Rock n Roll and the Emergency Oxygen Mantra

There are times in life when I just want to bust loose and let my hair down.

In my former life, that would have meant a big night on the fun juice and murder on the dance floor. However as a borderline teetotaller, letting my hair down means getting out my air guitar and thrashing it out with full constipated facial expressions.

If I were to really break loose, I'd climax by trashing an imaginary hotel room and skidding across a polished floor on my knees (I have indeed mimed outrageous rock concerts with minors, wigs, sans intoxication and with tears of laughter - oh yeah, rock n roll baby).

This desire to burst out into imaginary mayhem usually happens after a spell of feeling constrained. You know - like being a 'good girl' (or boy) by saying the right things, being sensible, highlighting what you 'should' do and defining what you need to do - all the things that mess with your head, kill your spirit and essentially have you feeling dull.

I know, I know, I can almost hear you say "but you've just been to France, Germany, Switzerland, Singapore, Malaysia and done a road trip along the Great Ocean Road, PLUS you've got India (and Bali - I haven't told you about that yet) on the horizon - how does dull enter your vocabulary?"

Truth is, dullness creeps in if I let it.

Having been brought up in a culture where pleasing others is a sure way of avoiding guilt, I find that over time I revert back to this way of being. After all, it is my default setting (you might recall I wrote a post about this called 'Why is it so hard to put yourself first?').

My default setting, when activated, has ways of dulling me. It slowly kills off my mojo and dampens my spirit. It turns me into something I don't want to be. I have discovered that overriding my default setting is like someone learning to write with the opposite hand. Each time they go to pick up a pen, they habitually reach for it with their default hand - therefore they must consciously choose the new hand each time.

For those of us instinctively wanting to put others in front of ourselves, we have to remember the in-flight emergency protocol (which is rapidly becoming my mantra). It is essential that we fit the oxygen mask onto ourselves before helping others. Yes, I know I've said this before and I'm saying it again for all that are hardwired to guilt. We have to repeat this over and over and OVER again so we 'get' it.

I know for one thing, I am a much better person all round when I am not dying inside - and I'm sure that those who surround me are also grateful. If not for my joyfulness, enthusiasm and energy, it'd be because they no longer have to put up with my bad imaginary rock concerts.

Until tomorrow, reduce your need to bust loose with the emergency oxygen mantra.

Grace xx

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Hey Mr. Tambourine Man

After yesterday's post, I received several emails and Facebook messages asking me to tell the 'tambourine story', so here it is...

Sometime in the early millennium, and before my mojo showed signs of extinguishing, I found myself at Mt. Hotham alpine resort for the opening of the ski season (yes, we do get snow downunder).

The locals declared the abundance of snow was a good start to the season - though some (like me) may have argued that it was too much, as there was consequently a perilous amount of black ice on the roads.

One night a small group of us went out for dinner to celebrate the Queen's birthday (as that's the official holiday weekend that marks the beginning of the season, even though it's nowhere near Her Majesty's real birthday, nor were we really celebrating it).

After a fabulous meal and a few Jägermeister digestives, I started to relax and - let's face it - got a little tipsy.

There was a live band playing, which stirred my inner rock star. Before I knew it, I had made my way from the dance floor onto the stage and was rocking, tambourine in hand, with the lead singer. Reports state that I robbed him of said instrument, but did such a good job at entertaining the audience (and band members) that I earned my place on stage.

I was shaking my booty, slapping it hard with the stolen goods. I sensed a growing feeling discomfort (from the self-imposed tambourine spanking, not from the theft or playing in front of a full house of unsuspecting groovers) so I turned the other cheek (haha).

Surprisingly, the tambourine grew heavier to the point that it felt like I was shaking an antique coal iron weighing 25kg (55 pounds). I switched from hand to hand, attempting to make it lighter by briefly resting in a cleverly disguised clap'n'shuffle motion.

At the end of the night I felt my biceps were the size of the Incredible Hulk's, and my face was probably a similar colour. I was escorted home by my husband (then boyfriend) - but sadly his usual lightening-fast reflexes were not lightening fast enough to save me from what followed...

The moment I stepped outside I was smacked in the face by the iced cold air, and thumped in the back of the head by an ice cold pavement - I'd slipped on black ice, and came crashing down with a thud. Ouch.

The next morning I woke up with a pounding headache, though couldn't distinguish whether it was from the black ice incident or the Jägermeister.

I headed for the shower and when I gripped the door handle, I winced with pain. I looked at my hands and they were blackened with bruises (whoever knew your hands could bruise...???). I inspected my body for further damage and discovered I had matching bruises on both hips and butt cheeks - I looked like I had been wrestling with a rhinoceros.

From that moment on, I had a new found respect for tambourines and those who play them... not to mention equal respect for black ice and Jägermeister.

Until tomorrow, may you rock the star within - minus the bruising.

Grace xx

ps. I Googled tambourine images and came across this fabulous comic artist Natalie Dee (see pic). Please check out her website and have a chuckle, very quirky.