Let’s get physical

Young girl looks out over the ocean
You don’t need an inner strength, just a will to live.

Ok it’s time to work up a sweat. Move over Olivia, we all want some of the action.

So I’m going to let you in on a little secret from the subscribers-only section of my survival guide. It’s something I learned the hard way and I’ve had enough misfortune to know crying over it (or anything) will achieve sweet f**k all.

However, I have discovered that literally beating the s**t out of your troubles is a therapy like no other. Seriously. Put on some boxing gloves, find a willing (padded) target and hit it (or them) until you sweat the pain right out.

Sweating is a wonderful way to rid your body of the toxins of life and its dreaded poison.

There was a time some years ago when I lost a lot of weight. I was a little anxious. Well, not really. I was STRESSED THE HELL OUT. That’s what I was. Frantic. Broken. And working like a dog.

My mum told me I needed a tonic… “A health drink. I’ll get one from the chemist for you. You’re too skinny. You need to build yourself up again.”

Her heart was in the right place, but God knows what kind of tonic was going to cure that debacle of a life. No tonic was going to pay the lawyer or feed my kids or save the house.

“Well you shouldn’t be going to the gym. You’ll kill yourself. You’ll break in two. Just stay home and rest,” mum warned.

I’m pretty sure she shook her head in disgust when I ignored her and put my sneakers on anyway.

“You need some sleep,” said others, stating the obvious. Yeah I needed sleep, but that was never going to happen. Not if I wanted to keep my job and get the kids to school on time. Sleep has never liked me. She eludes me like a mirage in the desert. She vanishes just as quickly as my mysterious disappearing paycheck. I’m starting to think there is some kind of evil magic contained within my pillow. “She must never sleep,” the spirits whisper. “Imagine the hell she would raise if she actually slept? She must remain awake at all costs. Quick, conjure up a low-flying jet. Find a screaming child.”

Then there were the troublemakers – “You need some wine. That will help.” Oh so many troublemakers (you know who you are). Ok it did help… sometimes… for those few hours. Then it really, really didn’t help. AT ALL. Wine just brings more pain the next morning, along with Irish comedians who raid your bathroom cupboard and surfers who can’t remember their age or that they have a girlfriend. You really don’t need the hassle and there are other ways to work your glutes.

Stress ruled my life. Probably still does, but now to a lesser degree – which is why I still find myself at the gym every single week. Ok, most weeks, when I can juggle a session between doing shift work and running the kids all over the countryside.

What appeals to me most about working out is the sense of control it brings. When every other aspect of my life feels out of control, my body and my health are things I can control. And I’m a frustrated control freak – just ask my kids. It’s some kind of twisted irony that I’m sure God magiced up just for a laugh – who creates someone with a dash of control freak and a splash of OCD and then magics everything in their life to be out of control? Some bloody comedian master of the universe, that’s who.

I have been going to the same personal trainer for almost seven years now. Yep, seven years. That’s a pretty long time. And he’s been a bit of a lifesaver – we talk about politics and our kids and what the world is coming to, in between sit ups and bench press. It is a small piece of sanity in my often crazy week. I’m not going to list all the millions of reasons why you should exercise because I know you already know them… except did you know it improves your sex drive? Sorry, yep that’s one thing you definitely should know. Anyway, just go punch a boxing bag for 20 minutes or run around the gym with some cute guys and you’ll be surprised how much better it makes you feel. If you need somewhere to start I recommend this place.

There is only one rule – no leg warmers! I don’t care what Olivia says.

None of my business, or is it?

Lies and deception: The complicated web of infidelity.
Lies and deception: The complicated web of infidelity.

If you knew someone was cheating on their partner, would you tell?

There are pros and cons for both sides of the debate – I think I’ve heard all of them, but feel free to scroll down to the comment section if there is some epiphany you think I’ve missed – the more voices on this issue the better. Here’s my take on things, having been both the “cheated on” and the best friend of a woman who was cheating on her husband.

Firstly, it’s worth noting I was the innocent bystander to my best friend’s infidelity BEFORE the tables were turned, and I became the victim of the infidelity. This is significant because I believe the way we view the situation is tainted by our own experiences when it comes to moral obligation and empathy. In my younger days I saw things in black and white – if you cheat you are a liar and you deserve to be caught and your partner deserves to know and the relationship is over. THE END.

But some grey areas started creeping into my thinking when I was about 13 years into a shit fight of a 15-year marriage. Let’s just say some “propositions” were put to me and the temptation was… well… very difficult to resist. I was no longer in love. I despised my husband. I was there for the kids’ sake and every day was a torturous existence that was killing me. I was desperate to escape. I most definitely fantasized about taking up the offer from the well-built, well off, younger man. But my conscience would never let me get away with it. No matter how horrible my marriage was, no matter how depressed or sad, or beaten down I felt – I knew finding solace in the arms of another would only make me feel disappointed in myself. Damn my mother and the well-intentioned moral hardwiring she encoded me with!

So I had a cold shower, reminded myself I had taken marriage vows and graciously declined the invitation from my then-husband’s mate. And even though my marriage ended a few years after that I’m happy I can say I never cheated despite my relationship being dead and buried long before. It’s all about the karma people, it’s all about the karma – apparently one day my good works and monogamy in the face of adversity will be rewarded with 72 virgins… oops wrong manual… I mean a key to the pearly gates. I mean surely being a saint trapped in hell has to get me brownie points in some dimension of this damn matrix.

Anyway, back to the topic. A few months ago I ran into a couple at a social function whom I knew through an ex partner* and with whom I had previously had a reasonably long and close association. I had not spoken to this couple since leaving my ex partner but I knew that they knew that he had cheated on me. We made small talk. It was pathetically awkward. No one discussed the elephant in the room. I smiled politely but felt disheartened by their indifference. Not even a “sorry to hear what happened with (insert ex partner’s name here)”?

And I started thinking… “I bet his mates probably knew he was a cheater all along.” But they bought into the mate code that forbids them from speaking up if a friend fucks up. Like the time one of my ex partners took a trip to New York with “the boys”. I’m told he disappeared for two days. No one knew where he was and he made no contact with the rest of the group during that time. The other guys were apparently worried he was dead and debated at what point they should notify the authorities. But at the time not one of those men thought to tell me – the ignorant other half, waiting patiently at home, keeping all the balls in the air – while he was missing feared dead. Why? Because deep down they all suspected if he wasn’t dead he was cheating on me and mates don’t snitch on mates. Right? Or am I confusing their silence for loyalty to a cheater? I suppose I should appreciate at least one of “the boys” cleared his conscience and confessed all that he knew. Not that it makes any difference now… the guy is an ex after all, but there is something about knowing the truth that makes you feel somehow better or wiser. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but never a more definitive phrase has been spoken than “the truth will set you free”.

Rewind 100 years when my friend cheated on her husband (I know because she told me). After negotiating the landmines of psychological warfare over a long period of time, I made it clear to her we were no longer friends as I could not be a party to her lies (there’s that black and white mentality I was talking about earlier). I removed her as a friend and consoled her husband who was now battling both the pain of infidelity and betrayal. I’m proud of the fact I can say I’ve never compromised my morals. Not for anyone. Even when my own loyalties were tested.

But here’s the clincher. I’m pretty sure a male acquaintance of mine is a cheater and if he hasn’t crossed the line yet – he will, or at least he’s made it clear he wants to and I reeeeeeally want to tell his wife. Should I?

*legal disclaimer: I may or may not have been married more than once. I may or may not be referring to any one of the hoards of ex partners I have had throughout my life.

The ties that bind – female friendships through adversity

Feeling the love. Here's to the beauty of friendships.
Feeling the love. Here’s to the beauty of friendships.

Whatever there is to know about friendship I can tell you. I have some pretty bloody amazing friends. Some of them I’ve known forever – back when our hair was darker, our skin was tighter and our marriages were still intact. Some of them are recent additions to the fold. But I believe every one of my female comrades were destined to join me on this journey. There is a knowing amongst us, some kind of guiding force that has drawn each of us to the other in a powerful coming together of minds and knowledge and experience.

You can walk into a room full of strangers and no one will know the pain behind your smile, but a friend… well they just know. They know when there is but a breath between holding the pieces of your life together and the exhale of a world falling apart. And they will catch the pieces for you and keep them safe until you find yourself again. They will do your washing and make you red velvet cupcakes, they will listen to you whinge about your fucked up ex for the millionth time and not tell you to shut up, they will mind your kids like they are their own and they will have your back no matter what. The most impressive thing I’ve discovered about my lot of womanly warriors, after all we’ve traversed together, is they will not abandon you – even when the very worst befalls you. Nope, that is when warrior chicks are at their arse-kicking best. They wait patiently while you put the armour back on and join you on the battlefield with a cheeky “what took you so long?”. They are patient and measured and wise in their words. Prompting but never pushy – nudging you out of the darkness and away from the clutches of melancholy.

My revelation of the power of female friendship came to me in the winter of 2010. It was the year I found the courage to leave my horrendously bad marriage and take my two daughters with me. I left my house, I left my husband, I left my business and I started again. I had to find a new job, a new car, a new home and a new life. I entered a subconscious state I like to refer to as “survival mode”.  The stress and anxiety of simply surviving coupled with keeping up appearances for the children along with a bank balance that was shrinking as quickly as my waist line made me physically, mentally and emotionally…. well fragile to say the least.

There were no knights riding in on horseback to save me – and nor did I want one. Instead, my saviours showed up in high heels and handbags, carrying cooked dinners and groceries, spruiking tales of inspiration and offering a safety-in-numbers camaraderie. They let me cry and vent and fret without judgment. They helped me get the kids to school. They got me out of the house to places where actual, living people existed so I could converse with humans rather than my washing machine. But most of all they helped me feel normal. They shared their own horror stories of love and betrayal, lies and deception, fear and doubt. We bonded, we united and grew stronger through our common tragedies. But far from conjuring the Bermuda Triangle of lost love and vanished hope, our steadfast alliance gave birth to laughter, opportunity, encouragement and unity. There is no one thing that is special about my friends – all of it is and all of them are.

My little posse of do-gooders have taught me a lot. Compassion has always been a staple amongst us, but to rediscover loyalty was both unexpected and necessary. They also taught me the true meaning of strength. Whoever the moron was that sprouted off about women being the weaker sex has surely never sat at our dinner table. Now there’s a dinner conversation that would make Joan of Arc proud… it may also make Madonna blush, but I’ll save that for another blog.

Only a woman who has felt the burn of betrayal will comprehend the pain of another who walks in her shoes… cue Beyonce. Only another mother who has had to hand over her child in circumstances that will torture and claw at her heart will ever understand or recognise the fear and anxiety in another. Only one who shares her fears and cries her tears and bleeds through the same wounds will know what it means to live through each of those days as they turn into years and burden your soul and dull your heart to the world. The fullness of compassion comes only from those who hear the shrillness in that heart’s cry. She who is not comforted by any word or hand, but only a knowing from another dear heart who has walked before her. Thank you, my women, for the comfort in your counsel but also for making me laugh till I cry… a lot.

Joining forces

The 40th that turned into an engagement party.
When a 40th turns into an engagement party.

You probably won’t believe me, but I knew about two weeks after I started dating The Musician that I was going to marry him – that was two years and eight months ago. It has been two years and eight months of smiling, singing, laughing and basically all-round bliss. I’m not kidding. It’s true. You probably won’t believe this either, but we STILL haven’t had a single argument. NOT. ONE. Not a raised voice, not a rolled eye, not a bad word. Don’t get me wrong – there have been plenty of other “EX-ternal” reasons for raised voices and frustrations, but even in the face of obscene difficulties, his resolve and grace under pressure only make me love him more.

Should I be letting a geneticist know so we can clone this guy?

I almost feel guilty I hit the jackpot and I have all these amazing single girlfriends who are wading through tinder profiles of serial killers and tragic nobodies lost in the abyss of singledom, not to mention the liars, the cheaters, the married men and the closet homosexuals who are wasting everyone’s time (don’t get me started). Not that there’s anything wrong with singledom – I loved it. I just didn’t love the propensity for dickheads to congregate there. There are plenty of married dickheads too I suppose (like the ones on tinder).

Saying “I do” the second time around feels sooo right compared to the uncertainty I felt the first time I was blinkered and coaxed into the holding yards – that was a race no one won. Although I think my then mother-in-law may have been taking bets on the loser. Over the last decade or so less Australians have married for the second time, according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS). In 2013 almost one third of marriages in Australia were between couples where one or both had been married before (approximately 32,000 compared to 37,000 in 1993).

And of those marriages there is a greater likelihood of blended families with children present from previous marriages or relationships. This brings me to my two little cherubs. There are only a few absolutes in life – things that resonate with such certainty down to your very core. Two of those absolutes are my daughters and the bond that we share. Any mother will tell you the connection you have to your child is as certain as the air you breathe.

One of my absolutes, let’s call her A1, isn’t so enthusiastic about sharing her mum with The Musician. She sees us as a tight-knit trio, not a quartet. Her exact words were “we’re like the Gilmore Girls mum. It’s just us. You’re mine and I’m yours.” And I completely understand how she feels. I was THE most over protective daughter when it came to my own single mother and potential new partners. I had seen the hurt and pain she endured after my father left and it took us years to overcome the financial and emotional strain. A1 has also seen enough in her short life to warrant a well-founded fear of marriage and probably men in general. Thankfully The Musician is helping to dispel those fears with the gentle assurance only he can impart.

Meanwhile my assurance that I love her the same today as I did the day she was born, regardless of whether I’m married, divorced or repartnered, seems to serve as little comfort to her. I know her concern for me comes from a place of deep, consuming love. I am her constant, her starting point in her own life’s journey. And if psychologist John Bowlby’s attachment theory is anything to go by –she needs me to form a healthy foundation from which to proceed out into the big, wide world.

In addition, children of parents or families who have experienced violence feel they have a greater responsibility and concern for the welfare of the abused parent. She sees herself as my protector.

I understand she worries for our little trio given we are still licking the wounds from a disastrous marriage past. But what is a mother to do? I considered waiting until the children left high school, had more life experience and could emotionally cope better with a second marriage. Then my own mother reminded me I also thought it was a good idea to stay with the children’s father until they were older and better able to cope with a divorce – there’s 15 years I won’t be getting back.

“You have to start living your own life at some point Heidi,” my mother declared.

Is she right?

It seems A2, in stark contrast to A1, is well and truly ready for me to move on with my life – she has already picked out my wedding dress, decided the colour scheme (I didn’t know we had to have one), chosen her dress and can barely contain her excitement. The only absolute in this parental dilemma is absolute opposites.

Then of course, there is the absolute I feel with him. I can’t tell you exactly what it was that sparked that sense of knowing two years and eight months ago, but I definitely knew. Some might call it women’s intuition, some might say it was a master stroke of genius from the ethereal artist, some might say it was pot luck. My mother says it is a miracle. Honestly, I don’t care what it was, or how it happened, I’m just grateful I decided to send my daughter to guitar lessons all those years ago and he was the teacher.

Increasingly I feel like I have lived two completely different lives – the first half filled with sadness and a depressing hopelessness that made me question the point of it all and the second half so wonderfully whole and united it makes living in this world a pleasure. My children have walked with me through both of those lives.

I remember when I was in my mid-teens asking my mother what love was and how I would know when love found me. Surely in her profound wisdom she would have some insightful explanation of what to look out for, some sign or feelings, or heart-stopping moments for which I should brace myself. “Oh you just know,” she said matter-of-factly. You just know!? That doesn’t help me at all. I remember being very disappointed with her answer. Now however, I appreciate the complexity of my question – how do you adequately describe to someone what it feels like to be in love?

You can’t – you just know. And as Michael Leunig said – it’s a simple and as difficult as that.

Teenagers and Skype – The New World Order

Access all areas: The battle for teenage attention in the social media era.
Access all areas: The battle for teenage attention in the social media era.

This week my almost 14-year-old told me when she grows up she isn’t going to be like me. Um, back up there sister. What do you mean – you’re not going to be like me? What’s wrong with being like me?

“Well, you know mum. I’m not going to be a Goody Two Shoes,” she replied.*

“Oh I see. Being a Goody Two Shoes is not cool. I get it. It’s all about being popular right now. But if you’re not a Goody Two Shoes, then what are you? A bad arse, drug-taking, tattoo-covered, expletive-laden, disobedient rebel?”

Oh I can’t wait. My life has been so boring and drama free to date. I could really use a rebellious, test-my-patience-in-every-possible-way teenager right now. Just to spice things up a bit. Keep me on my toes. Make sure I never get any sleep. EVER.

I thought this sleepless night thing was supposed to end around the same time they grew out of nappies. I can tell you right now there is a massive error in ‘The Child Rearing Manual For Idiots’.

In fact, an entire chapter is missing. It’s the one entitled ‘How Not to Lose Your Shit After 14 Years with Next to No Sleep’. It needs to be slotted in somewhere between the chapter on ‘Why Daddy is a Bankrupt’ and ‘When it’s ok to Kill Your Mother-In-Law’.

Instead of penning ‘Go the F**k to Sleep’ Adam Mansbach would have been better placed writing ‘Stay the F**k Awake – A Parent’s Guide’.

After the events of this week it seems I will need to employ the nocturnal proficiencies of a vampire to keep this kid in my sights. I plan to hover over her bed until she turns at least 21. It’s either that or round up every hormone-crazed teenage boy in the southern hemisphere and ship them off to a deserted island.

This week not one, not two, but THREE teenage boys decided it would be a good idea to call her. Not at 10pm, not at 11pm, not even at midnight. No. After midnight. Sometime in the early hours of the morning.

In addition to their poor timing, they also thought it might be advantageous to discuss some highly, HIGHLY, inappropriate topics – none of which I can mention here, but all of which were mentioned to their parents when my expertly-honed investigative skills discovered their misdemeanour.

Anybody who has ever had the misfortune of doing me wrong knows of my much-maligned ability to find shit out. When I get tired of this journalism thing, I’m thinking I could make my fortune as a private investigator.

Needless to say, after our parental round table and several apologies later (both written and verbal) I think we are all in a much better place –teenagers and parents alike.

However, the overarching revelation I took away from ‘Episode 503 of Teenage Angst’ is how reasonable and measured the boys’ parents were upon learning of their children’s indiscretions.

Thank God for adults who want the best for their kids, who don’t make excuses for bad behaviour, who assign appropriate punishment, who are as horrified as I am that Little Johnny/Jenny has experienced a short circuit in their cerebral function.

It gives me hope the next generation might survive this age of social media saturation, intimidation and perversion.


*This whole Goody Two Shoes thing might be just a little overplayed. Admittedly my shoes were ever so slightly scuffed, but I’m running with it. Little do these kids know we all had starring roles in ‘Episode 504, 505, and 506 of Teenage Angst’.  How else do I manage to stay one step ahead? Checkmate.

Life is a highway – avoid the potholes

Get in, sit down, buckle up.
Get in, sit down, buckle up.

There are moments in my life I refer to as ‘car crash’ moments. When the world stops spinning and time stands still. When slow motion kicks in and the focus fades. They are the moments when you are overly conscious of the pounding in your chest and a shortness of breath and the rising panic that is about to render you helpless. This is the moment life has an opportunity to overcome you.

And I have been overcome by life … well… a lot. I am not ashamed to admit I have been semi-conscious on the bathroom floor a few times now (those tiles are really uncomfortable).

Note to first timers: lay in the foetal position with your head away from the toilet bowl, towels are compulsory, sobbing is optional.

I have always been cognisant of the ferocious passing of time. This week my uncle reminded me “we weren’t here one hundred years ago and we won’t be here in a hundred years to come”.  It’s a sobering, if not frightening, thought. It’s a thought that will either get you up off the bathroom floor, or put you right back down on it.

When my girls were babies and I watched them sleeping I was very much aware that life was fleeting. Time was ephemeral. In but a moment they would be grown. I knew to burn even the most inane, seemingly frivolous events into my memory. I remember their soft skin, their short little breathes, their baby smell, their fat little fingers, their wispy thin hair.

I remember how they grew and changed and their personalities blossomed. I remember how they held my hand as we walked along. The adorable, innocent, funny things they said. Now they are as tall as me. They put their arms around my shoulder instead of my waist. They are still adorable, and I still watch them sleep and I drink in each precious second of their existence.

This week I was driving along the freeway late at night. It had been a tragic day, with some tragic news. I had been up since 4am. I hadn’t showered or changed. I had a migraine. My brother called while I was driving. I answered – on hands free of course. The conversation was difficult. I was sobbing. I couldn’t see the road. Tears spilled onto my lap. Car headlights were a blur. I made it home alive by the sheer grace of God. This week I had a ‘car crash’ moment – two actually. Thankfully not on the freeway, but it was a total wreck of a week. A very close family member is sick.

Life is officially moving in slow motion. The reassuring thing is – I’ve been here before and I know it will pass. We will all catch our breath and our hearts will stop pounding quite so hard and the movie reel will pick up speed again.

*I know because I felt this same way when my grandfather died, when I left my husband, when my husband told me what he had really been doing, when I was told I had cancer, when I miscarried, when I lost every worldly possession (insert novel here).

I know when all the awful, tragic things start to overwhelm you – you have to look inward, not outward.

*Not necessarily in chronological order.