Hand delivered prize in Germany

What do you do when you get an opportunity to drive to Germany and hand deliver a Saturday Quiz prize?

Go for it!

Turns out the my husband's bike launch was a mere three and a half hours drive (that turned into five) from Top Gun Tenor, Garrie - who lives in Germany... and yes, he is a top gun tenor.

Garrie correctly guessed Saturday Quiz No.3 and I couldn't resist the temptation to personally deliver the Eiffel Tower key ring.

So here I am, on his couch (which I'll be surfing later on), writing this to you.

Now I'd love to sit and chat some more, but I have to get ready to indulge in a very cultural evening of German opera. I'm seeing Mozart's Die Zauberfloete (The Magic Flute), featuring the very gorgeous Margaret Koenn (Gazza's missus).

So I have to dash.

Until tomorrow, find ways to get more culture than a tub of yoghurt.

Grace xx

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Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself

After yesterday's post I trotted off to meet my friend whom I referred to as a "professional opera singer".

Truth is, I really don't know his actual title... like, what does he write down on immigration and customs forms when he's asked for 'occupation?'

Somehow I don't think 'professional opera singer' would be his answer - that's something a 7 year old might call their uncle.

So that's when I had a chuckle at myself.

You see, I've known Stephen since I was I was an awkward, pimple-faced teenager. He's the big brother of my then boyfriend and I was utterly intimidated by him.

Whenever Stephen was a passenger in my car (which was RARE as I avoided this situation at all costs) I would grind the gears, make sudden jerking moves and often stall. I could feel my face burning with utter shame as the sweat beads trickled down my forehead (the persperation may have been due to lack of air conditioning). I desperately wanted the seat to suddenly eject me out of the car so I could disappear.

On Christmas night(s), we would gather around the piano singing carols. Actually, they were singing, I was miming. The fear of the great Steve hearing my less-than-impressive voice was mortifying. I didn't think that being caught out miming might have been worse!

Stephen moved to Europe when I was 21 and I did not see him till I was just days from turning 35. At the time, my husband Patrick and I were travelling south from Switzerland to my parent's hometown in Italy. Stephen was working in Milan and we were literally 'in the neighbourhood', so we thought we'd ought to do the Australian thing and 'pop in'.

I learned that Stephen had risen to the top of his game and had become an internationally renown Tenor. I also learnt that he changed his name to Steve.

We met Steve just as he was finishing his rehearsals - he had the title role of Idomeneo at the season opening of La Scala (Teatro alla Scala is Milan's famous opera house). I believe that in the world of opera, this is considered to be a pinnacle of one's career.

I remember telling Patrick that meeting with Stephen after all these years would be a breakthrough for me. I was sick with nerves and fumbling over the phone as we organised a rendezvous.

Steve looked dashingly sophisticated as he came to greet us in his black leather coat (more like a Georgio Armani male model than Keanu 'The Matrix' Reeves). We gave each other a big hug and he ushered us to his favourite local eatery.

Within minutes of sitting down, I had to come clean. I had to declare to Stephen (in front of Pat) that I was always so nervous around him. I felt intimidated not because he made me... but because I put him up on a pedestal and related to him in a way that only brought shame to myself. He was stunned... and I was free.

We recounted numerous funny stories that evening over a bottle of delicious Italian vino rosso. As we laughed, I gently kissed that awkward, pimple-faced teenager farewell. With her out of the way, I was able to connect with my friend in a way that I never thought possible.

Four and a half years later and I have the most honest and open friendship with Stephen. I realised that being able to laugh at myself has given me the space and freedom to cultivate a very real and treasured relationship.

I wonder if failing to laugh at critical times in my life has contributed to getting lost and if so, will laughing more get me closer to the happy me I want to be?

If Dr. Patch Adams is right and laughter really is medicine, what is the recommended daily dose?

Love, hugs and laughter,

Grace xx

PS. In the spirit of laughing at oneself, I found it mandatory to include a photo of me that does just that.

PPS. Off to review my gym program with Vince in 1 hour and not sure how much laughter will be in that. Tonight, I'll be seeing Stephen (uhem, Steve) perform live at Hamer Hall, Melbourne Arts Centre - can't wait!

PPPS. Why stop at a photo? Why don't we all have a laugh over my YouTube response to the famous Natalie Tyler Tran (Community Channel)'s "Your Soap Sucks" video. Yes, I know, I look ridiculous. That's my point.

Could I be buried in me?

Project Grace 2010 was not intended to be a weight-loss blog - though it may look that way. But hey, it's only Day 3 and I have 8 months to go... so bear with me.

The point of all this is not just about finding my old self... it's about reconnecting with the me that I love and respect... and bringing all that into the present moment... and going forward.

So I set about on this journey to retrace the steps where I remember the old Grace once loved... and the gym was such a place.

I first stepped foot in a gym at the tender age of 20 and had a crush on the aerobics instructor Danny. I had a boyfriend at the time, so it was strictly 'look but don't touch' - what a feast for the eyes Danny turned out to be.

Soon after I left for London and didn't step back in a gym till I was about 25. This time I lusted after the bodies of women... I wanted to look like them, be like them. So after months of sweating it out, I sculpted a beautiful body - one that my husband Patrick fell in love with all those years ago.

That gym was my all time favourite but it closed down... and that's when I got 'lost'.

Though I've joined a number of gyms since then, none of them had the vibe. It was like being in a relationship where you didn't love your partner, but thought it would be good to stick it out. It was a loveless arrangement.

My sedentary lifestyle combined with comfort eating (especially after the death of loved ones) and my aversion to loveless gymnasiums soon transformed me into someone I didn't recognise.

Then 2 years ago I had a scan (see photo)... and I discovered that lying deep beneath my fat tissue is me!

Could it be that I'm not lost - I'm just buried...?

Is this project more about excavation rather than location?

When I hear myself laughing, it seems as though it comes from the same place as it always has. Is that the voice of the real me buried deep inside?

Is that where I should start looking?

I'm off to meet a friend now - he's a professional opera singer doing a recording here. He's based in Vienna and lives a thrilling life travelling the world, touching people with his magnificent voice. Maybe he might give me some insight about this.

Until tomorrow, ciao for now.

Love and hugs,

Grace

ps. Guy Leech was right about those calves - wow wee!