New ventures into madness

Happy Friday kids and welcome to another rant/thought of mine.

I've entered this week into a new challenge - a challenge in every sense of the word.

I am beginning study for my masters degree this week. Whilst I embark on this intensive one year course which is in essence going to make me a master in something, I'll also be working part time at the ever intensive job I have as a PR exec where I manage my own accounts and have my boss looking over my shoulder like a hawk.

So that's where I'm at. Honestly when I came up with this plan, I had no doubt I'd smash it out of the park. Sure people did this kind of thing all the time to support themselves I thought I was actually kind of a genius.

Then I went to my induction...

Everyone is a graduate for one thing. All 20 odd d them are fresh faced grads from mostly academic and media courses. I am studying advertsing basically and did marketing as my undergrad and myself and another girl with the same hair cut and colour as me and some gorgeous Brazilian fashionista who studied PR seem to be the only ones with a clue about marketing.

That gives me a one up I guess? Some confidence..

Then comes the ice breaker. We are partnered up and have to find out enough about the other person to come up with a strap line for them (a short snappy sentence to sum up who they are).

It circles round to me and my partner has come up with - 'An intensive life is her cup of tea'. That's when my programme leader recognises my name and starts to console me about working and studying spurting out phrases like 'it's possible' and 'been done before' and 'it's going to be really hard but' - feeling comforted yes, she was lovely, but I can't deny I am now a little less confident.

To be honest I was wavered. I was shaky. I was considering quitting my job even and planning how I would survive and which items in my front room would need packing first to move into my parents home again.

It didn't help that 'the cool kids' seemed to look at me like I was certified insane - I felt it.

Once I managed to hang out with the cool crowd on a break they told me I was mad, looked at me terrified for themselves and heir own journey thinking 'FUCK' and then realising well actually she's got it worse... If she can do it... Can she do it? It was written all over their faces.

Needless to say I was having doubts about my abilities after this odd first day at school, I mean uni.

After a few days recovery and stressful days at work I've been floating around the idea I might not last in my job and that if I have to my masters will come first. But that's a truly scary thought. Not just because I'd be losing money but experience. And clients I love, and friends I adore. As much as the job drives me to the edge of a cliff I've never actually jumped off..

On that basis I'm forcing myself slightly unwillingly away from said cliffs edge and back to my PMA (that cheesy way f saying positive mental attitude)!!

I can smash it. I will do it. I hope. Watch this space anyway!

Ageism. The struggle is real.

I am 23 years old and may feel and act like an 18 or even 16 year old from time to time.

However when I am with clients and colleagues I act professionally and respect everyone for their ability and not their age. I know that an accountant transferring into PR will struggle with writing and need to start from the bottom (as though they are a graduate). I know that a marketing graduate is going to know how to pull a strategy document together better than someone who has worked in journalism for 15 years. I know that someone with an English degree is a better writer than someone with a degree in Marketing.

I know all of these things and so like I said I judge a person on their abilities not their appearance or age.

As a young 23 year old girl working her way up in the PR and marketing industry I never once thought I would be held back by my age. I never thought I'd be patronised because I look so young. But I am.

It's so strange to think that the fact I look 20-23 (being modest here of course) affects the way clients look at me and my work.

If my boss makes a spelling error in his emails, well, that's just fine, he's the boss. If even my senior makes a spelling error, well, it was an easy mistake to make. But me? No I have to be the most maticulous speller, I have to take up time checking over every emails for typos because I am young, a junior if you will.

It doesn't seem to matter that I am experienced, well trained in my industry's methods, street smart, comfortable with client facing and interviewing - of course not.

What matters is my age. I'm young and if I'm ever down or actually say something negative to a client to manage their expectations well, I'm young. What do I know? Surely the boss knows better, he's older and more experienced right? Perhaps, but when I've already consulted him because I'm smart enough to do that, you're going to get the same answer I'm afraid.

It's insulting to be told that my client is 'concerned' about my 'negative attitude' because I'm so young.

It's insulting to be called 'young lady' and hear clients say they have some 'little jobs' that I can do.

It's insulting when I'm told a piece of work was a real 'learning curve' for me because evidently I knew nothing before...

It's insulting to have my opinions dismissed on a matter only to them be proved right when someone a few years older than me is asked for theirs..

Ageism in every industry is very real. It exists and is ignored.

I never thought it would bother me. But it does.

My talents are over looked. My degree forgotten. My opinions dismissed. My every move and typo monitored. My attitude charted.

Even though I understand it - it doesn't make it right, right?

I demand respect based on my experience, skill set and abilities please. Not my youthful language, my lack of wrinkles or my style of clothing.

Thank you one and all!

Being tall is often noted as a good thing.

Lovely long legs - check
Can spot me in a crowd - check
Can kiss a man without a yellow pages - check

But I often see it as a bad thing. Well, maybe not bad but awkward. I love being tall don't get me wrong. My friends and family know I embrace it, wearing heels everyday. Every single day. The thing is, I wear heels all the time because I actually I just don't like flats. Due to my lengthy body, I have long thin feet and when I wear flats I unfortunately resemble a clown, especially with my unusually skinny ankles.

So I don't always see myself as tall but lanky, a giant if you will.

I like my long legs but they are rudely interrupted by my nobbly knees, which are actually slightly inverted... Only a little. Note I do not look like those with inverted knees on Google images. I swear.
They also have this tendency to not fit in any trouser or jean. My disproportionate hips and waist mean jeans are a struggle anyway but the length of my legs... well.. let me put it this way.

When I went to a genetics doctor (long story) she measured all of me including my legs. I finally found out what the length of my leg was on this odd day. She measured, went to write it down, paused, looked at me completely befuddled and measured again in pure disbelief. Maybe this was to do with the fact my legs didn't look as long as they turned out to be but even so... it was a double take that I didn't need.

Finding jeans to fit me is not hard, it's just expensive and I am sure shorter people have this problem but when shorter and buying 'normal' jeans you do have the option of folding. Folding is a heavenly gift to all you shorties out there. For girls like me, 'normal' jeans are simply half mast.

Primark do now do lengths, but in limited styles and stores. Meaning the search still goes on for affordable jeans in my size and in the style I like. And that is not be being fussy, I just don't want a pair of those ugly jeans which I would have willing bought 10 years ago and shouldn't have.

Other awkward tall things include getting into the back of your mates car. Now also applies to my mums and brothers car. As a bus wanker I am often getting lifts of people and it seems everyone has a 3 door car these days. I can;t complain, I am getting a lift but you could at least spare a thought because lets face it, watching my arse clamber in and out of the back of your car is not something you want to see.

Another awkward tall situ I recently became victim to was ridiculously low ceilings. Upon drunkenly stumbling into the ladies at a bar the other night, I bee-lined for the end toilet as I always do. I banged my head. Then I realised the ceiling was one of those slantly roof because we are in a loft conversion ceilings and on the back of the door there was this handy sign that said PLEASE MIND YOUR HEAD. Bit late for that but thanks guys.

In the end I guess I love being tall, for some reason it adds to my wildly interesting character. But goddammit, the struggle is real.

I work in PR. I represent a school. This school has a band. You see where this is going right?

Said band is gunna make it the charts, we just know it. Well, actually we don't but that is the dream.

I am not going to mention the band by name as these stories are just not in line with their branding... and they are slightly embarrassing.

Welcome to the series of 'Me. The unwanted member of a girl band'.

First up, what on earth is fleek?

Well let's get straight into this story. I met the band for the first time and was so very nervous as I had only just really started working on my own with this client. I so wanted to impress them and be grown up. I had devised a flawless plan to be super fierce, Tyra Banks style. Me and the teacher there had decided I would help the girls decide on their style, so being the total fashion guru I am, I jumped at the chance knowing I'd be great at it.

I blow dried my hair perfectly, painted my nails to perfection, arrived 5 mins early so I wasn't breathless from the walk and even ate at the perfect time so my belly wasn't rumbling mid meeting.

I was ready.

Until I was shown to the office where we would have our meeting. Now, have you ever been in a public toilet cubicle? Not a big disabled one with space, no a little normal sized one. Some elbow room for pulling up your trousers but that's the extent of it? No exaggeration... That is how small it was.

5 people were now meeting for the first time in this toilet cubicle sized office. To be fair, I'm being cruel, it was a nice, cosy office for one person. But for 5 people it just ain't practical.

So I am basically sat on one of the band members knees now and I am sweating. Pretty sure my concealer is f***ed and because of the stress, I'm hungry. Great.

Second part and worst part for me is coming up.

We start talking style, I start to recover. The sweats, well, all I am saying is the people in that room were lucky I had put my Mitchum Advanced on that morning. But the hunger seemed to have wavered and my face cooled down. I was talking clothes and accessories. It was all uphill from here.

Then we moved onto make-up. One girl starts talking brows. For the photo shoot, she says, she needs her brows to be 'on fleek'. On fleek? How do I respond to that? That is the first piece of slang from a younger person that I have never heard of.

This was the point in my life where I was officially no longer a youth, I was now in my twenties and well and truly out of it.

I thought I was going to start crying.

I have since googled the term and asked some friends - who are, fortunately for them, with the times - and now it all makes sense. I can now use the word. And hope to God in high bloody heaven no-one thinks it's ironically. That's when you really are past it.

So this is based on a true story. Promise.

Step 1: Empty your entire wardrobe... and your dads.
Step 2: Find all the clothes you don't need anymore - BE RUTHLESS
Step 3: Get your mum to drive you to a cash for clothes site or charity shop that buys bags of clothes.
Step 4: Pray you get some good money.
Step 5: Take the £9 the man offers even if you think its stingy as fudge.
Step 6: Get all your pennies from your penny jar... and your dads bedside drawer...
Step 7: Get your mum to take you to your local supermarket (Asda or Morribobs) and head straight to the COINSTAR machine.
Step 8: Pour in your pennies and stick a few surprise pounds in from your purse.
Step 9: Claim that £22 at the till
Step 10: Get your mum to check her emails
Step 11: Get her to claim that £10 voucher for your local pub grub/restaurant (based on her having a loyalty card)
Step 12: Count your money like a gangster.
Step 13: Go to said local restaurant and get drunk and eat nice food with your mum.

Winner.

handshaking

When are handshakes appropriate?

For a guy it seems like it's always okay but for a woman only in a professional situ will you see us shake hands. Is that right? I don't know.
I do know, that they aren't appropriate next to the broccoli on a Sunday in the supermarket.

See I have this tendency to misread situations. Not vocal situations or sarcasm or anything like that but physical situations. Let me explain...

I always find myself asking questions like 'Are we going to hug now or would that be weird? Will it be weird cause I am at least a foot taller than you?' I swear I can't be the only one with this problem! More often than not when I hear my inner voice repeating these questions over and over in potentially awkward situations. I always pick the wrong option and end up in a warm embrace with a cardboard cut out of the person that once stood before me.

Back to handshakes, this one time, not in band camp but in my local Morribobs, I was with my mum, brother, niece and sister in law doing a quick basket shop. My and my brother were browsing in the veggie aisle when we saw mum talking to some strange woman. We quickly realised we both knew her face but didn't actually know who she was - often the case with mum's friends. My brother pointed out he thought she was an old neighbour, which seemed right but we soon discovered he was wrong.

Mum came over to us with this not-so-strange woman, grinning ear to ear, and I found myself utterly perplexed, thinking 'Who are you?!' So mum starts introducing her to my sister in law and niece then as she points to my brother with a proud smile the woman gestures towards him with her hand, she does the same to my neice and then my mum starts to talk about me and this familar faced lady turns to me.

I start to panic, feel my palms sweat, mum hasn't said her name, am I supposed to know it? Her arm is still stuck out and suddenly I see this arm by the side of me, hand going towards hers. I realise it's mine but it's too late, I'm already shaking her hand.

One sweaty handshake later, she says her hellos and goodbyes, coos at my niece and walks off. I look around at my family to see sheer bewilderment. Them all waiting for me to explain my actions. Turns out she has known me since nursery and she is the mother of my best friend through primary school.

Wait, what just happened?

.

There are various definitions for various different people on what constitutes a 'bad day'. I've always thought there was just one, that something bad happens. But not even.

Some people think a bad day is a day where something goes wrong at work and you get a bollocking off you boss.

Some people think a bad day is a day where your hair is a mess and you break at least two nails in the space of those dreaded 24 hours.

Some people even think a bad day is just when you really don't want to deal with reality and nothing bad actually happens to you.

Then, there is me.

Today was my bad day.

I woke up actually feeling quite ready to face the day head on. It may have only been a typical Tuesday but my little red head was ready to take on the world. I skipped merrily down the stairs to make a brew and microwave myself a cherry and dark chocolate croissant (if that doesn't get you off to a good start, I don't know what will). Open the plastic tray, remove croissant, place onto plate, place plastic tray into microwave, close door, turn to 10 seconds, star....WAIT. Back up. Good job I didn't press start... This was the moment I realised what kind of day I was going to have.

I go to work, nothing unusual happens, I thank God I didn't miss my bus as I do every day. I nearly fall asleep on the bus but still remember to get off (yes I nearly didn't get off once, good job the bus was sitting at my bus stop for a short while...). Everything was okay so far. My heart dropped when I thought I had left my bank card at home thus rendering myself Gregg's-Mocha-and-doughnut-less, but I found it in the end.

My day seemed to be salvaging itself and I convinced myself it might actually go well.

So I decided to make everyone a brew. Before I know it I am crouched in front of the fridge trying to work out why the kettle won't fit in the fridge, I then realise that kettles don't go in fridges. Explanation... I'm a grade A fool (well, I just zoned out and thought I was holding the milk but who tries to put a kettle in a fridge?!). This was the point I realised it was time to bury myself in work and not do any ordinary tasks that meant I could zone out and end up with boiling hot kettles trying to be shoved onto tiny fridge shelves with the milk and grapes.

I did this, until... I riskily made another brew, and so happy it went well, I cracked open a packet of my favourite crisps (salt and vinegar Squares boys). I tuck in. I'm working, drinking my tea, eating my crisps, life's good ...until you realise you have a curse called butterfingers and BOOM, crisp in your tea. There was no salvaging this beautiful brew and this was the moment I realised I needed to go home.

My utter stupidness made me feel so terrible that I got stressed over tiny work things that didn't matter, my period didn't help!, and I gave in to the 'bad day' by cancelling my driving lesson. Because lets be honest, I on this day, would not be safe in a car and neither would all of you.

I ended my day in a lashing of rain without an umbrella because I am currently donating them to the bus service I use.

Now I am home, knowing these three things:

A. I am dangerous when on my period
2: I am dangerous when not on my period, let's be honest.
iii: I am alone and kiss-less on Kiss a Ginger Day! (Yes, I am ginger).

Now let's vote, was this or was this not a BAD DAY?!

P.S. I am laughing about my day so please don't worry too much about my feelings (though donations of salt and vinegar Squares are welcome).