you wouldn't believe me if I told you...

The radical change of pace which this surgery recovery month has afforded me has finally given me time to mull.

I've long thought, and been told, that I should write down some of the weird (truly fukken weird) things I've experienced in the last 20 (TWENTY!) years of freelance events work.

Did I ever tell you about the time an actual princess grabbed my boob for example? Or when a sex worker soiled themselves in the foyer at a black tie event? Have I shared about throwing an over-flowing dustbin over the front desk of a fancy hotel in front of senior reps from the World Health Organisation? Have I told you about the time we lost a billionaire? Or about the missing elderly Mozambican man with no English as Cape Town went into lock-down for the opening of Parliament? About the time I pulled a woman from the car of her ex-husband against whom she had a restraining order who had ambushed her at a dinner in Johannesburg?  

Good times...

Earlier this year I worked on a huge and multi-layered event in Johannesburg for international clients. It was an amazing project, I was collaborating with my eventing soulmate, met some incredible people, huge budget, really stimulating work and holy shit, did some strange stuff go down...

In no particular order, and with some details changed to protect the innocent...

Welcoming guests to the Closing Party at a swanky venue in the Joburg business district, and finding a baby bunny lost in the parking lot. This was a fun photo to drop on the group chat... the wabbit was set up in a side room with water and some salad from catering, later that evening the sound guy's mother came to take it home and try and find the owner...

At the beginning of the week, ER at midnight (still not sure why they had us in a pediatric room?) with a virtual stranger (now good mate of course) who had her tampon string break just before boarding at her departure airport and flew halfway round the world trying to extricate the stubborn thing only to have to request assistance within a few hours of meeting me the poor woman. Luckily sisterhood holds no international boundaries.

The fools in matching outfits was a good one. Believe it or not they were our professional security detail, hired to escort us to the bank to collect an inordinately large amount of cash (this was Johannesburg y'all). I was so excited about this, picturing sharp suits and dark shades and imperceptible radio comms, these two in (literal) matching plaid shirts were a huge let down. They were attempting to 'look casual' and their game plan was for us to walk through the shopping centre 'as if we were friends'.

I was frankly insulted.

And then the hotel safe which was housing all that cash failed, and I had the great pleasure of watching this guy, in no protective gear, cut it open with a flame cutter in the dank underbelly of our luxury hotel, setting his own pants on fire as he did it.

Just a short list of some of the unexpected highlights of a week which had us hosting 100 people over 6 or 7 venues, biking in Soweto, art walking through Maboneng, crying at Constitution Hill, and at the Apartheid Museum and at our emotional debrief after a long week of working so hard together. We hung out with celebrities and war heroes, we ate so many different kinds of local cuisine, we did theatre and art therapy and drumming and ad lib. We did this in 4 different languages and with a transport schedule like a battle plan, with too many cooks in the kitchen and the best team of foot soldiers on the ground.

It was a career highlight for sure (and this even before I went to Brazil for the next one!), and some weird stuff went down, but not the weirdest I've ever experienced, and - hopefully - not the weirdest I ever will.

first rule of CrossFit*

 

I thought this was funny before I started CrossFit. Now it's hilarious.

I have two friends who've been at it for about a year. About the same amount of time my ankle was either incapacitating me in pain, or recovering from the surgery intended to heal it.

When I was laid up in my recovery room (or 'on my nice holiday' as the same two friends like to call it), they would come and hang out and 'entertain me' by flexing their muscles and talking about the WOD and so-and-so at the gym and how much they could snatch and a bunch of other incomprehensible things. 

I was so not interested.

Part of it was my disbelief at how useless I was, had been for a long time, when it came to exercise and getting in shape.

My ankle had been a factor, a large one, but to be honest I stopped exercising a long time before that. I was just really not into breaking a sweat, or feeling uncomfortable.

Part of my boredom was envy - they were looking great and their passion for it was palatable.

Shame and envy, not a good combo for the existential dread.

Some months after I was walking again, the end of July to be exact, I felt a shift. I was feeling so out of shape and suddenly filled with the need to MOVE, to flex and stretch and test my new foot and DO SOMETHING already. 

But I was still in a lot of pain, and really apprehensive about what I could do and how radically unfit I felt.

One afternoon on the side of the hockey field I spoke to a school mum friend, we were talking about swimming, yoga - low impact ways I could get back into exercise. Then I came home to cook supper for one of my now lean and ripped friends ... two bottles of wine later and I'd committed to going to a CrossFit class with her the next morning.

The existentials were nothing on the dread I felt waking up that morning, hungover and scared.

I dressed with major anxiety and drove myself there deciding to just not think about it, and ready to HATE everybody and everything.

I did hate everybody, and I really nearly cried, but it turns out I wasn't as unfit as I thought I was, and my ankle handled fine.

I woke that night, and tried to get up for some reason. I couldn't move.

I carefully lowered myself back into bed, flinching in pain, and then I smiled. This felt good.

Boy, I drank the Kool Aid fast after that.

Obvs I had to start with new sneakers ... and then I was away.

It's been 3 months. My ankle pain has reduced by about 85%. I feel great. I need to workout. I'm firming, I'm losing some weight. I like to sweat. I'm getting fit.

So yeah, now I am a CrossFitter. Good lord this is a weird old life.

*always talk about CrossFit

fortyfuckin'four

This whole week I've been nagging myself - you can't let May go by without a post!
May is your month, May is important.
Once a month is bad enough for the ol' blog - don't skip one!

I did this thing back in Feb. On the anniversary of Zahida's death. My favourite punctuation tattooed on my forearm ...

... for endings and beginnings, and the never-ending cycle of both, for things left unsaid ... for room to imagine ... to trail off and pick up another thread ... to pause and think ... to leave a space for someone else to occupy, or leave ... to assert yourself subtly ... or show doubt, vulnerability ... for life and whatever comes after ...

My 101 year old Granny slipped off in March.

In April we said goodbye to our beloved Khoki cat - our first baby, our friend for 19 years.

But still the sun rose every morning, some times more magnificently than others, and the world turned around the sun and, despite everything, it was my birthday.

And I decided that of all the lessons I'd like to impart on my daughters - this said in the knowledge that one never knows what will stick and what will not - I'd like one of them to be that you make your own fun, you have agency in your own happiness, and that birthdays deserve a party, no matter your age.

I spent my birthday surrounded by my bests. We hosted a lunch and that weekend, for the first time since mid March, I could walk. I could faff around the house making nice for my friends, I could prep a meal and lay a table, I could do a 'food board' ala Instagram, I could host and fetch another bottle of wine and more ice and a sharp knife and juice for a child ... I could WALK.

Even at the ripe old age of 4fuckin'4 my body can still heal. In the midst of my 40's I can do a highly responsible job for an international client and still know the value in taking a day off for illicit mid-week treats - this time an indulgent meal and a massage at the wondrous Babylonstoren ...

  

 

I am of that age where you realise it doesn't last forever. And as cliched as that sounds it's a real thing, and a natural thing. It's great that we live our 20's thinking it'll last forever, it's natural that we spend our 30's too busy to think of anything else much, and then the 40's come and with it comes loss, if you've been lucky enough to avoid it until then, and the reality of aging and the inkling that it will all end, it really will, and in that, the freedom to think 'fuck it, let's do it'.

I loved being young and feckless and living in the moment without even realising it. I love living in the moment and realising it, even more.
Best life, it's the only one worth living.

43

The week before my birthday someone said to me in the morning, 'Hey, it's your birthday soon - what you going to do?'
I spent the rest of the day in tears.

I couldn't conceive of a birthday celebrated without Zahida. She was good at birthdays that one - good at gifts and thoughtful gestures, always up for a party or some related fun - but mostly just genuinely, warmly, utterly happy. I don't feel like I've felt that for a while now.

The next day I spent a couple of hours hunting online, until I found an available, dog-friendly cottage to book for the weekend. My birthday would be spent away, with just the fam, and a glorious deep, hot outdoor bath!

It was the BEST.

Just that patch of super green lawn made our poor drought-stricken hearts sing.

Add to that majestic mountains, a superb steak fillet, one chilly day to stay indoors at the fire playing Settlers of Catan, one warmer day to explore the farm and collect wind-fallen pears and get lost on a hike, my 3 favourite people in all the world, my 2 favourite dogs and - the proverbial cherry - a magnificent birthday 'pulla' baked by my man in the teeny little cottage oven ... it was the very best way to spend this birthday.

And ...

... this bath. Filled with rainwater, heated with solar, set away from the house with a view of the mountain. Deep. Hot. Guilt-free. We all had a turn, wallowing in water therapy, high on hydration, muscles relaxing and softening as they remembered: a bath!

Good for the mind, body and soul.

It was only when we got home that I found this line on their website: The mountain cottages are tucked away at the foot of the mountain, far away from any rush or noise. The setting certainly helps most people to feel their sorrows dissolve…

gatecrasherrrrrs

Much has been written about how women of a certain age gain an indisputable confidence and general whatever-fuck-you attitude.
Much has been written about whiteness, and how one of the undeniable privileges about being white is gaining access to all kinds of places without anyone questioning your validity for being there.
There's also been a few things written about Dutch courage, and the kind of bravado which can only be found in the bottom of a wine bottle.

This is a tale in which all of these collide ...

'Twas friend Y's birthday and three of us popped out to a nearby wine farm for a little fancy dinner of a rainy Wednesday evening.

En route we passed a mammoth big glass building - finally completed after months of building and traffic disruption - and noticed a little soiree happening inside.

'Is that my surprise birthday party?' quips friend Y.

We proceeded to dinner - a delightful selection of small dishes of fancy delicious things - and two very nice bottles of a wine which was not called 'Panties' despite my dinner mates continually referring to it as such. Lots of giggles, some silly selfies in the parking lot and we were on our way home thinking we'd had the most fun the evening had to offer ... until we passed back past the big glass building, and decided to just 'pop in'.

We swung in the gates and through the doors with all the self-assuredness of 40-something white ladies two bottles of wine down. And nobody stopped us.

Not one of the black-tie, ball-gowned, silver-heeled, well-oiled guests, nor any of the beefy, bull-necked, bruiser security-types even tried to stop us. Not even that slim black-clad blonde lady in the middle pic who turned out to be the gallery director and definitely gave us some quizzical glances dared actually approach us.

We were in sneakers for gods sake, but we were wearing them with a mighty confidence.

We were pigging out at the divinely decadent dessert table - the only people pigging out there I might add (I'm pretty sure the staff were on to us then) - and nobody even thought to engage us in conversation and find out who the heck we were.

We were taking photos and giggling at artworks and clearly misbehaving at the sponsors wall - but we got away with it.

Turns out it was the art event of the year. Turns out it was the patron's evening before the soft opening before the hard opening before the VIP opening of Cape Town's latest ra-ra gallery and art collection. Turns out it was quite a big deal.

Don't ever think old gals don't know how to have fun.