I will survive!

via Daily Prompt: Survive

This is definitely giving away my age!

I was 13 when this song hit the charts for Gloria Gaynor in 1979 but it remained a disco staple right through the 1980s.  Handbags on the floor, girls in a circle, arms in the air, feet shuffling, it was a great icebreaker to get the dancing going.

The 1980s was a fantastic decade, I can’t fault it for fun.  I did my exams, left school, got my first job, went on my first holiday abroad and passed my driving test … but the first thing I think about when the 1980s are mentioned is fun on the dancefloor, fun with fashion, big hair and going to loads and loads of live pop concerts (we didn’t call them gigs then).

I survived the 1980s – even if the ozone layer didn’t with the quantity of hairspray consumed!

80s

 

Impression – are you impressed?

via Daily Prompt: Impression

What’s your impression of me when you see my smiling ugly mug?

My own impression of me is based on what I see in the mirror – too tall, bulky and awkward.  I don’t impress myself.  I prefer not to look in the mirror, I prefer not to see photographs of me, I prefer living in the bubble in which I’m still 22 and tall and elegant (!!), fit and healthy, long flowing locks and able to participate in the annual 7-a-side football tournament my employers hosted.  In shorts!  Those were the days and I still get the shock of my life now when I see me walking towards me, reflected in glass doors – that’s not me anymore!

fat me

 

 

Adrift

That’s how I felt just over 24 hours ago when I learnt about the unjustified horrendous attack on thousands of happy, innocent people and children in Manchester.

How can I be part of a human race that initiates and carries out such atrocities? How can I be expected to carry on with my own happy world when so many are grieving?

It’s a survival mechanism, for me to drift. To detach myself from horror while I compute the sheer scale of it and wonder why anyone could possibly justify attacks like this.

I comes from growing up in North Belfast, I guess. I had to protect myself from the mental pain acts of violence caused. I was considered aloof.  My granny told me I was, so it must be true.

I haven’t made the connection before. Adrift and aloof. Now it makes sense. I wasn’t being aloof, I was adrift from the agony the victims were suffering, trying not to be caught up in the tragedy. I needed to focus on keeping things “normal” for my own children.

I do care and I will always care. I just can’t always face reality in the same public way most people do.

#dailypost

#adrift

Unmoored?

When I published my last post, I was brought to the Reader page and the Postaday challenge was top of the list.  I’ve never felt the urge to get involved before but that one word rang all sorts of familiar bells!

I definitely feel unmoored … in my diet, my fitness and my home life.  I allow myself drift off to do the things other people want me to do to the point that I can’t drop my own anchor to do the things I need to do for myself.

I should know better and perhaps I do but how do I put myself first?  Can my family survive it?  Yes!  Would they notice?  Probably not!

I like that word “unmoored” and I’m going to print it on post-its and leave them where I can see them regularly to remind me that I need to stop drifting away from myself.

myself