Falling from Grace: When Gravity wins


Toddlers fall. Drunk people fall. Even temperatures fall. But when you as a functioning, sober being with a sociably acceptable level of agility fall down, it’s an event. Forget the humiliation, its dealing with the damage as you age that makes the blow harder. We walk around with a false sense of confidence thinking we figured out life, and all it takes is one losing battle with gravity to realise that we are just bags of bones with occasionally malfunctioning brains.

As we age, we learn how to do more and more things in auto pilot mode. We drift off mentally when we drive, we have conversations with people in our head while we do chores, and we certainly don’t spend every step we take assessing distance, quantum mechanics and Newton’s 3 laws of motion. But just when you think you have mastered something to perfection, gravity gives you a rude awakening, reminding you that lulled brains can lead to bruised knees, elbows and egos.

I’m a 40 year old mama. I think by now I’ve experienced enough in the way of accidents, with a wide range consisting of car bumps and getting peed on. But taking a serious fall in the middle of the day, on a very crowded street in town, certainly threw me a curveball. After falling as elegantly as a drunk and dyslexic swan could possibly hope to, my first thought was literally “What? Is my body still doing these?!”

People gaped, no one helped (lucky me) and to save face, I tried to clamour up as quickly as possible. But of course, I’m injured, so I looked like I was auditioning for one of the zombies on The Walking Dead. So I shot up as quickly as I could manage and began “walking” when a searing pain in my knee basically crippled me dead in my tracks. When you fall down, the adrenaline or shock or embarrassment basically hide the full extent of your injuries. So you get up thinking all is well and that you can resume your normal walking duties when your body lets out several screams and you have to CSI your own blood to the source of the injuries. 

As the hours went on, the bruises revealed the anatomy of said fall. My knee had taken a good smashing and by nighttime looked about nine months pregnant. In addition to serious skin scrapes, my elbow and whole left side were badly bruised, making normal every day movement as challenging as Calculus.

Falling at 40 is not like falling at 4. It’s not only that you are carrying significantly more mass, it’s also that your body has been existing for much longer and has developed some wear and tear, with a much slower ability to recover. I remember my childhood was filled with spills and scraped knees, but I don’t recall missing any thrilling Duck-Duck-Goose games because I couldn’t bend a bruised knee anymore. It was a sad realisation knowing that my very young spirited brain now needed to recalibrate and align with its much more mature host.

The fall really made me realise how important it was to be in good physical standing, with my full spectrum of mobility available. Picking up my 13 kg toddler with only one good leg? Not fun. Trying to bend down to fetch the keys? As pleasant as a visit to the proctologist, with similar sound effects!

Unfortunately, these accidents are unavoidable. There is literally nothing you can do to stop such calamities other than hide in an idiot-proofed cave for the rest of your life. And even though it really hurts the bones and mind when gravity chooses you out of a whole street full of potential victims, the bright side is that you do get to appreciate what your body can do and make efforts to care for it better. Until the weekend comes. Then it’s just you versus your liver, but that’s another story.


BeastFeeding: The Untold

No, that wasn’t a typo. I absolutely meant beast-feeding because for the first month or two your babe is pretty much that; a beast. And not just any run of the mill beast, but a boob connoisseur with poor latching skills and a temper to match Hannibal Lecter’s.

There are many things women don’t really talk about when it comes to making life. They don’t talk about stitches in, excuse the pun, unholy places, they don’t talk about the unbearable depression that reigns over you and they certainly don’t talk about the first month of hell that comes with breastfeeding.

The situation is so widespread that there are actual Lactation Consultants out there. The first time I heard of such a thing, I was on the floor. But my laughter quickly disappeared when my son arrived and I learned that he (and I) needed professional help for what seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Many like to market the whole birthing and breastfeeding thing as so natural and intrinsic; they chime away with advice like “oh don’t worry, you’re body will know what to do.” Well what if your body is an idiot?

I had so many issues to deal with that seemed to completely go against nature. For one thing, I had very fast flow (yes, it’s a thing) meaning the poor little guy choked every time he tried to drink and ended up getting very frustrated. On the bright side though, now I’m sure he’ll do great at marathon beer chugging events in college.

I had heard from women that lactating boobies change size, but what I was unprepared for the sheer volume of swelling, engorgement and eventual sagging of the hoohas. So first they inflame to a supernatural size so that you look like you are wearing pool floaters all the time, which is dangerous if you decide to take a cruise because you will be passed up for a life vest.Then you have wonderful instances of ‘hard boob’ when you miss a feeding; which is literally the pressure from too much milk waiting to make its escape. And finally, as the journey nears the end, you notice that men don’t stare at your chest as much as your crotch anymore, because let’s face it, after your dairy production days thats where your gazongas end up. But hey at least now everything is at an even level, making it more convenient for hubby to service you.

Perhaps the worst thing about the early breastfeeding days is the Latch. You’d think only astronauts in space docking multi million dollar shuttles would have to worry about the exact science of the latch. But no, us weary, sleepless, sore and leaking mamas have to as well. It’s such a prominent issue that there is even a league of lactation consultants out there grouped by that name: La Leche League. Can you imagine if it was this difficult to lose your virginity? And there was a whole league of consultants out there called “Le Pop de Fleur”?

Most babies simply don’t know how to latch properly and this can lead to a myriad of problems including bleeding teets, cracked nipples and excruciating pain for mama and frustration for babe. It might sound horrible to many but the silver lining is that with professional help, it can be rectified and you and your spawn can enjoy many months of pain free and beautiful bonding through breastfeeding.

And ultimately, the hurdles are overcome, and the journey becomes a truly enjoyable one. So if you are one of those new mamas and are hating your life, fret not, it truly does get easier and you can enjoy a wonderful bond with your beast and sagging boobies.

Survival of the Fattest

I’ve been away for some time. Its not because I lost my funny bone, it’s because I’ve gained something. I’ve gained weight, especially around my tummy. Thats right, I am currently in my 9th month of pregnancy (although I look about 2 years in) and I am just a large bundle of emotions, confusion, and a whole lot of reshuffled priorities. Sure, I’ve experienced many of the wonderful aspects of reproduction; glowing skin, thicker hair, lower IQ, but there are so many more adventures that await one in the third trimester, or what I like to call: Proof of Satan.

My first 2 trimesters were amazing; I had no nausea, almost no bad symptoms, and was just floating on a cloud of air and progesterone. Then as I hit the third, almost right on cue, all the woes and aches you read about started to manifest. Not only was my belly the size of a small african village, but my back was now screaming “I didn’t sign up for this, fatso!” Along with my vanished waist, my ankles now turned shy and decided to dress up as elephant trunks.

Other things vanish as well. Like every morning, I’m sure I put on underwear, and yet when I return home after a long day of working, it takes surgery to locate and remove them. Maternity underwear? These things look like they could parachute you to safety from a crashing jet. I’m going to keep mine after delivery to donate to refugee camps as I’m sure a single pair could sheild a small family from the elements.

Simple everyday tasks that you take for granted suddenly become cause for concern. Sitting on the ground? Enjoy the 3 and a half hours it will take you to get up now. Dropped something? This is where you ask yourself “how badly do I need that credit card in my life?” Toenails getting long? Well maybe it is a time to change my foot look from ‘normal human’ to ‘fetching hobbit’.

Oh and one of my favourites: not only am I the size of a small sumo wrestler now but my libido has never been higher. And its hard to feel like a vixen when just turning in bed causes you to emit sounds like one of the zombies from World War Z. Now when I’m feeling raunchy all I can do is lay on my side and hope husband finds a crack big enough to penetrate me through. Sweet talk is now a thing of the past, where old sayings of “I need you” are replaced with “Come on soldier, be brave, mama needs a shudder.”

In addition to superficial changes, my insides feel like they are being rearranged by my precious little one. I always feel him punching around in my liver, probably because he found a stash of fun stuff there. I’m sure he’s just hanging around there, as bored as I am, redecorating, thinking ‘oh what’s this? Her G spot? Let’s just move this, she won’t be needing this for a while.”

Of course every mama has been dealt her fair share of asinine advice and infuriating questions. I genuinely don’t understand people who can still think that with all the technology we have, I wouldn’t know if I was carrying twins or not. Or the old wives tales like “Don’t eat pineapple or your vagina wille explode!” Case in point: I eat pineapple every day and me and little acrobat are doing just swell, thank you.

And ladies, just a small word of advice: if your birth experience was horrendous, you absolutely do not need to share your war story with an expectant mother. I literally envision for myself a wonderful, calm, glorious culmination for my pregnancy, so it does no use whatsoever to describe to me how your glory hole was shredded as you screamed for mythological deities to save your soul. I’m not naive in thinking things might not go horribly wrong, but I would like to bask in the hope that come DDay, I won’t need therapy to overcome the trauma. Delivery is a very personal and subjective experience, just like your first time, so I don’t need or want to hear the lurid details of how getting ripped a new one felt like.

But all jokes aside, pregnancy is a wonderful and magical experience. Even on my worst day, I would still do it all over again. And despite the several drawbacks, there are also numerous perks. For example, being pregnant makes strangers smile at you, which is a nice change from being flipped off. You usually get to cut in line when people pity what gravity is doing to you. And the most rewarding and wonderful perk of all is feeling a little baby move around inside you. Save for the rib kicking, I can’t help but smile when I feel that little bundle move around, elbowing me in my organs and dignity.

Enemies and Enemas

Life is great, but it’s not all ice creams and summer vacations. During the course of life, you will be faced with two unpleasant and uncomfortable things; enemies and enemas. Both can be painful, degrading, and despite the slight spelling difference, both do belong in your butt.

You probably got acquainted with enemas or suppositories first. I had a real scare when my parents forced my first glycerin bullet up my rear. I can understand why they would want to get this over with as soon as possible, but there’s really no need for the tactic. First, loving mommy and daddy corner you in a locked room. You can already sense the tension in the air by the way they say your name, like nothing and everything is wrong. In a flash, one parent is holding you down while the other exposes your petite derriere to the chilling draft of a fortified room. To add insult to injury, with no warning at all, some pointy thing makes its way inside a hole you so far know only as “Exit”, hereby shattering your belief in constant concepts.

The misery doesn’t end there; your parents have to hold you down for some time otherwise you would just stand up and fart the intruder back in their faces. So you are held down, whimpering, while doting parents shush you like a wild animal about to be put to sleep. After they are satisfied that said slick medication has dissolved, you are allowed your freedom and modesty back (temporarily anyway, till the medication starts its expulsive magic).

Just like suppositories, enemies will present themselves in painful situations in life. They shame you, force you to feel uncomfortable, and will certainly put you in compromising positions. And even if you do eventually become sodomistcally inclined, enemies will always be the more painful of the two.

Luckily though, just as enemas eventually do offer some relief, so too can the snakes that slither around you. One of the greatest things about being in uncomfortable or negative situations is that it can challenge you to brainstorm your way out of it, or find a solution. If you have that one slut in the office whose very pulse causes you to cringe, eventually your inner warrior will find clever ways to avoid/manipulate/kill said germ without leaving a trace.

The journey might be painful, but learning how to make the most even of bad situations is an invaluable skill that can do wonders in the long run. If everything went your way in life instead of against the stream, you’d grow up to be whiny wuss or the subject of many voodoo dolls. The scars help mold you into a stronger, better version of yourself, so welcome those enemas and enemies with open cheeks and arms.

Enemies & Enemas

  • Both are misrepresented by advertising and packaging
  • Both will cost you something, although one is cheaper, and it’s not the one you find on shelves
  • Both work behind the scenes to make you miserable, although one offers faster relief
  • Both are mass produced, although one comes in all shapes and sizes
  • Both are a pain in the ass yet both belong where the sun doesn’t shine

 

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Bigger is NOT Better

No, I’m not talking about men’s love muscles; although obviously anything under 3 inches should be donated to science. I’m talking about the widening sizes of female butts. I get that Kim K caused quite a stir with her transformation into some kind of ass monster, but now that I’m seeing this trend in daily life from normal women not married to Kanye, I’m more than a little creeped out.

I see them at the gym, at the mall, sometimes they block the moon, and many seem to have their own gravitational pull because I just can’t pull my eyes away. The obsession is maddening. If you type “how can I get a big” in Google, the first suggestion is “bigger bum?” The methods are sickening. You can either opt for the healthy route and squat yourself into a slow herniated death, which is fine because at least once you do croak, they can bury you face down for the world to marvel at your luscious cheeks. Or you can go the artificial route and stuff your derriere with anything from silicone, fat, or little children’s dreams.

Either way, there’s a fine line between socially passable and downright cracked (couldn’t resist)-out. If you suffer from ass cheeks that are as limp as a comatose patient’s handshake, then it wouldn’t hurt society if you snuck in a squat or two. However if you have a behind that prevents you from falling into toilets, then opting for an operation to enhance it to the size of a prize stallion’s ass is just demented. Sure, beauty is the eye of the beholder but this trend specifically sprang up because of some lame-o makeshift celebrities and its hurting people; specifically me and my eyes.

Butt implants, aside from being terrifying to human eyes (especially ones connected to functioning brains) do carry some health risks. Sure there are risks with any normal surgery but I’m sure very few run the horrendous notion of ending up with an infected asshole. Yes, see they cut near your glory hole so that there are no scars. Of course this leaves one of your most important orifices for relief at risk of malfunctioning, which could land you in a pile of shit.

It takes about 6 weeks to recover from butt augmentation. For 6 weeks, you should avoid sitting, or your cheeks could either harden or shift (how great would that be; having your ass fat right under your boobs?). The recovery sounds so painfully ridiculous that I’m amazed at its popularity. It’s like waking up to a world where suddenly it’s trending to pull out your own teeth while sober because the geriatric look is dope.

When you have to physically change your body with surgery to (not) fit in, then you have crossed the line from weak willed to blatantly psychotic. Congratulations on your new large ass. Here are your pills, your extra-large thongs, and a husband who will cheat on you with the first Rhinoceros he comes across.

 

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Hair We Go Again

I dread this time.. when the grey starts to sneak out like a guilty teen, when the ends split wider than a porn star’s vagina, and when the frizz gets wilder than an addict at a festival.

What does it mean?

I have to make my way back to the dreaded chair: the HairMesser’s chair.

It’s more common than you think. For every time you see a pretty lady all dolled up with gorgeous locks, know that behind that success there were at least a dozen mishaps with hair dressers when she left the salon looking like raccoons tried to mate with her ideas.

There are just too many awkward facts about going to the hairdresser. Go to a venue once and if you exchange mild pleasantries with one hair dude, you are more bound to him than your husband in matrimony. Heaven forbid you ever dream of trying another guy he works with, whence you are met with the same judgement as trying to convince your husband to let you fuck his best friend.

You have the talkers, whom I just cant keep up with. I mean, when I get to that chair, I just wanna lay back and let the pampering begin. Instead, I’m often faced with a person who wants to talk about politics, the weather, the folly of married life, etc. and this is all fine and dandy, but come my twentieth visit, I have just as much fun faking the enjoyment as I do at 5 am.

The straight ones come with their own drama. You can’t be too friendly otherwise he’ll try to penetrate your ear when you are not paying attention, and contrary to what he might try to convince you of, this will not help with your migraines at all.

Now on to the actual hair. I don’t know what training they give these “artists” but its definitely not on hair. Its sad but most of them will completely forget about what your hair actually needs and try to push the most expensive treatment down your…scalp.

I have very dry hair- chalk it up to years of vacillating between Madonna blonde and Snow White black. Point is that what’s left of the locks are pretty damned fragile and instead of respecting that, every bozo with a hair blower tries to convince me that a 6 hour treatment with BOTOX or chemicals they use to preserve corpses will do wonders for my look. It’s as criminal as visiting your GP and having him recommend a kidney removal because you’ll drop that 0.3 KG that’s bugging you.

Women have to bear with a lot of bad hair before they find the right dresser or routine that will keep most threads on their heads. And while its nice to look at a well put together maiden with each strand in its respectable place, try to afford the poor specimen some sympathy if you spot a gal with way too much frizz and jungle fever going on. After all, she could have just been fending off ear-intercourse.

If You’re Angry and You Know it…

The other day, I was escorting a mild-mannered colleague to the elevator while ranting about certain cretinous individuals I work with. He interrupted me in mid-curse with “You shouldn’t complain Sara. You should stay positive. Do you know how many people in the world are suffering right now?” Needless to say, his family is currently searching for his remains while I am left wondering when this non-negative trend erupted.

I get that it would be lovely to be happy all the time, to exist in a kind of Stepford wife stupor where one is eternally placated and tickled by every drain pipe that spills excrement on them. Yet know this: Life doesn’t work that way. I don’t know where these people were in Kindergarten but I distinctly remember the teachers showing us smiley and sad faces when trying to teach us about emotions and not picking our noses in public (at least I retained part of that lesson).

Even on social media, many are often berated if they dare to share a negative or angry opinion. Since when were only half of our emotions kosher? What’s so taboo, wrong or catastrophic with being angry, sad, or miserable? Of course, this is not to say that if you see someone out on a ledge, you shrug it off as ‘oh he’s just having bad day’. There are levels of depression and rage that warrant immediate action, however mildly wishing a colleague would catch a treatable STD does not fall in that category.

It’s completely unrealistic and inhuman to want to avoid negative vibes or emotions. It’s the same with friendships; friends who never fight are not real friends. You need to overcome the uncomfortable hurdles of hurt before you can relish in rainbow days of bliss ahead. If it weren’t for our negative emotions, we might never overcome negative things or behaviours that plague our lives.

Ultimately, trying to avoid negativity is like trying to avoid going to the bathroom. It’s unpleasant but absolutely necessary; otherwise you truly would be full of shit.

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