I just re-read a couple of my old blog posts and thought, hang on, this feels familiar. I wonder what’s going on here. There’s a pattern for sure, just that now I don’t go to the pool, haven’t been since the start of the pandemic which is when my psoriasis started properly, and my playing is a rare bit rarer these days. It’s not all doom and gloom but I’m certain I need to have a chat with someone about SAD.

I like Mondays. I used to loathe them. I went through a phase of loathing most days, when I had no work and little to look forward to, not much to get excited about. I could barely haul my limp sorry soul out of bed to perform the simplest most basic function, like making a cup of tea. Bed was a far better and safer option. At the end of August I experimented by starting my week with the 9.45am Aquafit class. By now I get a bit upset if anything comes up to prevent me from plunging feet first into the bracing depths on Monday morning. This morning was no exception. I grinchingly grumped my way to the pool, having woken later than intended. Our tirelessly energetic instructor Anna proceeded to lift our spirits with gusto, reaching inside the unseen recesses of her equipment store for an inflatable Dalmatian to inspire us to improve our spotty dogs. It’s quite hard to stifle a belly laugh when you’re up to your chest in water. You should try it. It takes Anna to crack the gags though. The atmosphere following her class is electric. We all bounce out of the baths with flushed cheeks and broad smiles. My core and legs are getting stronger and I’m able to engage my abs to do those floating crunches without my legs sinking downwards. The next step is crunching without the support of the pink woggle.

Sunday was my day off and after the briefest of visits into town for gift shopping, the rest of the day was spent relaxing at home and getting back in touch with doing what I felt like doing. I hummed and haa-ed about putting up the Christmas decorations I’d been toying with since last weekend. It felt slightly ridiculous and indulgent to put them up just for me. I’m glad I did and loved the time I spent musing on where to put the small black baby Jesus on my South African tree amongst other sentimental favourite decorations gathered from my travels. I spend a lot of time in my kitchen so my fridge got a seasonal decking too.

My parents really went to town with decorations and I loved this time of year, seeing our house all blinged up with fabulous fancy fairy lights and glitzy tinsel. To keep us from a surfeit of mischief, we were set to task licking the sticky ends of paper strips to make decorative chains. They dulled in comparison to the shop bought garish metallic technicolour frilly foil. Everything felt safe, cosy and warm as the four of us bronzed ourselves in front of the gas fire boosted up to its maximum four bar capacity, reserved for special occasions and spells of extreme cold. I can still smell the hot polyester. Chef Dad would occasionally get up to check on the turkey giblets that were stewing to make stock for his inimitable gravy.

We had transparent plastic Santa money boxes that were imaginatively filled with Smarties. I remember the mouth watering frustration I felt at being unable to dislodge that single solitary tantalising purple chocolate jewel from Father Christmas’s foot. It’s probably still there. Mum’s unwanted tights were hung up and packed with tangerines and a selection of nuts that went untouched well into the new year as we gorged ourselves on breakfast chocolate, sanctioned for one day only. Raw almonds remained tightly encased in their impenetrable spotted shells and eventually went in the bin.

Last week I went on my first Meetup in town. The first hour was fine with pleasant conversation and no tumbleweed moments. Then I got a bit tired and hungry and soon made my polite excuses. Seven of us had signed up for the evening, perhaps hoping to forge new and meaningful connections or at the very least offer ourselves an alternative to an evening whiled away at home. Two people turned up, both men, and they spent a significant amount of time glued to their mobiles for various reasons. Mobiles have killed the art of conversation and I really feel technology has made us more distant. They’re always there, lurking in our pockets or handbags, waiting for a swipe, some TLC and an emoji. Or at least five in my case. I abhor that panic I feel when I’ve misplaced my phone, especially if I’m driving. So no, I wouldn’t be without my mobile either. It’s on silent if I’m with other people and I don’t look at it unless I’m really bored.

This year I have a plan in place. I’m working until an early finish on Christmas Eve and on the 25th I’m going on a new walk. Although I’m sociable, I like quiet Christmases these days and this will be my first one spent sober. That’ll be interesting. There will be plenty of reading, snoozing and contemplation as well as looking ahead to the secret promises of 2019. I have a vision of my ideal Christmas – maybe next year? After my walk, I’m baking for next Christmas before having my dinner.

One Christmas I baked a cake with a lot of fresh orange in it, so much orange in fact that it rendered it unpalatable. Refusing to throw away the costly fruits of my lengthy labour, it sat in its tin awaiting its debatable fate. On a whim I offered a piece to a hungry visitor the following November who ended up in absolute raptures over it. I suspiciously cut myself a sliver, expecting a citric smack in the chops. Gone was that violent tang only to be replaced by the mellowest richest darkest fruitiest Christmas cake I’ve ever tasted. I had fed it well and it repaid me the favour.

I’ve been on the lookout for a new swimsuit for a while and saw one in town. I tried it on and it was a good fit, last season’s model but that really doesn’t bother me. It had a nice pattern and the requisite sporty back. I started to fixate on my thighs. I shouldn’t have looked. They were wobbly. There’s wobbly, and there’s wobbly, and my thighs were like blancmange. Worst of all, gravity seemed to have taken hold! My intention when I started my pool classes was to partake in some form of enjoyable cardio exercise, which I do alongside my weekly Pilates class, as well as some home sessions in between for extra flexibility. Gym bunny I am not and while I wouldn’t exactly call myself sedentary, I spend a lot of time seated out of necessity. I can’t play the harp or type standing up. After a lifetime with nothing but fitful exercise, building a realistic sustainable fitness routine was all about how I felt rather than how I looked. The urge to throw in the towel was immense when I saw the result of what felt like 8 months’ hard workout amount to jellylike flesh. That familiar sense of shame stung bitterly as I cast my memory back to the “I don’t give a shit” moments in summer when I’d dared to reveal what I now realised had been a celebration of rose pink orange peel.

I was quite a carefree little girl but I remember the moment vividly, aged 8, when I sat down and looked at my thighs which had never bothered me before. I felt a leaden inescapable sense of revulsion and disgust at my bodily imperfections. That sense of physical self loathing has never really left me. It can spread to all areas of my self with lightning speed and can drag me swiftly to the plummeting depths of depression. After a quick consultation with a close friend, I’ve committed to three daily sets of squats to target my problem area. I know it will take time and I’ll never have ballerina legs but I don’t want to be a dancer. I want legs that will carry me into my later years without needing the hip replacement Mum had a few years ago. Then there’s matter of the slight hunch in her back from Osteoporosis. Of course, it’d be a bonus to still cut it in a cossie at 47.

One thing’s for sure, this time of year can certainly exacerbate loneliness. Being single for the majority of my life often leaves me feeling like a spare part, especially around the silly season. Yes, I’m fussy about who I spend time with and there’s no lonelier place than at the heart of a crowd of people. I crave a sense of belonging, and I know fundamentally it’s a belonging within myself. It’s about the struggle to integrate all parts of my self. Am I worthy of love? Is there such a thing as unconditional love? Can I accept myself as I am and could An Other? What do I need to change and how can I start that change process? You could say these are headfuck questions but they are important to ponder.

I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I like my own company and that’s a mixed blessing. You can have too much of a good thing! I found out my personality type. I’m an INFP -T:

“Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine. Comprising just 4% of the population, the risk of feeling misunderstood is unfortunately high for the Mediator personality type – but when they find like-minded people to spend their time with, the harmony they feel will be a fountain of joy and inspiration.”

That explains a lot. If you’re curious about your personality type, here’s the link to the website where you can do the test: https://www.16personalities.com

I’m in the throes of a massive transitional phase in my life where values, ideals and goals I once held dear don’t fit anymore. In many ways I’ve never felt lonelier but I believe this work on oneself can only be truly realised alone. In proofreading this post, I know I need to get out more but I have little interest in superficial small talk. And that’s ok. I want to be with people who light up my inner flame and passion! We’re in the minority!