Comfort zones are happy places. The clue’s in the name, right? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why we love them so much. They’re almost Utopian, anxiety-free, stress-less. An environment in which you can chill, be yourself, feel free. A space of mental security.
In my own comfort zone, it’s not often that I make decisions for myself. I sit on the fence, more than satisfied and enjoying the view. But as a friend once said to me, “sitting on the fence is all well and good, but after a while your bum starts to hurt.”
I’ve been quite slow keeping up with the news this week, and one thing I did catch up on yesterday was Poppy Smart’s story. If, like me, you hadn’t already heard about it, Poppy hit the headlines on Monday subsequent to a police report she made against a group of builders continually wolf-whistling at her on the way to work. Outrage ignited amongst journalists and readers alike, the general reaction to Poppy’s story plummeting somewhere in between “shit happens, get over it”, and “feminism-gone-bonkers”.
I appreciate this is not the most pressing of issues, but it’s something I need to get off my chest.
I have, in the last few years, dramatically overused the expression “pavement hoggers” amidst the odd rant, referring to people who simply can’t be arsed to move and let me walk past them on my way to work.
Pavement hoggers usually shuffle around in packs, often in the form of homeward bound, post-school run Mums (they love a dawdle) – that, or giggling teenage collectives linked so tightly arm-in-arm that any suggestion of tearing them apart would be fucking OUTRAGEOUS.
BUPA recently conducted a survey to see what makes people feel happiest, and it turns out it’s the little things, or perhaps usual banalities, which keep us most satisfied. The simple pleasure of sleeping in a freshly made bed, feeling the sun on your face, watching a sunset or the smell of a fine wine.
I enjoy a glass of white as much as the next person, but cutting through the abundance of clichés had me reaching for a bucket. 4% actually said “thinking about the royal family” gave them that warm fuzzy feeling. And who the hell gave “watching your breath float away in cold air” as their first answer?
I’ve been nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by Sam, creator of the very cool Book Beat Blog (highly recommended read).
Here’s how it works…
- Thank the person who gave you this award — of course.
- Include a link to their blog. They deserve to have some credits too.
- Next, select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly.
- Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this
- Finally, tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself.
A lovely friend of mine is currently on her travels and has written this wonderful guest blog. Give it a read and confirm how brilliant it is (so she’ll write more).
Seven months after graduating from Uni, you’re sat on a beach, still trying to think up some sort of genius life plan. Three years wasn’t enough time to do this, as you were far too busy dealing with the pressing issue at hand: your hangover. Which lasted for three years.
I’ve always been a fan of English, me. It’s my kind of subject. It requires me to use my brain in a particular way, a way with which I am familiar and comfortable. I love books. I love writing. I love words.
Numbers – personally? Not a fan. I’ve never had a scientific brain nor do I believe I ever will have. My Maths skills are and always have been appalling, despite receiving extra tuition when I was at school. And it was only with the help of my best friend that I even scraped through GCSE Science.
Finding your teenage diary can be hilarious as well as horrifying, as I discovered this afternoon. A few of my favourite bloggers have been rooting out their own journals from way back when with a sort of “here’s what I’ve learned since then…” theme in mind, and it inspired me to peruse through my own.
A while ago, a couple of my favourite online bloggers published their own manifestos and since then I’ve been mulling over what I’d include in my own.
Manifestos are important, and they aren’t exclusively associated with politics. They might sound a little scary and formal but by definition, a manifesto is simply a public verbal declaration of all the shit you believe in – “your motives, incentives and beliefs.” ‘To manifest’ is ‘to make real’.
When I finished University last June, I was told I’d be fine. I already had a job interview scheduled and secured for the following week and I’d worked my arse off for (the majority of) my degree. I’d taken part in plenty of extra-curricular activities and co-edited the University magazine alongside writing my dissertation. I’d pretty much always been employed since the age of 16 and had heaps of experience working with people.
YOU’LL BE FINE, they said.