelude to a future kitchen reno, perhaps?

Goodbye 1970. It’s time for a change.

I have a cold, dark, ugly room in my basement: 300 square feet of 70s shag carpet, dilapidated wood paneling and nasty brass fixtures. When we moved in seven years ago we called this space the “play room” — and it has served as anything but ever since.

In fact, the only person who uses the room is the cat. She found a portal to the space between our upstairs and downstairs through the wall, and her dusty escapades have been the only sign of life in this room for years.

I’ve done a lot of work on my house but the dreaded play room has always daunted me. When there’s so much to fix it’s easy to avoid fixing anything at all, so the room just kept gathering dust and the discarded toys of my now teenagers.

Until today. Inspired by incoming house guests, I finally bit the bullet, cleared out the clutter and invested in some paint, light fixtures, pictures and cushions. I hit some snags along the way (circa-1950 wiring, for example) but after a few hours the room was suddenly liveable, even without the anticipated carpet and furniture.

Now I wonder why it took me seven years to tackle this room. The problem was obvious; the solution was simple. I could have felt this sense of satisfaction years ago.

Which makes me think of the other “problem rooms” in my life: the challenges I put off, the issues I avoid. Perhaps they’re not as impossible or daunting as they seem. Perhaps it’s time to realize that there’s nothing to be gained from keeping the ugly shag carpet.

After all, there could be hardwood floors hiding underneath–and even if there isn’t, at least the shag will be gone.

There is no right time

My daughter and I had a long discussion about life yesterday. When is the right time to get married? she wanted to know. When is the right time to have kids? Should I adopt? Should I embark on a career and then travel the world, or travel the world and then settle into my career?

(Did I mention that she’s only 14?)

I’m not quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved when I told her that there is no right time for anything. The only advice I could give her was this: make your decisions for the right reasons; don’t do something just because someone else thinks you should. That’s the only way to know if the timing is right for you. Ultimately, you have to be patient.

Oh, I’m so smart.

That all came back to bite me today. I had dinner with a seventy-something year old, on the eve of her latest trip — to Laos and Vietnam. I’m envious, and I told her as much.

“I wasn’t doing this when I was your age,” she reminded me. She was busy doing other things, mainly raising two teenagers as a single mother, just like me. That was the right thing for her at that time; traveling the world is right for her now.

It was a good reminder.

Life is about timing, and everyone’s timing is different. Part of being happy, I think, is accepting that there is a time for everything — and that now may not be the right time for what you want, whether that’s having a child or being in a relationship or going to Laos.

One day, my daughter will travel, have a career, settle down; I will see the world. I’m not sure exactly when that will happen, but I’m sure it will happen at the right time.

Sing out loud!

I learned pretty early that I can’t sing; in fact, I’m completely tone deaf. So for years I kept my singing to myself, mouthing the words to hymns in church, avoiding karaoke, sparing others the pain and myself the embarrassment.

It wasn’t until I had children that I let anyone listen. Thankfully, my kids are either equally tone deaf or remarkably tolerant: they don’t just let me sing out loud, they join in.

The thing is, despite my inability, I love to sing — loud and proud. But I keep it to the car, where no one can hear but everyone can see. To be honest, it’s one of my ultimate pleasures.

According to one scientific theory I’ve heard, singing in the car releases even more endorphins than plain old singing because we all have a secret exhibitionist lurking inside of us; we get a rush of endorphins when we let it out. And I’m willing to admit: perhaps that’s true.

How else to explain the sheer joy I felt as I drove home tonight, exhausted from a long day at work, belting out a Tegan and Sara tune? It made me think of this famous quote that sits on my bookshelf, keeping me on track:

Dance as though no one is watching you,

love as though you have never been hurt before,

sing as though no one can hear you,

live as though heaven is on earth.

Easier said than done, of course. But a nice goal to aim for.

Time for a big move

My family is no stranger to big moves. My dad — a marine engineer from England — sailed the world and brought home an Australian wife, my mum. After she died, he married my new mum: another Aussie. They did time in both countries before settling in Melbourne, where they stayed put for over 30 years — until just recently, when they packed up, sold everything and moved 3,700 km away to Darwin.

Most people react to this news with a mix of disbelief and surprise. Melbourne and Darwin aren’t just miles apart, they’re poles apart — in terms of culture, climate, geography, everything. It’s hard to believe they’re even part of the same land mass. It’s like moving from New York to Moab.

My parents aren’t the only ones in my family who’ve made big moves. My brother lives in Singapore. My uncle lives in Japan. My cousin lives in the Netherlands. I live in Canada. None of us planned to cross oceans to start a new life, but we did — propelled by a spirit of adventure, a willingness to try something new, a desire to seize the opportunities in front of us.

My mum and dad are doing the same, all over again, and I think it’s brilliant. The move has given them a new lease on life; you can hear it in their voices. They’ve left behind the familiarity and routine of the suburbs to experience something new and profoundly different. It’s a bold move; a risky move.

I think it’s admirable.

It’s so easy to get trapped in the same-old-same-old. For some reason, the familiar is comfortable, now matter how dull; it’s the classic case of better-the-devil-you-know. It’s safe. But the bold moves — the ones that take you out of your comfort zone completely — don’t just present the greatest risks, they present the greatest rewards.

A year ago, my mum had lost her joy for life. Today she is heading 350 km into the outback for the new job that she loves; her text messages this morning were punctuated with enthusiastic exclamation points. I have this fantastic mental image of her, tanned, smiling, sailing across the red desert wearing sunglasses and a big floppy hat. I’m glad my parents had the courage to make the big move, and I’m even happier that it’s paying off.

Guilty pleasures

Maroon Five sparked a discussion in the car last week. “This is my total guilty pleasure band,” said my almost 15-year-old. “I know I shouldn’t like them, but I can’t help it.”

And then I confessed mine: Akon. Nelly. Kylie. Katy Perry. (The list really does go on.) A far cry from my more socially acceptable love of indie rock.

I have other guilty pleasures: chocolate cake that others denounce as “too rich”; hamburgers (don’t tell my vegan friends); American diners (cheap bottomless coffee and pancakes drenched in “maple” syrup); sausages (mmm, sausages); chick lit (a delicious form of brain candy); any movie with Julia Roberts (I have a *small* crush); the Harry Potter franchise (I laugh when I think of all the adults hiding Harry inside their newspapers as they read on the train to and from work).

Only my nearest and dearest get to see all the different sides of me, including the secret guilty pleasures that I tend to indulge in private. Why? Fear of being judged, I suppose, as lacking self-control, having bad taste, being unrefined or — let’s be honest — just not being cool. Frankly, I’m kind of embarrassed by some of the things I enjoy.

Well, that’s about as high school as it gets — and I’m too old for high school.

So, enough: from now on I’m taking the “guilty” out of pleasure. I know I’m smart. I know what I like. I know what I’m good at. I don’t need to justify my taste or my choices to anyone. Next time I choose a burger over sushi, or Disneyland over the great outdoors, I will not apologize. There’s room for a little of everything in this life, and I would hate to get to the end of my life regretting the fact that I lived it to please others — and forgot to please myself.

Got any guilty pleasures of your own?

Knowing when to quit

I shelved a book tonight. A half-read book. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, and I daren’t tell you which one it was. Suffice to say: it was boring. So dull that I would find myself making shopping lists and planning the day ahead while mindlessly reading pages. Not a good sign. But I persisted, dragging myself through chapter after chapter, getting nothing out of the experience except a vague sense of guilt; this is a book that I felt I should love, that I felt I needed to read.

(As an aside, I hate that word: should. Tell me you think I “should” do something and you’ll likely find me doing the complete opposite, my eye twitching ever so slightly.)

I love to read in bed - love – but lately I’ve been watching the Food Network and going to bed too tired to read. Avoidance: a sure sign that things need to change. Last night I looked at the three teetering piles of waiting-to-be-read books next to my bed (which I jokingly refer to as my to-do list) and decided: life is too short to waste on books you neither enjoy nor learn something from.

We all have things in our lives that aren’t worth the time we put into them: the friends who sap our energy, the jobs that slowly eat away at our souls, the hobbies we pursue for all the wrong reasons (“You should do….” Grrr). But there’s a lot to be said for knowing when to give up, and when to read another chapter.

I’m all for persistence: pushing yourself through the mental blocks, the tough days, the setbacks, the challenges — as long as the reward is worth it: health, joy, satisfaction, enjoyment, wisdom, understanding, love, true friendship.

I’m now reading a book that my son placed on one of the piles (we like to share our favourites). It’s entertaining and, as an added bonus, I’ve made a young man happy by reading it. Works for me.

To do: get a life

At the bottom of one of my many to-do lists, my painfully perceptive 14-year-old has added “#15 – Get a life”.

She certainly knows how to make a point. “You need to learn how to relax,” she often tells me. “All you ever do is work.”

I can see where she gets that impression. From the outside, my life must look like one never-ending to-do list. To be honest, it sometimes feels like that too: if I’m not working at work, I’m working at home – or working on my fitness or my blog or the laundry or the house or…  But no matter how busy I am and how much I accomplish in a day, I’m never done; there is always more work to do. At times I would agree: I don’t have a life.

But that’s neither true nor fair. The reality is, I do have a life — it just doesn’t involve three hours of reading manga each day. I’m not 14; I am a single mother with two kids, a full-time job and a house.

My life does have its pleasures. Today, for instance: riding to work under a bright moon and seeing the sun rise; pitching a new ad concept; eating tasty tacquitos for lunch (which I helped my 12-year-old chef-in-training make last night: awesome); riding home under a pink sky and trees filled with fiery fall leaves; playing Mastermind over dinner with my kids; listening to my daughter gush over Glee and new manga (omg!); eating miniature candies (a rare treat; thank you Halloween); watching my son doing lay-ups at basketball practice; starting a new read-aloud novel with my kids; listening to my son recite a poem he wrote in French (omg!); watching a little Top Gear on YouTube with him; reading in bed, my cat curled up at my feet.

And that was just today: a regular Tuesday. Sounds like a life to me.

What I’ve come to realize, or perhaps accept, is this: I only enjoy the pleasures of life (what my daughter would call “having a life”) when the necessities of life are taken care of (hmmm, Maslow’s hierarchy anyone?). I don’t – can’t – feel relaxed and have fun when there are bills to be paid, dishes washed, clothes cleaned, forms filled out… ad infinitum.

So, I will continue to make to-do lists and my daughter will continue to tease me for making to-do lists. But hey: that’s (my) life.