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Wear 379: Between Ten and Twelve-ish

I’ve been looking at subscribing to an app for six months that will tell me to eat sensible foods, in sensible proportions; have healthy snacks on hand for those times when you need to snack; exercise a little more; keep what’s going in lower than what’s coming out; drink water; don’t give up. Why do I need to pay for that when I already know it? Since July I have been counting my calories. It’s doing my head in!

Twelve-ish
I’m preaching to the converted most likely. We all obsess about this. We are taught/encouraged/brainwashed to be obsessed about it. It’s big business. I’ve lost anywhere between ten and twelve-ish kilos since July (depending on what day it is—a complete and randomly fluctuating non-pattern of unexplained variation: aka 'scales'). I lost that weight during an eight week what-we’ll-call ‘diet’, during which I fairly much stuck to an eight hundred calorie a day food plan and tried to increase my walking every day. I motivated myself by posting weekly on…

Wear 378: Thinking The (Knee) Deep Thoughts

Even though I don’t write them down as often as I used to, the deep thoughts, the meaningful questionings, keep happening. And recently they have spurred me back here. These things are too profound to be simply bouncing around, alone, in my head. They need to be shared.


One. Why do people buy cars and then buy personalised number plates that tell you what kind of car they have? The car already says what kind of car it is. If you had a 1990 Toyota Corolla and you got a personal plate that said MYJAG, that would make more sense. You would be saying something about where you are and where you dream of being. MU5TNG on your 2018 Orange Fury Mustang (That would be the plate on my ‘90s Corolla) just says: ‘I can’t read what my car says.’ Which doesn’t make sense because then how do you read your plate? See, deep.


Two. If you are a Tradie (Tradesman for the non-Australia speakers out there), how do you decide if you’ll wear Fluoro Orange or Fluoro Yellow? Is it a purely personal …

Wear 377: Hunting Less, Or More

Less-is-More
When I was the bravest spider-hunter in the house, I would be the one with the kiddie's bug catcher, trying to trap the little buggers, and move them to places far from home. (Aside: remind me to tell you, another time, about the tiger slug.) I would be the one trying to convince myself that braver spider-hunters than me would just pick the thing up and transport it with their bare hands, and as the bravest spider-hunter in the house I should be doing that too—until it walked across my hand half-way through the kitchen and then all semblance of bravery disappeared, and all semblance of fear-on-two-legs took over.


So when I was sitting on the couch after a late-night Pokemon hunt recently, and Mr Earwig was sitting close by and the look of spider-hunting-ness entered his eyes with a direct focus on my skirt regions; and given that the move to Earwig House with said Mr Earwig meant that he became the bravest spider-hunter and I became the screaming maiden, or mande…