Dear Spotty (a letter to teenage me)

This Saturday, I shall be shedding my 20-something cocoon and bursting forth into the world as a 30 year old butterfly. A butterfly who gets sleepy at 9pm, wears "comfy" clothes and chooses to sport a super practical mum-bob that looks less sexy Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and more 90s boyband bowl cut. What? I enjoy feeling the breeze on my neck.

Normally, at this time of year, I list something I have learned for each year of my life (29 things at 29 etc), but the numbers are just getting silly now. If you tried to put a candle for each year on a birthday cake for me, the cake would likely be engulfed in a ball of flames. Or you'd just have to get a bigger cake.

I wouldn't mind if you wanted to get me a bigger cake. Just saying. 

Today I'm trying something different. I'm going to write a letter to my younger self. I choose teenage me, aged 15-18, because, like Jon Snow, she knew nothing. She also had black, curly hair like Jon Snow's, but I doubt Jon's contained a litres of Silvikrin Firm Hold hairspray and was crunchy to the touch. She won't listen to me, but here goes anyway.

Dear Hormonal Becky,

Hi! I'm you, but from the future. First of all, I want to say that I still approve of your 50 layers of eyeliner and your super 'alternative' choice in clothing. You look so edgy and unique. Just like all your friends! 

I also want to apologise a little bit. I think you expected you at aged 30 to be a bit more...more...than I am. I wear gym clothes during the day wherever possible out of choice now (I know - such a townie!), and I like to keep my little yellow house tidy because it makes me happy to be in it when it looks nice. Also I could only put off morphing into Mum for so long. You can't fight nature. 

This week, I'm taking time off for my birthday,and I've spent all day today waiting for someone to fix a leak in my ceiling and for my MOT for my sensible white car to be done. Not the coolest, am I? But then again, you write questionable poetry and think that those plastic "shag bands" that make your wrists all sweaty are the epitome of cool, so people in glass houses and all that...

Let me think about what's not changed too much, so as not to make you want to prematurely top yourself before you morph into this comfort-seeking alien that you can't even entertain becoming....

My music taste hasn't really changed. I still listen to all the same albums that you listen to right now, because new music = effort, and I finally got that Blink 182 tattoo that you always wanted. It makes me smile when I'm trying to be all serious and busy in meetings at work to see a reminder poking out of my jacket that no matter how old I get, my favourite  band sings such classics as "I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass" and "Happy Holidays, You Bastard". Quite difficult to take yourself too seriously when your tattoos look like the doodles you scrawled on your school notebooks during lessons (you rebel, you!).

We still eat our body weight in cheese at every given opportunity, but it's not affecting you too terribly yet because you (you might want to sit down for this revelation) exercise for fun. 

I know, right? You can't run anymore because you fucked your foot by over training for a marathon in 2015 (sorry - should have given you a trigger warning there. If it helps, the race had a live band on every mile, and you quite enjoyed the bits where you weren't silently praying for a swift death at mile 17. Following the race, you and Amy W hit up Liverpool in your medals and slut dropped in an empty pub until you could no longer stand up...good times), so you happily fling barbells and other heavy objects around now in your free time. Keep an open mind - it'll end up being your favourite thing!

You're not an author yet. Sorry. You still have a knack for getting carried away with ideas and then abandoning them because "they're shit and I suck!!", but you do blog (ta-daa!) with semi-regularity, and you recently got a job writing for an in-house magazine and internal newsletters at a big utilities company. You enjoy it, and you've learned that your ability to panic about every minor thing has made you surprisingly organised, which works to your advantage in this job. Your permanent sense of "AAAGH!!" is your secret weapon. You may never rid yourself of it, but it does come in handy sometimes, and you combat it with weekend naps and more of that exercise stuff that I shocked you with earlier. It's all good.

Now that I've taught you that your goals (e.g to be paid to write) can be achieved in mysterious and unexpected ways, and that your near-constant anxiety can be helpful sometimes, I should bear in mind that I could learn a lot from you too.

I'm a lot calmer than you are. I still react to everything like my hair just's been doused with petrol and had a match held to it, but in a more "it's okay, I'll just put a hat on it and pretend my scalp isn't melting" kind of way. Your reactivity might be a pain in the backside, but I do miss feeling everything as intensely as you do. Everything hurts and brings you joy in equal measure, but I want to tell you to hold on to that for as long as you can, because it does unfortunately fade for the most part. Lots of things hurt your sensitive, spotty little soul, but only because you just care so chuffing much!

My most intensely happy, uncomfortable and low moments happened to me at your age, and they colour who I am today (comfy, driven, often nervous, suffering frequent bouts of nostalgia). I would give up dairy and coffee for life(a bold statement, believe me) to experience a few days of living with the HD, 3D, hormone addled feels-splosion soup that my brain was marinated in at your age. No wonder you had such bad acne. You were a fleshy case of emotion (ew), but stuff mattered. Enjoy it while you can, and I'll try and do the same.

You must be wondering what I'm going to be doing for our 30th? 

Probably not, actually. You're more likely to be wondering how you broach the topic of that gig you need a lift to with your parents, or which new Blink poster you NEED to purchase next. Regardless, we're going to the Harry Potter Studio Tour. Almost-30 year old you might be a coffee drinking dweeb who treats their dog like an human baby(oh, yeah - we got a dog! DOG! DOGGY!! We love him with an unhealthy fervor), but actual 30 year old you will be a motherfucking wizard come Sunday. Watch this space!

Lots of love

Becky from the future (WooOOOooOOooooo...)

p.s for the last time, you're NOT fat!

 

Two equally strong looks, young Spotty. Good job.

O, Sister of Mine (Recycled Post)

Okay.  So. I'm cheating a bit on this post.  I wrote this one for an old blog account that I was terrible at keeping up to date with.

"But Becky, you are so regular and punctual with your clockwork-like, evenly spaced apart posts on here!  Surely this cannot be?"

I know, I know.  My past habits do both shock and amaze, kind reader.  Anyway, as I was deactivating said old account, I came across one solitary post from 2012 that was longer than a single paragraph, and because I didn't want the whole probably 20 minutes or so's effort to go to waste, I have chosen to recycle it and share it with you.  Because I'm generous like that and recycling helps saves the whales and shit...Not sure if that applied to blogging, but whatever.  Here it is:

O, Sister 

For the purpose of...well, there's no good purpose - I will be referring to my friends and relatives by their first initial (until I mention two people with the same initial...I'll cross that bridge when I come to it). Possibly it is because it makes me sound all science-y, and this makes me feel like a professional observer of my own life. "Behold! Exhibit A!" etc.

Today, I will be shedding a light on my love/straight-up abuse fuelled relationship with my twenty two year old sister. Exhibit R. Today, we put on a believable front of two reasonably socialised female adults who get on well. Most of the time. But it hasn't always been like this.

It all started when she was born. With two point five years of totally monopolizing my parents' attention under my belt, it would have been an understatement to say that I was unhappy with the arrival of the tiny flesh monkey that had the same surname as me.

"You coming to the hospital to meet your baby sister?"

"NO!"

"Do you not want to see what she looks like?"

"Nnnnno!!"

*dragged kicking and screaming to hospital anyway*

"Nooooooooooo!"

(Fade to hospital scene. I am sat on a too-big-for-me chair, pointedly staring at anything other than my new relative.)

"Isn't she gorgeous?"

"No."

"Do you want to hold her?"

"Urgh."

My reaction to babies is much the same to this day. I fully blame Rachel. I mean R...

Over the years, though, we have learned to live with one another. Or, rather, I have learned to back down because she can easily kick my arse. Here are some examples of a few incidences in which she may have realised that, of the pair of us, she has the upper hand:

* Hanging around a garden centre as our parents shop - R and I are inspecting a variety if exotic plants and cacti. R points out a vivid green specimen covered it what looks like friendly, white fluff. She tells me that it is a cactus, because she is a smart arse like that.  In a bid to prove R wrong - that said specimen is, in fact, not a cactus as it has no visible spikes, I wrap my fist around it. The fluff isn't friendly. It takes two days to get all the tiny spikes out of my palms. Vegetation/Rachel 1, Becky 0.

* More shopping - R and I are keeping ourselves busy in a Pound Stretcher or similar. I am inspecting some toys and sizing up which ones I should nag my parents for. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Bec, look what I found!" I turn around to be met with a split second view of R grinning happily, followed by a large, red boxing glove coming straight for my nose.

* A visit to the grandparents - R finds a boomerang. Pretty similar story to previous.

* Same trip to grandparents' - same story as previous two. This time it's a golf ball from above.

I'm sure my subconscious will dredge up some similar horrors from my childhood soon enough for your enjoyment and my embarrassment.

The main point of this post...I think...is that sibling rivalry doesn't dissolve through some process of maturation and improved communication, forging bonds and...etc, etc. It actually happens when one of you realises that your brother/sister could kick seven shades of shit out of you should they choose to do so. You then bow to their physical/mental superiority accordingly, never openly admitting that they are harder than you, and choosing friendship over competition, as it hurts less than being hit in the chops.

And if you don't think that this has happened to you, then congrats, you're the meanie. Go pick on someone your own age/size/stupid poo-facedness, you smelly bully!

All the Wrong

My mum found my stash this week.   Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Nothing as cool as drugs or porn.  She found my stash of old photos that I've hoarded since my teenage years, and I'm so happy she did.  They're terrible!  I'd be embarrassed if it wasn't tickling me so much.  Look at the state of this pasty creeper!

 

"No, I don't know who stole the last yogurt and no, I'm not wearing a tent made from recycled bagpipes!"

...Cool hair, bro.

Naturally, I fell into a nostalgia hole.  I assume this is like a K-hole, but you remember more at the end and have less dribble on your clothes.

I wish I could share all the contents of my special box (heh) with you in all its beautiful, spot-ridden, angst infused glory.  Because who doesn't like a spotty, angsty box?  Like most people, I have mixed feelings about The Hormone Years.  School wasn't exactly a weekday party of coolness and sports for me.  I was an intense, stressed out introvert who avoided most social scenarios that didn't involve a gallon of the old confidence lube (ew.  Beer. Why couldn't I just call it beer? What is wrong with me tonight?).  I know, I know. Stark contrast to the Beyonce-esque, swan-like creature I am today. 

By swan-like, I mean white and prone to hissing when threatened.  Legend has it I can break an arm if I flap hard enough.  

Has a swan ever actually managed to break someone's arm?  Someone Google it for me.  I'm too lazy to click one tab over.  

As I was reflecting (giggling) upon my past, I couldn't help but think about what I would say to Teenage Becky if I met her now.  Maybe I would tell her to stop worrying so much about what people think of her.  Perhaps I'd break the news that she would stop growing at the age of fourteen and have to hang off bars by her elbows to be served in some pubs in her twenties.  Mostly I think I'd tell her that she is an idiot and wrong about things.  SO many things.  Here are some of the things that Specialpants McHormones believed:

1.  Dying your hair several different colours in the space of a couple of a few weeks will make it look cool and awesome.  You won't try to dye your hair bright blue, accidentally turn it grey-green and have to spend 3 days obsessively trying to wash it out.  Nor will you give up on that and then dump a load of Hyper Value's finest black dye on top of it.  The result?  See below: 

Also: Chinese dragon T-shirts from Tammy Girl will always be cool.  Everyone will be wearing them in 2015. 

2.  Yep.  Everyone cares so much about you that they're noting your every profoundly uncool move.  They are in fact judging you and only you, and not at all just getting on with their own shiny new internal chemical shitstorms while you paralyse yourself with anxiety in the corner.  Good logicking, narcissist!

3.  NOBODY loves your bands as much as you and your friends do. NOBODY!!!! They don't know all the words!  They don't GET THEM like you do!  GAH!! So many feelings!  I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass by Blink 182 is about SO MUCH MORE than just sexually violating a pet (spoiler: It's not)!

4.  This? Cracking idea.  You can totally pull it off!  Even if it is upside down and looking a bit infect-y.

 

Look, but you can't touch, boys...because it's sore and I think I saw pus.

 5.  Exercise sucks and I will lose ALL of the weight EVER by going on the Special K diet with my mum.  Eating sawdust and pretend fruit in milk for two out of three meals a day is much more sustainable and fun than going outside in trainers and moving a bit.  Ew.

6.  Always trust a van of hippies at your friend's illegal rave in her barn when they offer you shots.  You are drinking a delicious minty substance.  Not alcoholic, herbal viagra. 

7.  This is an excellent look.  Much mysterious.  So goth.

Deep thoughts can be had when you're in mesh sleeves.

8.  You and your first proper boyfriend need to be attached at the face at all times, otherwise no one will know how much you LOVE EACH OTHER AND NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS ANYWAY, WHY HAVE I GOT NO SKIN LEFT ON MY CHIN HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CHIN SKIN?!  

...To cut her some slack, though, teenage me did get the occasional thing right:

1.  This lot will be in my life til we're all in adult diapers, poking each other on whatever the future equivalent of Facebook is from our respective care homes:

I'm the one donning the helmet made of static...

2.  It is possible to stick the big cookie in your mouth whole:

Never be defeated by the big cookie, people!

G'night! 

xxx

In a Minute Now: Growing Up in Wales

My mother sat me down as a child and shared something with me:

"Becky, we found you in a bin and decided to keep you."

She also strapped me in my pushchair with a loaf of bread and pissed herself laughing as the ducks swarmed towards me while I screamed (I can't have been too bright a kid.  Upon reflection, I should have just lobbed the bread away from myself), but her questionable sense of humour is beside the point today.  I think she might have been right about the bin thing.

I sound nothing like any of my family members.  Dad was a moustachio'd scouser (is there any other kind?), Mum and the youngest sis have strong Welsh accents, and even the middle sis, who is only two years my junior, has a hint of a Welsh twang in there, even if it is only a subtle one.

I, however, sound like I've just come from a Victorian tea party, which prompts the question

"So...Where are you from, exactly?" or, from those more rude and/or drunk 

"You're not from around here, are you?"

The answers are Wales and yes, shut up!  I've lived here for twenty odd of my twenty seven years.  Before that, I was an army brat living in Germany, but the vast majority of my memories are here, as well as half of my family, who give me biscuits and tea when I visit so I ain't going nowhere!  I belong in this sheep strewn patch of green as much as anyone who was born here.  I loves it, I do.  I have no idea why in two decades my accent's not even remotely deviated from that of a BBC newsreader, but I'm proud to have been brought up here.  Hell, my first name even featured heavily in an infamous welsh riot masterminded by cross dressing locals (see: BBC Wales History - The Rebecca Riots) !

I love Wales' industrial history and its deep roots in art, literature and music (Dylan Thomas may have been a roaring drunk, but that bastard was a clever roaring drunk!), and I love the fact that even if you are in a city, everywhere still has that local feel.  I live in Swansea right now, and my favourite thing about it is that even though it's a city (albeit a baby one), you can always find refuge in the greenery of lakes and trails when you're out running.  Oh!  And I'm seldom further than twenty minutes from a beach!  Not bad, eh?

So..thought I'd use today's post to share with you some things I've learned growing up in South West Wales.  Here goes:

1.  The smaller the town you grow up in, the less need there is for surnames.  My hometown is called Penygroes, which translates to "top of the cross".  Probably because there are more churches than actual families there, which meant that everyone was named by their neighbours after where they worked.  Pete the Petrol Station, So-and-so the Shop.  And so on.  Don't think it works as well these days.  Becky the Call Centre doesn't quite have the same twee feel to it.  Becky the Blog does, though... Might have to pedal that one and see if it sticks.  Sounds a bit too much like "blob", though...Hmm.

2.  Rissoles are a delicious treat from the chippy, and not balls of offal in breadcrumbs (or "lips, arse and teeth" and I heard someone say not-so-inaccurately once).  So much so that my local nightclub served them alongside burgers at the end of the night.  It's been a while since I've gleefully torn into a glob of questionable "meats" at 3am.  I miss that nightclub.

3.  "Butt" is a term of endearment and not just another way for someone to call you an arse.

4.  It is an important tradition to dress your children in old timey Welsh ladies' and men's clothing once a year on St David's day.  You  might think it's cute to see your offspring in a little bonnet and pinny, but I remember what a whole day dressed in fabric made from Satan's beard felt like.  It felt itchy.  And hot.  However, I ever choose to replicate my genes, I know for a fact that I was inflict this on the poor sod too.  "Ahh, look!  You look like a tiny adult!  Stop scratching and smile for the camera - it's not that itchy!"

5.  It is also tradition on this date to eat cawl.  (Pronounced "cowl") - a watery soup made from what tastes like salty water and moist, soft vegetables. Mmmmmm.  Okay, maybe I'm not as Welsh as I'd like to be.  Can't stand the stuff.  It's like drinking armpit water with lumps in.

6.  The Welsh language is the best.  The alphabet is all kinds of fucked up.  We have all the English letters... A, B, C...etc... but this isn't good enough on its own.  How to we make an alphabet our own?  I know!  Let's throw in a handful of extra letters, to trip the foreigners up!  Here we go.  How about... A, B, C, Ch, D, Dd, E, F, Ff, G, Ng, H, I, J.... I never liked K, can we get rid of that one?  Cool...L, Ll, M... etc.  Language is much more colourful, but try and sing that one to the alphabet tune and someone might have to gently guide you to a corner and quietly sit you down with a snack so you don't strain yourself too much.

Here are some words I like:

• Pili pala (pill-lee-pah-la) - Butterfly
• Popty ping (pop-tee-ping) - Microwave
• Guto Ffowc (git-oh-folk) - Guy Fawkes (I love this one.  When I learned it, my mum, who isn't a Welsh speaker, thought I'd made it up and was just using it to say mild swear words)
• Cacen (Cack-en) - Cake (same reason as above.  "Haha, I get to say "cack" and no one can tell me off!)
• Coch (Co...spit all over everyone making a noise I can't write down phonetically) - Red

7.  There is no sense of urgency in Wales.  Everything is done "In a minute now."  So, now, then?  Or in a minute?  "I said I'd do it!  In a minute now!" 

8.  You cannot move for castles.  If you go on a school trip, you go to a castle.  Fancy a walk?  Let's go to a castle!

My house

9.  No flag can top ours.  We have a mother lovin' dragon on it.  Anyone care to claim their design is cooler than that?  Anyone else got a badass red DRAGON?  No?  Didn't think so.

10.  Wales is effing gorgeous.  This next picture is just a generic view from the area I went to comprehensive school in, taken on my phone.  In South West Wales, this kind of view is standard:

My garden

Sudden urge to go outdoors now.  No idea why.  I think I'll leave my list there and get my shoes on.  Hwyl fawr, pawb! Cymru am byth! =)

Marathon Training Week 6/Evidence That I'm An Adult

Happy chocolate coma bonanza weekend!! Or "Jesus-Is-Back, hooray!" weekend, if your leanings border more on the spiritual than the gluttonous.  Something for everyone, is Easter! I've had a bit of a crappy week running-wise, so I'm not going to go into too much detail on that subject today.  Been over thinking everything from my speed to stupid things like how I position my thumbs, making the experience a bazillion times harder for myself.  I ran, walked and dragged myself around thirteen tough miles this week.  How I'm going to do that distance twice over in one run in June is beyond me.  But, knowing me, a bad week wod usually followed by a good one, so we'll leave it at a summary of my week, move on and hope for a better one next week!

Mon     Rest day
Tues    5 miles
Weds   Rest day
Thurs   3 miles
Fri        13 miles
Sat       Rest day/hang over (what? It's Easter!)
Sun     4 sicky, too hot-nightmare miles

Now that's out of the way, the topic I'm going to be covering today is grown-upishness.  I am twenty seven years young (sonny Jim!), and now that Spring is ...err...springing (?), my Facebook feed is turning into a combination of two different kinds of status update.  The classic Disney film Bambi was right all along.  Spring gets everybody twitterpated.  For those who haven't seen Bambi (what? How haven't you seen Bambi?  Did you not have a childhood?!):

 Here are the two statuses that I've been subject to:

Status One: Holy shit, we've made a human out of our combined DNA!

Status Two:  Hurrah! We are contractually tying ourselves together as a public display of our enduring affections!

No complaints about the presence of these statuses.  Number one blows my mind because it  amazes me that people can make people out of themselves and number two is always good news because parties!  Big, glamorous parties with dancing and friends!

It just weirds me out that my friends and I are at the age where spawning and conjoining are normal things that happen now.  I am still a teenager in my mind, and have no bigger responsibility than keeping myself alive - a task monumental enough on its own.  I'm hard work!

So, I've been thinking (oh dear).  There are many, many more than two ways to feel like a grown-up. Despite my enduring love for sweets and near total lack of attention span 

Hey, look, there's a dog outside!  Hahaha, stupid dog...

...I can't avoid that I am getting older.  I may not have a human in my pipe works, or a contractual agreement to like somebod indefinitely, but I am terrifyingly, undeniably climbing the ladder to adulthood. Evidence:

  
1.  I have a pension!  I have no idea how much I put into it each month or how it works.  I could have signed up for the big boss to feed rolled up wads of my cash to their chihuahua once a month for all I know, but it makes me feel like a functioning adult to say I have one. 

2.  I am ridiculously hypersensitive about how everything I do/think/eat affects my health.  This doesn't necessarily lead to better decisions, but at least I'm aware of how much visceral fat I'm clogging myself with whenever I have an ill advised Maoam/cheese/Pringles feast just because I can't think of anything better to do at the time. 

3.  I think about buying a house.  A lot.  So far, A and I have saved up enough to purchase maybe a toilet and a "Welcome" mat, but, hey, everyone needs a toilet. 

4.  Night times - especially week nights - are for waiting until bedtime.  I LOVE bedtime!  After the day's final bout of eating and sitting down is done, all I can think about is how much longer I have to wait before crawling under the squashy duvet and waiting for sweet, sweet unconsciousness.  Even if "sweet unconsciousness" can sometimes mean the cat swatting my face to be let out, A snoring and me having the kinds of dreams that would terrify the most experienced of shrinks. 

5.  I have managed to live happily in the same rented accommodation for over three years now with not even a twinge of an urge to decorate it.  It is a student-esque cesspit of dishes and floor-drobes (posh for "piles of clothes eveywhere but the actual wardrobe").  I have recently been experiencing a scarily strong compulsion to go out and buy curtains.  Curtains!  

6.  I watch Homes Under The Hammer out of choice.  I got out of bed specifically to watch it this morning.  When did that start happening?! 

7.  I am three years off the big three-oh, but in order to soften the blow of the inevitability of not being in my twenties anymore, I have begun to prematurely identify as a thirty year old.  Self defense mechanism, I think. 

8.   A trip to Starbucks and a walk "somewhere outdoorsy" is now an idea of a nice day out for me. 

9.  I use the term "nice day out." 
 

 I trust you're all having a lovely weekend, packed with "nice days out" and either binge drinking or going to places that your kids give you access to that would otherwise make you look like a creepy weirdo (petting zoo, anyone?).  Now.  Who's ready to go back to work?  Walter? 

 

"NOOOOOOOO!! You can't make me!!"

Happy Easter! xx