Life’s too short for…
When I wrote about outsourcing my ironing a couple of weeks ago (It went really well, by the way, just in case you were wondering: everything basically came back to me looking brand new. I’m too sacred to actually USE any of it now, obviously, for fear of spoiling that crease-free perfection, but wow, do those perfectly-folded sheets look good sitting on the shelf…), it got me thinking. I might not believe life’s too short for ironing, say, but it IS too short for some other things I could mention. I’m talking here about things like…
I mean, we literally hard-landscaped our entire garden just so we didn’t have to mow the lawn or do much in the way of weeding, so if that doesn’t tell you how I feel about gardening, I don’t know what will.
Seriously, though, I might not enjoy ironing, but I absolutely LOATHE gardening: especially mowing the lawn, which is how I used to spend most weekends (Well, other than in the depths of winter, obviously…) when we lived in our last house. It didn’t have a particularly large garden, either – and it certainly didn’t have a very nice one – but keeping it in check somehow seemed to take up every bit of spare time I had, and I can’t even tell you how much I resented it.
The thing about gardening, you see, is that the Scottish weather always makes it feel like a particularly thankless task to me. At least with ironing, you get to enjoy your crisp sheets and crease-free clothes at the end of it: with gardening, on the other hand, I normally found I’d wait all week for it to be dry enough to mow the law, only for it to start raining again just as I was putting the lawnmower away. Then it would rain all week, stop for long enough for me to race out and mow the lawn again, and rinse and repeat.
When we moved house, the first thing we did was rip up the lawn and put in a mixture of astroturf, decking, and paving. We have absolutely no regrets. Life is WAY too short for gardening, as far as I’m concerned, and no one will ever convince me otherwise…
I do my best to be positive about my Cullen-esque complexion, but I have to admit, there are times when I can feel a bit self-conscious, about it. Like when I’m at the beach, say, and I realise that the people around me aren’t wearing sunglasses to protect their eyes from the sun: it’s to protect them from the glare created by my blindingly-white legs. Or that time someone pinned a photo of me, and added a comment saying she was going to try to recreate my outfit, “only without the white tights,” because she wasn’t sure those really worked with the rest of the look. But I wasn’t wearing white tights, folks: it was just my legs – and, honestly, I don’t care HOW confident you are, NO ONE likes hearing that their LEGS don’t work with their outfit, do they? Didn’t think so.
It’s during those self-conscious times that I’ve been known to reach for the bottle: er, the fake tan bottle, that is. Just to take the glare off a bit, you know? And to make me look a bit more … well, alive, for want of a better word.
The thing is, though, it never works out like that, does it? I always have this idea that fake tan’s just going to give me a nice, healthy glow, but what it ACTUALLY does is give me brown knees, orange feet, and an odd, biscuity scent whenever anyone gets too close. My bedsheets always end up with a better tan than I do, and the whole rigmarole of applying the stuff, then regretting applying the stuff, then frantically applying MORE of the stuff, in a futile bid to try to cover up the mess you made with the first application … well, it’s all just such a FAFF, isn’t it? And, honestly, life’s too short for faffing: which mean’s life’s too short for fake tan, basically.
Next time I go on holiday, I’m going to remain pale and proud. Or I’m going to TRY to, anyway.*
(*I have made this promise to myself at least 768 times now. There’s always just ONE more fake tan I have to try. There’s a review of one sitting in my drafts folder right this very second, in fact…)
Finishing books you’re not enjoying
I used to be one of those people who thought you HAD to finish every book you started reading, even if the book in question was Ulysses by James Joyce, and NO ONE’S life is long enough for that, really.
I am no longer one of those people, needless to say. I mean, I have a degree in English Literature: I’ve done my time with books I have to bribe myself to read (Pretty sure I got through Ulysses by promising myself a bar of chocolate g at the end of each chapter. OK, it was a glass of wine. Don’t judge me until you’ve tried it yourself…), and I ain’t going back. So I’ll give everything a fair chance, but if I’m really not feeling it after the first few chapters, I’m out: there’s absolutely no shame in giving up on something that isn’t working for you, is there?
Finally, and in a bid to make the photos on this post at least somewhat match the rest of the content…
Baking things from scratch
Controversial, I know, and obviously if baking is your hobby, then fair enough (I’m just this second realising what a risk I’m taking by not beginning this post with a lengthy caveat assuring you all that everyone is different and no judgement is implied if you do any of these things, because it’s OK to like different things. Living dangerously here, folks…), but if it takes longer to bake it and clear up after it than it takes to actually eat it, you can count me out, thanks. Can you tell I’m not much of a foodie, here? I AM a pretty dedicated shopper, though, so while you lot are all slaving over your hot stoves, baking things from scratch, I’ll be single-handedly supporting the baking aisle at the local supermarket. Well, someone has to, right?
So! Given that I already know how you all feel about ironing, tell me: what’s YOUR life too short for?