Sweet mouth

I have been going to the Sunday Feasts at the Hare Krishna temple in Albert Park since my uni days. Word spread there was *free food to be had and a group of us flocked to partake in this weekly ritual of vegetarian feasting.

Our visits fed more than our tummies – they nourished our souls as friends sat and chatted around the fountain in the patio of the stunning two-story Victorian residence. We’d soak up the visual surrounds that included women wearing colourful saris and men with shaved heads all but for the small patch of hair and ponytail.

Like the temple, I have been eating at the Hare Krishna vegetarian restaurant, Gopals, in the CBD on and off for years. Gopals catered for my 21st birthday celebrations.

I don’t get to Gopals as much as I would if I worked in the CBD but if I’m ever in the city for a meeting or on a short term contract, I’ll often head there for lunch.

The low key restaurant is reached by climbing a steep flight of stairs and overlooks Swanston Street. Gopals’ clientele are generally easygoing and quiet, this pace and type of person is a welcome respite from the usual rat racers. Many solo diners will sit at the window benches to take in the sights and sounds of the goings on below - trams passing, police cars, cyclists, horse carriages, city workers, shoppers, buskers...

During my recent visits to Gopals, I’ve been served by a young, Indian man who takes delight in suggesting foods for me to try. I love eating Gopals’ desserts and for this he said the other day I have a “sweet mouth”.

Our interactions deepened after I saw him at temple a few Sundays ago. I was sitting with my friend Sara, one of the original crew from the old temple days, when I spotted him in the queue waiting to be served.

I made my way across to him negotiating my path through the sea of people already seated. His eyes found mine and his face lit up. My initial impulse was to reach out and hug him. I was brimming with joy to see him especially as it was unexpected and out of context, but I refrained from being too tactile. I was later thankful for my (unusual) restraint - perhaps a hug would have made him feel uncomfortable?

It was here where we formally introduced ourselves: “Caroline,” “Aadesh.”

Aadesh is delicious looking – I wouldn’t have put him at more than 23 or 24 years but recently learned he’s just turned 30. Whenever we see each other we both break into huge smiles. I think he is pure bliss. He must see something in me too as there’s chemistry that transcends heritage, age or religion. His friend standing with him in the queue that day at temple and the other staffers at Gopals all smile coy to witness our mutual happiness at being with one another.

Aadesh has twice stepped away from serving behind the Gopals’ counter to sit with me while I eat. He talks to me about the food and his faith. He told me on my last visit that Krishna devotees follow four principles: 1. No meat eating. 2. No intoxication (alcohol, tobacco, drugs). 3. No gambling. 4. No illicit sex (ie no sex outside marriage).

Naturally my heart sunk when I heard the latter (I am only human!) and at this point was reminded of the episode in Sex and the City where Samantha falls for the Franciscan Brother but as a priest Samantha can never have him! I called my friend Sara straight after my conversation with Aadesh and told her I felt just like Samantha! All my friends have seen Sex and the City. I had found my own Franciscan Brother but in the form of a Hare Krishna!

I have been involved on one level with the Hare Krishna’s (their food) my whole adult life but never took too much notice of its religion. But since I’ve been moving high speed along my own spiritual journey I appreciate hearing others talk about their faith.

Today I went to temple with Sara and expected to see Aadesh. I know he goes to temple every Sunday – he’s encouraged me to go more often. I thought I would see him and looked forward to it all weekend. Those butterfly flutters of sweet anticipation.

I scanned the whole room where everyone was eating, the queue, the prayer hall, outside on the patio. No Aadesh. Sara kept looking at me checking in: “He’s here – you’ve seen him?” No.

As we were leaving and it became evident I wouldn’t see Aadesh today I felt a strong sense of disappointment. “Well, this is the universe holding it back from me and protecting me from falling for a man who is celibate,” I told Sara. She agreed a celibate man was not the man for me!

That’s the thing about crushes – you can get crushed. I am Samantha from Sex and the City. Life imitates art. And like a beautiful painting hanging in a gallery, Aadesh comes with sign attached: Look but do not touch.

*donations were collected.
Aadesh is not his real name...!

Vale ol’ Walt

How many dogs can you say you’ve known who have made it to 17.5 years?

My very special boy: Walter Warwick James.

This last week, I wormed my way around the fact that my dearly beloved pooch best lay his gorgeous self in heaven.

I prayed to God, the angels (including St Francis of Assisi - patron Saint of Animals), my late mum and Walt's departed friend/foe Maggie Charly for strength, protection, guidance and support as well to ask their hand in Walt’s transition ‘home’.

Walt passed on Wednesday 28 Sept around 4pm with the aid of his vet, Di; Sandie my local florist and great Walt lover; and Sara, a friend who on many occasions has taken Walt under her watch.

Outside it was raining and thunder was bellowing two great claps (Sara remarked this a fitting send off – and my aunt Lucy later commented it was the heavens applauding me for having the courage to action a necessary bon voyage).

Sandie, who had stayed holding and cuddling Walt to her for his final curtain call, came out of the vet’s consultation room a few minutes later with a great tuft of Walt’s hair for me to cherish - taken from his gorgeous crimpy bits over his ear.

She said the vet had informed his little heart had stopped right away with the administration of the anaesthesia. There was no sign of pain or resistance. Walt went swiftly and without fuss. Sandie said he looked so peaceful wrapped up in the vet’s fluffy, white blanket.

I had kept the last chapter in this sad journey relatively private in honour of spending Walt’s last days together and in self protection to try and finally reconcile a life without him.

I had been considering a two month contract up in Sydney so had taken Walt to the vet for a consultation to make sure he was doing ok and that I could go ahead with including him in my short term relocation plans.

Walter was very old, feeble, had periodontal disease and dementia. But I was committed to holding onto him and if he still had a Sydney run in him, we would make the trip. After all, we had practically been all over Australia together.

Another cursor to get me to the vet was Walt had 'urine scold' brought on by his unsteady gait and pretty much no strength in his back legs to hold him up and prevent the urine stream from hitting his skin.

In short - the vet was adamant Walt would be in pain due to a myriad of poor health conditions (namely all brought on by his v grand age) and suggested I say my goodbyes before his condition deteriorated further.

“If you hadn’t been at home to care for him all these years – he would have gone by now. Most people who go off to work each day and leave their dogs in the backyard would have had to put him down a long time ago. With the dementia, he more than likely would have found himself in a precarious position and met his end.”

She had a valid point – there have been several occasions over the months where without my interception, Waltie’s misdemeanours would have led him haphazardly to heaven’s pearly gates.

One evening last year for example I took Walt off lead to Albert Park Lake. While I had turned for not more than a minute, he had wandered across the path and fell into the water. A passing jogger yelled to me as I searched (in the other direction) for him: "Is that your dog swimming in the lake?"

I wouldn’t have suspected Walt would end up paddling in the water! But it was already dark and Walt had obviously lost his bearings and fallen in. I had to dive in - in the middle of winter - to retrieve him. The jogger stayed with me and helped me haul him up. Shivering, skinny, tiny Walt. I cradled him in my arms and carried him home, looking to the sky all the way: “Mum, I know you saved him for me, I know.” And the jogger guardian angel sent.

Walt was a cat; he had nine lives but more. I used to call him my little ever ready battery – he went on and on and on. Even after each close call, he would rally.

In our last days together, I reasoned that he’d experienced enough sorrow on my part. He had tolerated me sobbing over him – tears welled when my look lingered on his trusting eyes, the sense of dread permeating through my every pore. But he was sensitive to my grief and he took it on. Witness to this I determined this transference of despair would cease. Walt’s body was too old, too frail, too worn to absorb these punishing throes of sadness.

Instead, happiness and joy, peace and respect would reign. Walt didn’t deserve any less – he had shouldered my ups and downs, been there through it all, a staunch support and trusted shepherd. The Shetland Sheepdog – in his breed’s made role; a shepherd to the sheep, but for Walt’s life, the shepherd over me. Watching and there, ever present.

Tuesday we had a good night’s rest together. Sure, I was up intermittently tending to his needs as per usual, but importantly I had mostly slept soundly and hadn’t succumbed to a sleepless night.

As Liz Gilbert reported in her personal memoir ‘Eat Pray Love’, I knew the tempest was coming but “go back to bed Liz,” because you will need all your strength to push through.

This is how I felt. Lord, please give me a good night’s rest so that I am in the best physical, mental and emotional standing to meet the eye of the storm.

The next morning, my Waltie spent time sleeping with me and we had a good while together where he lay by my side and I snuggled into him. He positioned his beautiful nose to nuzzle my neck and face and his front leg lay on my arm as I stroked his body’s soft fur and moved my fingers over his worn paw pads.

My aunt Sue said to me about losing her beloved Hacksaw at 15 years: "When Hacky died, I wasn't sad....he'd had a great life and it was his time to go."

In part this rings true. Walt exited this world when it was the right time for both of us - and in his departure and the days before - he handled it with patience, courage, grace and dignity.

The dog was worn out – he was exhausted, but in true stoic, stubborn Walter style he was going to stick around and wasn’t going to leave me. But boy was he ready to go. And it was my call as the custodian of his comfort and care, the steward for this animal’s welfare, to give him my blessing and fond farewell.

It is also important to place in perspective that Waltie outlived almost any canine’s lifespan. Walt’s struggles with movement, agility, eating and his ‘witching hour’ dementia meant his life had well come to its end. Nature’s way – circle of life.

Vale ol’ Walt and Godspeed. You are and will be sorely missed.

Images - painting of Waltie, photos taken by the artist and friend, Sam for inspiration, in August 2011; flowers given to me by Sandie in memory of Walt; Caroline James (me) and Walter (taken April 2010).

Dementia dog

Every night around 7pm a sort of witching hour begins for my 17 year old Shetland Sheepdog, Walter.

I suspect triggered by the smell of dinner cooking (usually salmon, chicken or steak), Walter’s aged mind flicks a switch and turns its state to 'dementia dog'.

For the next hour at minimum Walt will pant and pace about the house seeking out obstacles. He’ll walk behind the TV among all the cables (where I fear he'll electrocute himself), squeeze his body between the wall and my office desk, crouch under the coffee table, hover in a corner, or squish himself behind a chair. Of course he often gets stuck and loyal me comes to his rescue.

During these times Walt is overcome with busyness. Dementia dog's nightly charade can carry on for several hours and very often I’ll have to cart him outside for my own mind's escape. After a short interval (because it's cold outside), we're back...and dementia dog can resume his second act.

I read him well and while this behaviour would no doubt cause distress to an untrained eye; I know it’s just the folly of a very old, old dog. Besides, when dementia dog sets in, it can signal he needs to pee or is thirsty for a drink.

But unfortunate to say, dementia dog brings with it broken sleep. We'll settle for bed around 11pm, but I will be up at least once a night tending to some four legged whim.

People have remarked the interrupted sleep is good training for potential motherhood but if dementia dog were indeed a newborn; he'd be a toddler by now - such episodes have run their nightly ritual for at least three years.

I know there are plenty dear to me who think it’s time Walt gave up the ghost but I love him and am scared to let my faithful friend go.

So this reasons why night after night, year after year, I’ve allowed it to carry on – Walt’s twilight dance in the twilight of his life.

The positive spin

I remember having a good whinge to my (then) boss of the incompetencies of a supplier we were dealing with and I was quick to point out everything this team was doing wrong and 'as a consultant to us' should be doing right. Why were we paying all this money for their shoddy work? On my ramblings went.

My boss turned to me and said: "I know the problem, but I want to hear the solution."

It struck me then that here lies the challenge - finding the solution. The easy part (of which I was so competent) was to focus the bad.

None of this mattered, because this supplier was on contract, had pitched for the work, won it and had a job to do. The fact they were doing it badly was not in dispute, but it was time to do something about it and get the supplier on track.

The suggestion to take the positive over negative came up again in a conversation with a friend yesterday.

She was telling me about an issue with her partner and I said to her point blank: "why don't you just say 'your way is not working'?". My friend replied: "well, I'd like to take a more positive approach than that."

The second time I was hit in the face; reminded of my ugly habit.

I will of course be able to apply my new-found logic to my personal relationships. I recollect at least two previous boyfriends who said: "you're so hard on me" and since gone onto find women obviously not as 'hard (as) me'; having married them or about to.

So perhaps instead of repeatedly pointing out my loved ones' shortcomings (I should have learned the first time nagging is not effective!) I will endeavour to approach the issue as my friend said, with a positive spin.

Rewind to: "You drink too much, you party too hard, and your breath and every pore of you reaks of alcohol; it's disgusting and sooooo unattractive" (37 year old v responsible day job boyfriend getting home at 8am Saturday mornings after epic Friday nights' out),

...should have been rephrased as:

"Honey, you're obviously popular and have an enviable social life, but I'm really looking forward to spending time with you tomorrow and it'd be great if you could make it home by 2am (remember the usual was 8am) so you're not feeling unwell or overtired, and we can enjoy a great day together."

I dunno....having just read over the above, I think I may have tried the positive in this particular scenario over and over - but when booze has its grip no sense can come of it.

However, there's something to it, this positive business. Sure beats the goody two shoes tut tutting and finger pointing (one finger pointing at you is three pointed back at me).

So I'll take my pledge and strive for the positive. Old habits die hard, I'm sure to teeter on the naysayer ledge a little longer than admirable...but hopefully when I do step it forward; I'll be dipping my toe in the purified waters of a 'glass half full'.

You can't always get what you want

On the first day of spring where there should be a spring in my step, I've fallen flat.

As readers of this blog are aware (and newbies about to find out) today I had my appointment with a fertility specialist to chat about egg freezing.

I was all gung ho (re-reading my former post I note this sentiment) about taking action to ensure I had my reservation at the baby making table.

Today's appointment was a real eye opener. I didn't spend too long with the specialist because as soon as she quoted the costs ($12 - $13k minimum) for the process, I tuned out making my mind up then and there that if children weren't in my future the natural way - as a current single woman, I wasn't going to test run the science.

Apparently one needs about two rounds of 'egg collection' (across two cycles) to maximise their chances of producing an egg right for fertility. Of course I would have to pump hormones into myself to get more eggs created than usual and for the process to 'harvest' them I would have to go under a general anaesthetic (that part of which I knew). And once the eggs are frozen - it's about an extra $1500 to inseminate with the male's sperm.

This was all getting a bit much.

I could go further into the ins and outs but for want of not getting too technical or tedious - the upshot is this: I'd be looking at about $30K outspend to have a baby from frozen eggs.

Which had me sitting across from the doctor thinking; do I want a kid that badly? And today without a partner in the picture, my gut says no.

In anycase - on the first day of spring, when the sun is shining and nature is set to bloom - my rosy cheeks have paled. Even if I had the money I don't think I would do it.

It just seems too hard.

The search

We all seem to be searching for something. Obviously it’s age-old and part of the human condition.

There are those searching for a partner for love and/or to begin a family; and there are material collectables many are seeking to acquire - a better home, a car - and the need for a well paid job to achieve it all.

Always searching, searching, searching.

Last night I met a 41 year old woman not dissimilar in looks to Kylie Minogue. One might jump to the conclusion that such a sweet, pretty person might largely be satisfied with her lot. But scratch the surface and I uncovered there was a lot of searching going on inside.

This lady – let’s call her Kylie – wanted to attract the right man in her life and the process she was undertaking to achieve this left me leaning in to hear more. I’ve heard close friends talk like this – but as a relative stranger, Kylie was brave enough to share it with me right off the bat.

She kept a ‘grateful diary’ and would list daily occurrences she was grateful for. Along with the grateful diary, Kylie had prepared a checklist of the qualities she wanted in her future partner. Mixing the two (the grateful diary and her most eligible bachelor checklist) she would read it aloud and in doing so, hoped to manifest both – a grateful life and a wonderful man.

I can only support her that the universe answers this call. Add to that "I'll have what she's having." (When Harry Met Sally)

And me - I shared with Kylie my search for the right place to be with God.

Kylie offered that she was a spiritual person, she too like me had attended a religious style school, but she took a more open approach to God – ie God is any God – not just a Christian one. Of course - I agreed.

My relationship with the church started young and as a school boarder from years 8 – 10 in Adelaide, it was routine to attend church on Sundays. We would kit out in our Sunday best - school uniform, hat and gloves and the School Principal would walk around the dining hall to inspect everyone before we were allowed to board the bus.

Our shoes had to be perfectly polished and hair tied back neatly and if they weren’t – we would be sent back to our rooms to rectify the situation.

When my parents relocated from Alice Springs to Melbourne (and I left boarding school to live with them) my mother, living with cancer, found solace in the church. So every now and then I joined her.

When travelling Europe for the first time, I visited some of the most beautiful churches and remember sitting in one in Brussels feeling a firm sense of peace. It was here – in a church – where I felt closest to God.

So it makes sense that I've continued to step into a church from time to time. But sadly, at 37 years old and single, church attendance doesn’t quite fit.

I know Melbourne’s churches would LOVE to have younger people join their congregation and it’s not an uncommon story dwindling attendance requires a boost in new blood, but church going remains predominantly a blue-rinsed affair.

I’m not seeking to be a ‘happy clapper’ born again Christian, Hillsong devotee, or new-aged Buddhist – all of which do tend to attract a younger demographic. But sometimes I just want to sit in a pew with God. And it frustrates me - hard, wooden seating aside - that I don’t feel I comfortably can.

So perhaps a meditation class will be my happy medium.

I mentioned this to Kylie and again she surprised me. She too had searched for a good meditation class and was able to recommend a place in Caulfield for me to try.

Meditation is not quite going to meet my need to revisit the Brussels' church experience; but neither is going to my local church sitting next to a group of oldies keen to latch onto me on a Sunday. I know community meditation is an experience I’m destined to try.

And there’s one certainty about searching. It never stops.

Hair for all seasons

My mother was loathe for me to cut my hair when I was a late teenager/early 20s. She always said to wear it long. I suspect in main because she subscribed to the "over 30 must wear hair shorter" consensus, and was generally at pains to point out the time one could wear their hair long was short.

But she needn't worry about me cutting it or experimenting too madly with colour back then. My locks were always long and blonde - a natural blonde - and when they darkened over time, I kept it light with highlights.

However since then I've kept it long (long after 30!) and seen a few colours rinse through.

Today I'm red.

I feel it suits me at this life stage. I am a Leo afterall (the Lion with its glorious 'red' mane). Strong and fiesty. Defiant.

Isn't that what people think when they see/hear "redhead"? Headstrong and difficult to tame?

I've come into the ease of red after noticing many beautiful women with its shade - naturally or coloured like me.

There's Christina Hendricks (Joan from Mad Men); Miranda Otto; Patricia Clarkson; Scarlett Johansson; Julianne Moore - and my current favourite redhead, Mirielle Enos, (pic attached along with a rather ghostly white and earnest one of me) from the US TV series The Killing (extra kudos here to Mirielle - she's married to 'Cameron' from Ferris Buellers' Day Off).

On the flipside there are some scary sorts who sport the mane - Vivienne Westwood, Sarah Ferguson, Grace Coddington (US Vogue); Rebecca Brooks (News of the World).

It is common knowledge that a woman often changes her hair after something big has happened in her life (and usually bad big!).

I long ago grew tired of being perceived as the gregarious blonde, after one too many personal knocks, this tag no longer fits.

So, I turned my locks to a more brooding brunette...that lasted a year before seeing red.

What I love about my current flame is a redhead is regarded as strong - yes, but not necessarily loud (something I know doesn't have to translate to 'blonde' but I have always equated myself as the loud blonde).

Hey, I don't mind being blonde; but I'm constantly striving to drop the 'loud' and sporting my red almost serves as that traffic light reminder. Stop! It's red. Are you being loud?

I've heard from many men that they're not as attracted to redheads as to blondes or brunettes. But stuff blokes - this colour stays!

And yes, it's not purely coincidental that I have chosen the shade while a single woman (ie no man to turn up his nose).

I'm loving the red but keeping it quiet.

At what point did I suddenly become a cougar?

My peers may be disappointed in me for saying this - but I disagree with the general consensus (that life gets better with age).

The best time in my life was easily my 20s. I have a younger cousin (23) who I'm always reminding "live it up" this is your 20s - don't worry about how society tells you to live, live how you want and feel as this is your time; it doesn't get better than this!

People who know me and have followed the odd blog entry will understand when I say much has stayed the same in my life as it was then. I'm still in PR; renting in Melbourne, living with my same old, dog; single and no children.

Meanwhile - most of my mates have moved onto the usual phase of 30s' life - marriage and/or coupling + kids + home ownership.

So as you can imagine, why on earth in a society that predominantly equates beauty with youth, would I prefer living the same life I had in my 20s to today - ten years on?

And herein lays a further dilemma. Enter, me - 37 years old...the Cougar.

My new predatory ways were pointed out to me a few weeks ago when a good friend, Aquestra, visited from Sydney. We were having a few aperitifs at Melbourne's Supper Club in Spring Street after seeing some burlesque entertainment at 45 Downstairs in Flinders Lane.

The young waiter (probably about 22 years) inadvertently found himself subjected to my flirting ways and it was only when he took a wide berth from me thereafter, that I looked at Aquestra enquiringly. "You're being a sleazy cougar," she said. "He's scared of you."

I'm not proud to report that incidents of this nature have continued and as recently as Friday night. I ventured into popular nightclub - Boutique (first time mind you - I remember at 25 believing I was too old for nightclubs (!)) and found myself locked in conversation with a gorgeous 30 year old. In between our chats, I was also carving it up on the dance floor with a handsome young man clearly in his 20s.

Back to the 30 year old. There was a moment where I felt a kiss could be reciprocated so I moved in for the kill. Poor guy - he quickly moved his face to avoid meeting my mouth and my lips hit his cheek. It was a stinging reminder. Caroline, these young men - they're not your target market. Leave them to the Lara Bingle's of the world!

When I later caught up with a longtime friend, also single, over coffee we both agreed, even though we might not like it - and might not even feel it - we're older and we can't be hitting on the same men now as we did when we were 27.

Unlike Demi Moore - I'm not a movie star so the likelihood there will be a younger man who wants me as the (much) older woman is I would say as slim as this demographic of man likes his woman.

And nobody likes a sleazy cougar.

I'll take my eggs frozen

Usually I like my eggs poached or scrambled but today I made the hard boiled decision to settle on frozen.

Having just turned 37 and with one of my best mates (and one of the smartest people in the world I know) become pregnant at 38 years old, tell me all the realities of getting pregnant older (ie not so good); has confirmed what I already knew and accelerated my procrastination and fence sitting into action. I have to bite the bullet, throw my pride out the window, accept the confrontation and visit an egg freezer.

Calling up the fertility clinic today confirmed it - at my age, time is of the essence.

The woman on the phone caringly said: "We can't get you in with Dr X for an appointment until November, but mmmm - you're how old? Oh, right - yes, you really shouldn't wait...try these doctors - they are just as good, and you'll be able to get an appointment sooner."

So first day of spring (a nice tie in for fertility) I'll be meeting the specialist about hatching some eggs not for a fry up, but a freeze up.

It's a bit of a pain - yes, and it's not really fair; unquestionably - but better to have my current 37 year old eggs than older should it become my time to make a baby.

You see - I may have won myself that green card (referenced in an earlier blog entry)in the US Diversity Lottery and if my number comes up (I've been randomly selected as one of 100,000 for further processing) I could be relocating to live in the States in about a year's time.

This planning does not coincide too well with meeting a probable partner in Melbourne and/or Sydney; and settling down to begin a family. Yes folks, it would appear I may just end up with a yankee!

While there will hopefully come a time when I meet a suitable bachelor; realistically I may be knocking on 40's birthday door.

So, unfortunately it has to be - this egg freezing business. Not a cheap business either (no pun intended of the chicken 'cheep cheep'). Certainly much dearer than the six dollars I pay for my free range dozen at the markets.

Realistic I am and it helps having some pretty smart friends to remind me that I'll only be hurting myself for not taking action now.

In my basket, the egg comes before the chicken.

The world needs yoga

I propose that if everyone in the world did yoga - it would be a much calmer, happier place. Let me explain. Yoga has transformed me. No this is not a blog for preaching - but my wellbeing significantly improved when I took up Ashtanga Yoga. And I've seen yoga's effects on my friends too. I've read about yoga's impact in psychology books sprouting its benefits for calming the nervous system and the mind.

I have drifted in and out of practicing styles all my adult life but settled on a couple of forms that gives you a pretty good workout along with the zen benefits it brings with. Ashtanga and Powerflow. Practice regularly and it will dramatically change your life.

I now work pretty much part time and earn significantly less than if I were working among the rat race - but this way, I can happily fit four yoga classes into the week!

Earning less can of course be difficult, as I do like the finer things in life, and many of my good friends are high earners (and thus it can be a bit annoying visiting their beautiful homes (self-owned), while I continue to rent)...but it is true - 'ego' and acquiring material possessions for the status it brings you becomes less important once you incorporate yoga in your life.

And this is why more of the Western World should practice yoga!

I watch the politicians on TV constantly looking stressed (and more often than not - overweight) and I think - if only they could take a break - do some sun salutations, a few downward dogs - they'd be so much better for it! And clearer thinkers. Calmer. More effective leaders (now there's a thought?!)

But one of the biggest changes that comes from practicing yoga is in the people you meet and are taught by. There are some very inspiring teachers out there. The gorgeous Duncan Peake (pic attached) shared a tit bit of wisdom with us at a workshop recently (he was visiting from Sydney) "you don't get what you want, you get what you are." This rang so loudly in my conscious that I made an immediate pact with myself to review all areas in my life and see what they say about me - who I am. If I didn't like any areas - change required (with healing - wink).

He also gave us such a good workout that once we were laying flat on our backs in shivasana pose at the end for relaxation - it was (and is) the BEST feeling in the world!

So you have to try it. I'm sure most reading already have and are - but there are many more (great for anxiety laden bunnies) who could.

Physically, mentally and spiritually a great yoga class makes you feel better about yourself and carefree about your lot in life. You'll begin to think - right here, right now - I wouldn't want to be anywhere else!

Cos yoga's like that. It sweeps you up during a class and you come out walking on air.

So, I'm off to yoga. Namaste (bowing to you).

The ex is getting married

Oh what a night it’s been; I feel like I’ve attended a wake and all the good mates are banding together in support dishing up words of love and support to a woman who is in need! That woman, dear folk, is me.

In essence, it took a junkie to steal my laptop to be able to make the necessary steps to move on. Well, so I think it must have been a junkie – I’m really not sure. That’s semantics. What’s happened is today (through my laptop being stolen yesterday) I learned my immediate ex boyfriend has become engaged. Having said immediate, we did break up nearly two years ago – but I haven’t found love since, despite wishing for it.

How this all happened - I took myself off to see Tree of Life with Brad Pitt yesterday (tight arsed Mondays) but forgot to close my front window. I’ve been opening it to give the place some airing. As we all know from multiple blog posts – I have a 17.5 year old poochie (so smelly breath – poor Walt) so it’s been helpful to let some fresh (?) air in.

So while I’m away, a robber takes his moment to dive in and nab my laptop. Gone. On the laptop are a bunch of photos of my ex with video footage of the beloved Walter. And him – the ex. He was so lovely looking – I would have liked to have kept it – you know, sentimentality – for old times’ sake and to get the footage of Walt...so despite an eight month hiatus of no contact, I sent my ex a text. Along the lines “do you still have it – can I borrow your camera to get that footage? Oh, and by the way, I had a dream your best mate told me you’re married and have had a baby.”

So it takes him almost a day to respond but I get a message back that he no longer has the pics and yes, he’s recently engaged “very happy”.

My ex is 42 years old. He has never been married and yet had a long line of girlfriends, all to my knowledge who would have been up for marriage.

Suffice to say it’s cut me to the core and fortunately a posse of great women friends have come to my aid.

I really believe everything does happen for a reason and even though it doesn’t feel like it now, this is all part of the universe’s way.

What’s particularly difficult however is that my other ex did the same thing. Got married. And nearly three years into the relationship – is still married! Despite me feeling (both) had some serious issues they would need to work through before being able to sustain a long term bond. So this of course, points a finger back at me. And that's not easy!

All I can do is hope I fall in love again. And with a man where it works. As all this heartache hurts. Is there a universal purpose to having me ache like this? There must be –but surely I’ve upped the queue in “time to take care of Caroline”? I can only hope my ticket is called next.

My weekly crush

Every Monday night at around 6.10pm I see him. He’s tall and lithe, has a scorpion tattoo on his left arm (or that’s what it looks like from my vantage), has grey, brownish hair and a moustache. He has a look similar to Nick Cave or David Bowie and looks like his work would be creative. Perhaps he’s an architect or furniture designer.

He has two daughters, one about 10, the other probably 14. He’s pale skinned but theirs is olive and they have long dark hair and brown eyes. I imagine their mother to be a Balinese princess like Lindy Klim, or a Spanish beauty like Penelope Cruz. It’s this calibre of woman I imagine him with – someone beautiful and exotic.

I don’t know his name, I don’t even know whether they’re his daughters, but every Monday night for the past five weeks during my spin class, I’ve watched him and his girls dry off after their swim by the indoor pool below.

He first struck me because he bears an uncanny resemblance to a former flame – someone I haven’t seen since the day we parted. Past loves can be like that, if you see someone in the present day who bears any kind of resemblance, it can make your heart flutter and blood pressure drop. But part of this man’s attraction is that he has a family, something my ex constantly promised for us, but could never deliver.

In an environment where most of the swimmers are mainstream types, he stands out. He sweeps his hair back from his face and strolls up and down alongside the pool talking on his blackberry. I wonder who he’s talking to. His girlfriend, his wife, a friend, a work colleague?

His older daughter saw me watching them last week. Every now and then the swimmers below will look up to the spin class above. The area with the exercise bikes has glass windows floor to ceiling and looks down on the swimming pools below. When she and I locked eyes, it didn’t bother me that she saw me. If it was him who caught my eye, it would be a different story. I’d hasten to turn away.

I’m looking forward to seeing him again – and again, and again. It’s a thrill and welcome distraction from the hum drum of the regular spin class. Seeing him and his girls makes my Monday evenings that bit brighter and helps the class go that much quicker.

As I cycle to the blasting tunes on my stationary bike among the other spin devotees, I wonder if anyone has ever looked at me this way. Do any of my fellow exercisers think: “there she is, she’s here...yay!” Somehow I don’t think so. But it is nice to speculate.

Community counts

I read an article weekend before last where a 30 something single woman said she is fine being single and wrote that she took offence when others (not single) would give her the pity look. She wrote in a manner which suggested other singles of her vintage felt the same way (I would have posted the link to the article, but this is the best I found on a quick google search for it: http://earlybirdcatchestheworm.wordpress.com/2011/05/25/newspaper-clipping-of-the-week-all-the-single-ladies/)

I could be off doing adventurous, culturally enriching and spiritually enhancing things overseas as I have no dependents by way of children or partner, but it has been my choice and circumstance that I am Melbourne-bound.

I have a 17 year old pet dog who is too old to leave with others for care and too able to send off to doggie heaven before his time (yes, 17 is a fabulous innings - Walter is a most special dog).

And while I consider everyday with Walter a blessing, outside the pet ownership - confessional...life can be lonely. Lonely living in a city where your best friends from your fun and carefree 20s have either moved away or long been coupled up and raising young kids. The single mates I do have are living interstate or overseas, doing what I would be if I didn’t have Walt.

So unlike the warrior single from the article who vouched she's happy with said status, I’ve declared as a single woman that the 30s can be tough.

As a single like me, you’re likely to be one of the very few in your friendship circle, and if you’re not, life’s going to be completely hectic with a partner and young kids - too chaotic to catchup over brunch or yoga class with a single friend.

During such times, most people can lean on their family, but on that accord I’m more a character from Sex and the City (yes, ok, Samantha wins here in terms of character likeness (but more for her direct and no bullshit style than promiscuous bedroom antics - let me assure you!)) than Brothers and Sisters.

I lost my mother 15 years ago and my only brother lives in Adelaide with his wife and their two young children – again, hectic, not much time to nurture his sister's lonely heart (although he does a good job trying - thanks bro).

My mother had three sisters, all of whom are wonderful sources of support – but again, they’re in Adelaide and they themselves have their own lives and families.

So more and more I’m on my own.

To help combat the sense of aloneness, I have for some time interwoven my wellbeing with a connectness to community. This provides a level of comfort and company when I’d love to have more of it from the friends and family in my life.

It’s the married yoga instructor who asks me how life’s going (thanks gorgeous Chris); and reads excepts from books offering up tit bits of wisdom about dealing with every day life (your "being human is a guest house - greet everyone (happiness) and anyone (malice) with a smile for it's a guide bringing exactly what you need" helped thanks Jen); comments on my new hair colour "I'm liking the red" (from Amanda the 50 something rocking yoga guru at Fitzroy yoga); Sam, the naturopath who smiles and greets me at the health food store at the South Melbourne markets (high protein low carbs Caroline); Robin, the pet food store owner who has never asked my name but calls me “Walter’s mum” every time I visit and gives Walt a regular treat.

It’s young, spunky Matt who takes my Wednesday night spin class who I overhear talking to others about marathons he’s been busy prepping for or about the status of the baby he’s about to have (and would have had by now).

The list goes on.

Yes, politicians will sprout the values of community and its benefits to people's mental and emotional health (and Lord Mayor Rob Doyle does live around the corner).

I find myself the Cate Blanchett poster girl for advocating the benefits of their spin.

Keep community close because the loose netted support these friendly acquaintances bring, can just be the thread magic weaves.

The Royal Wedding

In an ever-changing world and one where there seems to be more leaving than staying in relationships; there’s something very comforting for me that Prince William provides a role model to today’s young man.

For women like me (unmarried 35+) we’ve kissed more frogs than we care to mention and breathe a collective sigh, that yes, it’s more likely we’ll be reading “He’s just not that into you” than a bridal magazine.

But when presented with a sweeping romance steeped in tradition such as the approaching Royal Wedding – this ordinarily strong woman gets a little teary with emotion.

In his proposal, Wills declared to the world he intends to ‘officially’ hold onto his girl and ‘waity Katy’ proved there’s virtue in hanging in there through thick and thin.

Very much the modern couple, Wills and Kate have been dating some nine years, weathered a momentary breakup and live together. Now they’ve chosen to follow tradition, tie the knot and in the future when William becomes King of England he has his bride.

Of course all around me are the naysayers – shaking their heads in wonderment: “Why all the fuss?” I shake my head right back at them. The majority are riding my bandwagon of course, that’s not hard to miss – everyday the global media reports on the Royal Wedding in a mass of excitement.

Fair, at times the circus around the pending nuptials is nothing short of a spectacle (namely the kitsch wedding memorabilia), but the significance of the Royal Wedding resonates way beyond the couple getting married.

In our society, to marry is the highest proclamation of love and who can deny the spellbinding power of love?

Come April 29, the watching world has Wills and Kate’s word of commitment to each other and this is not so easy to give publicly if in doubt.

I’ll get comfy on my couch, pooch by my side, glued to the TV and watch in eagerness as the beautiful Kate marries her handsome prince.

Cafe culture turns office

Have you noticed how once you’ve been made aware of something, it begins to take form everywhere you look?

I recently read an article by Rachel Wells at the Sunday Age about people using cafes as their office space. See story link: http://www.businessday.com.au/executive-style/management/meetandeat-revolution-at-the-coffice-20110405-1d0om.html

Of course we’re all drawn to things that resonate and strike a chord and yes, for me – this article produced what Oprah would coin an “a-ha” moment.

I meet clients and potential clients in cafes; work on my laptop; jot down ideas on post-it notes; as well as spy opportunities to solicit business when the occasion arises.

During my cafe time I’ll catch-up on the papers and listen in (as well as start and contribute to) conversations between staff and customers to keep abreast of the general chit chat around town. Finger on the pulse for this PR maven.

I guess you could call Park Lane Cafe in South Melbourne my second office - but it’s also like a welcoming, home kitchen. See link to an article I secured for its owner Harry Humphries (Barry Humphries’ nephew!):

http://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/restaurants-and-bars/south-melbourne-dj-grinds-out-a-good-cup-20100412-s3hz.html

Of course, there’s not just one cafe to do business - we home-based business operators have a few faithfuls at our fingertips.

I went to Nacional in Middle Park the day after reading Rachel’s piece. Equipped with my notepad to write my To Do list for the week – I sat two tables away from a young woman tapping away at her laptop, mobile phone pinned to her ear, engaged in conversations the bulk of the time I was there. I wondered what on earth she did to be constantly on the phone for a full hour. In between calls, she would casually pick up her piece of vegemite toast, take a bite, sip on her latte, then back to tap, tap on the laptop.

I smiled to myself and it prompted me to send a “you’re very much on trend” email to Rachel Wells. A week later I was back at Nacional and so was the young woman. It was a slice of déjà vue.

You can’t keep a good trend down.

Did Facebook form out of unrequited love?

I recently saw the film The Social Network and it’s been playing on me ever since.

According to the film version of events, CEO Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook on the back of a bad breakup.

I can relate to being spurred on to create or do something meaningful after such a heavy emotional hit. Finding that creative space helps lift me out of the doldrums and get me back on track to reassuming my identity as a solo rather than part of a couple. Even if it's to prove this to myself alone.

In The Social Network’s opening scene, we watch as the character Mark Zuckerberg and his girlfriend are talking in a bar. Tension builds in the conversation and finally Mark’s girlfriend has had enough. He clearly doesn’t want her to end the relationship but it’s too late, she wants out and Mark’s left with little choice. He’s been dumped.

And so the story begins and now....we have Facebook.

As the film closes, Mark is on his own, contemplative, and we watch him at his laptop search for a profile name on Facebook. He taps in his ex girlfriend’s name and up pops a picture of a beautiful, young woman. It’s her.

Mark is tentative to sending her a ‘friend request’ but after a moment of hesitation we watch him click ‘send’. Every few moments he refreshes the screen. Is she online? Has she accepted his friend request?

This moment makes my heart swell. It reveals two things that are very real.

1. Money can’t buy love; and
2. It can be excruciatingly hard to halt a yearning heart.

Even for Mark Zuckerberg – the world’s youngest billionaire who arguably by society’s standards has it all. This closing scene suggests to me that he’d happily let it all go to win back the girl money can’t buy.

An untimely death

I remember our time mainly because it hung off one of those significant events where people look back and recall where they were when...

I dated Mati (Mathew) around the time the Twin Towers collapsed. I was living in a single fronted terrace in a one way street in Prahran, one of Melbourne’s trendy inner suburbs. I shared the house with an English flatmate and my two dogs Maggie Charly and Walter.

My flatmate used to while away the evening hours tapping at his computer ‘chatting’ on gay sites. I remember this activity being a source of immense irritation for Mati – he hated the sound of tap, tap, tap so late into the evening and would urge me to say something otherwise he threatened to go home. I never said a word and I can’t remember whether Mati left? Almost 10 years have passed.

My good friend Renato told me Mati died last week. On Valentine’s Day. Mati’s father told Renato today the coroner believed the cause of death was heart attack. There was nothing in his system to suggest suicide (Renato and I automatically assumed this as Mati was only 38 years old).

I’d met Mati through Renato and we dated for a short time before he announced he didn’t want in anymore and ended it. I didn’t love him, but I had grown to like him. So while I wasn’t heartbroken, I was upset and remember crying over it. But that was that, a clean break.

About two months later Mati called me on my mobile. I was shopping in Coles and remember standing in the aisle while Mati asked me whether I wanted to pursue a “casual relationship”. No, I said, I didn’t.

As time marched on I saw Mati on and off through Renato. He befriended me on Facebook not so long ago. I remember being proud that I could be civil to an ‘ex’ and put any uneasiness behind us. Especially impressed by my behaviour when Mati was the one to dump me!

Mati was a reformed alcoholic – I hadn’t known him during his drinking days - and while it didn’t seem to bother him me drinking – in the end, it must have as I believe this was the catalyst for him ending the courtship. Mati was in AA and would openly talk about going to meetings. Instead of booze he lent on cigarettes but was to eventually give up smoking. He had conquered two powerful demons.

Only over brunch the day I learned of Mati’s passing my father had asked: “How’s that friend of Renato’s, the one in real estate, do you still hear of him?” “Yes, I answered, he’s fine. Still in real estate, asked me about speed dating on Facebook a few weeks ago.”

It’s funny how these things happen. You talk of someone you rarely mention and then...something like this happens. I called dad to tell him the news as soon as I’d heard it from Renato. It had been so weird I said to dad – we were only talking of him this morning!

Although Mati and I were not close, his untimely death serves as a reminder how fleeting life can be. It also shows me how much I lean on my friends. Renato had invited me to his friend Cameron’s for dinner on Sunday night. Their mutual friend Sami was also there. All of us had met Mati and in sharing our shock at the news, we were providing comfort to eachother. I left dinner feeling buoyed by their company.

The funeral is on Friday and I decided I would not attend. I was not a good friend. But Renato called me today and asked if I would go with him. So I’m going to go – and now more so in my friendship for Renato. I’m sure Mati would understand. Good friends band together.

Attached photo: L- R Mati and Renato (from days gone by).

The lure of the road

It would be fair to say people gravitate to what they know. And nothing really echoes this sentiment more than taking a moment of your childhood and reliving it – or recreating it.

My last boyfriend adored going to his childhood beach house. Still in the family, his parents were living there when we dated, and he and I would track down almost every weekend and stay overnight. We’d swap houses - his parents would stay at his home in Melbourne and we’d move into theirs.

Otherwise reserved, he came alive on return to his childhood playground. He would shed his armoury from the week's corporate battleground and reinvigorate in the tranquility of where he spent a carefree youth. He referred to the beach house as his ‘sanctuary’.

Everyone has a place they feel a strong affinity with and one that is personal to them (I understood his desire to be there and the relationship benefitted from it, but after a few months I began to miss my city weekends; brunching with friends, seeing a play, food shopping at my local market).

But to be fair, his sanctuary was exactly that. His. And mine? Well, I’ve come to realise more - my sanctuary is the road.

Growing up as a kid our family clocked up alot of miles. We lived in Alice Springs for a time and would travel back and forth to Ayers Rock (now Uluru) to show friends the iconic feature Oprah rearranged her itinerary for when Paul Simon counted it “unmissable”.

It took about four hours to reach destination and I remember the feel-good vibes experienced on the journey. Dad would let me play Melissa Etheridge and Toni Childs on the cassette player and he and my brother liked to listen to Dire Straits. We'd stop to eat mum's prepared sandwiches and snack on her home made boiled chocolate cake with chocolate icing and coconut sprinkles. The long open road, the sun beating down, the red desert surrounds.

Perhaps these memories are why my haven is as it is. Certainly they play their part.

Melbourne-based, I’ll regularly drive to Adelaide (my old home town) to visit family and I’ve driven up to Sydney twice to stay with friends this last year. Me and my old dog Walt - the road warriors.

There’s something very special about leaving a place behind and going the distance for another. No-one can get to you during this time, there’s no 'needing to be anywhere', you're only accountable to yourself (except of course the cops!) and there's a camaraderie with the truckies and other drivers. We’re all going someplace but our shared place is the long stretch of road. Where time seems to stand still.

The cheat's guide to living rich

There’s a saying in property, buy the worst house on the best street and you’ll boost your chances of maximising a profit when it comes to resale.

For a few years now I have lived that philosophy, not intentionally and not in property, but when it comes to my friendship circle. It has come to be that among the majority of my good mates, I’m the tired, old shack and they're the renovated mansions.

Of course not everyone I socialise with has oodles of cash, but there are those who do – and this is how I cheat living rich.

Interestingly, the friends who have the beautiful homes and even some with beach houses alongside it, are usually coupled up and (now) with children (reminder: me single, no kids and on a bit of a sea change from the corporate career, which naturally comes with an income dive).

Three sets of friends who live in homes with a resale value of $2million - $3million + also have their kids going to or enrolled in private schools. A private education can be up to $50,000 per annum.

Some buy designer fashion - I don’t need Vogue to see what’s hitting the catwalks. One of my besties is a partner in a law firm and has a penchant for designer clothing (shoes and handbags too – of course). She’ll drop off bundles of clothes for dry-cleaning every Saturday after our yoga class pulling them from the boot of her brand new BMW convertible.

I attended a very swank garden party in Sorrento (beach town next to Portsea which is repeatedly written up as the playground for the rich and famous) in the New Year and was about to put on a pair of Marc Jacobs' sandals (bought on sale from a designer outlet) when my generous friend offered to loan me her Chanel shoes. She had decided to give the Versace dress a miss, opting for slim jeans and tank, and no longer required these shoes to match.

The resulting garden party was an affair to remember. I saw one like it on TV where Kate Winslet and Mick Jagger were on the guest list!

There was the entrepreneurial doctor in Sydney who opened my eyes to what having means, means. He hopped on a plane like you and I would get in a car. A party in Adelaide? No worries, count me in. The AFL Grand Final in Melbourne? Of course – and I’ll book the Hyatt for the night. Derby Day – see you there, the Hyatt again or perhaps the Westin?

He had an uncle who lived in a $10million + property in Mosman with the most glorious views of Balmoral beach, and another family member who had a fabulously, modern apartment at the Docklands in Melbourne and another in Potts Point in Sydney. In the two years we dated, we were quite the jetsetters – across Australia and overseas too. He was ambitious, hardworking, clever and successful. And unabashedly wealthy.

So, I socialise among some richies. I spend time at their beautiful houses (there’s one couple who are building their dream home overlooking Sydney’s middle harbour (the vista from their infinity pool in attached photo), and we joke there will have to be a “Caroline’s quarters” in the laid plans as I visit and stay so often), admire my well-off buddies' luxurious belongings, drive their Mercedes, and marvel at the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House while being whizzed around in their private boat.

It’s all fun and games living the high life through the people I love. As time goes on and the years march past the wrong side of 35 - I think I ought to build a bit of that myself.

Fortunately looking into their world has helped abate any grudges I may otherwise have had about people who have money – the perception they’re the privileged few and all that. I'm grateful for that, as I relax in my shanti shack in one of the best neighbourhoods in Melbourne!

The Lady of Shallot

I bought a print of John William Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shallot 15 years ago and its subject has been my symbolic friend ever since. She helps me through the bleak times.

I never framed it so when things are going ok in my life, I’ll roll the print up and store it away. I almost can’t have the painting on permanent display – the power of its impact to restore my emotional health so great that I don’t want to diminish the healing powers by having her there all the time. I don't want to take her for granted. And thus, my lady only ventures out when I go hunting for her.

The creased and slightly torn print was propped up on my lounge-room floor for weeks early last year to help me through a relationship breakup. She has been instrumental in helping me heal in the past and was instrumental in helping me heal again.

I remember placing my fingertips on her face in a raw moment of grief and feeling a connection with this figure from another time.

In the painting, the Lady of Shallot is experiencing her own melancholy – this is evident from her facial expression and by her slumped shoulders, but she is surrounded by such beauty and she, so beautiful herself with her youth, flaming red hair and white gown, that I feel things will be ok for her.

All that is surrounding her in her boat with the tapestry throw and the reeds in a river set among the green of nature, says to me there is enough here to bring her back from the depths of despair.

When I look at The Lady of Shallot, I feel comfort that someone else too has been there - where I am - but more importantly, I am rallied by the sense that things will work out for this beautiful creature, and in that, for me as well.


Postscript.

I only learned today when I googled for an image of the painting to publish with this post, that John William Waterhouse painted The Lady of Shallot from Alfred Tennyson’s poem of the same name. And I learned that in Tennyson’s poem, she dies.

What can I say? Waterhouse has painted a woman who - albeit in a dark hour - radiates an inner strength that for me, without knowing the historical background to the painting (until now), always pinned trust in her redeemed fate – and thus, why also, the painting resonates so well in helping me through my own darkest hours.

This discovery makes me chuckle. A woman (ie me) sees The Lady of Shallot making it –whereas Tennyson (and thus Waterhouse) doesn't give her a chance.

Excerpt from Tennyson’s poem, 1832.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken’d wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen’d slowly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot:
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shallot.

And a description about the painting from Tate online (the painting hangs at the Tate Gallery, London):

This painting illustrates Alfred Tennyson’s poem The Lady of Shalott. Draped over the boat is the fabric the lady wove in a tower near Camelot. But she brought a curse on herself by looking directly at Sir Lancelot.With her right hand she lets go of the chain mooring the boat. Her mouth is slightly open, as she sings ‘her last song’. She stares at a crucifix lying in front of her. Beside it are three candles, often used to symbolise life. Two have blown out. This suggests her life will end soon, as she floats down the river.

Dumped by the medicine man

When I had my two month sojourn in Sydney last November, an old Melbourne friend (who has recently moved from Canberra to the Emerald City), gave me the business card of a Chinese medical practitioner who works in my neighbourhood. My friend said I should see him if I had any health concerns.

I'm always open to giving things a go, if only once, so I went along and wrote in the "you are here because..." category "overall general health".

If we burrow down, I have problems with acne (mostly cleared up now thanks to a wonderful dermatologist who prescribed the ghastly drug - Roaccutane - it's a shocker, but I say the dermatologist is wonderful because overall I now have clear skin).

I also sought to see the Chinese doctor about weight control...at best I'm in the healthy weight range, but I am an apple shape and carry an extra tyre around my middle. It would be nice if I could find a simpler way to reduce my stomach fat than running three days a week and minimising my eating bordering on the hungry (which obviously I no longer do otherwise I wouldn't carry the three spare tyres).

So I went along to Dr (insert Christian first name and Chinese surname) and while he spoke English, it had a heavy Chinese lilt so this proved an immediate stumbling block in communication. I liked the basic premise however of what he said "you need more balance, too much heat - we will aim to regulate your hormones/emotions."

After checking my tongue and pulse (diagnosis weak "your outer presents as very strong, but it is fake - it is being fuelled by a fake fire") he gave me an acupuncture session and had his receptionist prepare herbs that I was to take twice a day.

Unlike many, I discovered I'm not a fan of acupuncture - my body is not keen on those needles in my legs, hands, wrists and stomach. After one week of taking the herbs, I went back to the doctor where he performed a second round of acupuncture on me and gave me more herbs.

On this visit he advised the pulse was better and my face "more glowing". Perhaps a recent trip to my beautician to have my eyebrows waxed and tinted and lashes tinted, as well as to the hairdresser to cover my greys, was the real reason for this apparent glow?

On my third visit I declared I was no better off, in fact, worse, I had been experiencing headaches (I am not a headache person at all) and noticed no difference in my wellbeing after taking the herbs.

He looked at me blank and said politely "perhaps Chinese medicine is not for you. Your body does not respond to Chinese medicine. It is not your time for Chinese medicine."

I had mentioned to a friend the evening before after yoga that it was my intention to "fire" the Chinese medicine man because there was no difference and acupuncture made me feel queasy. The amusing outcome to be was that we both fired each other.

He said "I'm sorry I could not help you. I did my best". Out I walked from his small room into the reception area and looked to her to pay - the doctor waivered the fee (thankfully) - and off I went.

Three days post visit I feel fine - no more headaches and while not bundles of it, more energy!

Slightly peculiar, but perhaps it takes a little exploration outside the norm to see the path you're on is the best place to be.

Looking for love? Your time starts now.

I went speed dating last week. In the spirit of giving it my best, I spent a large part of the week running around meeting beauty appointments. Suffice to say I showed up on the evening beautifully groomed (if you’ll allow me that) equipped with a positive attitude.

Fortunately I had acquired a partner in crime to attend as a safety net to fall back on in the mingling stages of the evening before the speed dating part kicked off.

Across a year in my usual day to day activities I would manage to go on - at best - two dates. This is through allowing the process to happen naturally; meeting them through a friend, at a pub, through work, etc. But yes, two dates per year on average.

By speeding things along (literally), my average skyrocketed to roughly 10 eligible men after one night.

The following day, I received an email from the organisers informing me that more than 70 per cent of the men I had met ticked 'yes' to seeing me again. Accordingly I had been awarded “Elite Member” status offering up discounts for future events.

A wise man once said I should continue to participate in activities I enjoy where the idea is I will meet my type through being at a place where I want to be. Sure, there may be many, many men at the cricket but why go to a Test when my pursuit is to watch the blokes and not the cricket? I’m realistic, if I’m to date a cricket fan, the day I meet him on ground won’t be my last day match to endure. So I’ve stuck to activities that interest me and I’ve attended music concerts, plays, operas, the ballet, brunch at favourite cafes, worked out at the gym, running the lake, yoga and.... not much.

I do think there’s merit in meeting potential matches through friends, this indeed is my preferred, so committed to it that last year I threw a heap of my own cash to devise a ‘six degrees of separation’ party (aforementioned in this blog). It worked to an extent – the super hero came to the party and I had met him through a friend (super hero mentioned also earlier in this blog).

It’s so easy to hide from the world – and so hard to meet a man who a) is available and b) rocks my world (and more importantly, as I tend to find falling into unrequited lust scenarios more frequently than not) you theirs.

The speed dating is great; it gets me out there, talking and meeting the boys. But after all those ticks to say yes to someone I probably wouldn’t consider in a real world scenario; and walking home with face ache from forced smiling all evening, am I any closer to meeting the match for me? I have a hunch not.

The matches are emailing me now for dates.

Date all of them on the proviso that love grows and finding the one for me could be as they say, a numbers' game? Or do I follow the wise man’s words and continue to go about my usual way, in the good faith that one day, perhaps, I won’t have to rely on the girl holding the stop watch to send the next man forward. He’ll just be there.

When you lose your single buddies

OK - out and proud. I have a boisterous personality and can at times be a bit of a bully. Read: loud and demanding.

As such, I've noticed the older I get the harder it is to befriend new people my own age (yet the Gen Ys are much more open to bombastic women in their mid 30s).

Case in point; when I threw a party late last year designed especially for singles to mingle, a few fellow 30 something single women came on board my bandwagon.

However, like an itch desperate to be scratched, I kinda knew the relationship with these newfound bosom buddies would be shortlived. And it was.

Here's the thing. The friends I have and that have endured their friendships with me (for more than 10 years), know that under all the perceived external 'bluntness' there is a sensitive, caring and kind person beneath. They value my friendship and I know through the ups and downs, we're in it for the long haul.

However, new women in their mid 30s who enter my life aren't so loyal.

And thus stands my dilemma.

I am 36 and single, my best friends are around the same age, coupled up and most have children. Or they're gay (men). As you will see from previous posts - I've even taken to caring for these said children on occasion, as mummy practice and of course, so I can keep my friendships strong with my valued few.

But by spending more and more time with my mates who have husbands/partners and kids, I'm not doing so much to create their life for myself. And this plays on me.

Unfortunately, the single women out there in my age group don't 'get' me well enough to stick around (nor for me to want them to). Like I said, the Gen Ys are terrific, but again, my best friend in the Gen Y bracket (who's 27) is herself coupled up.

I guess also, if I were to go out on the town with her, the men we would attract would not be right for me. This girlfriend looks like Jessica Alba and in fact when she was on a path in her early 20s to pursue acting - her agent said "we already have your look - it's Jessica Alba". For Melbourne people, my friend is a dead ringer for Rebecca Twigley. And Rebecca Twigley just got married. My point: the Gen Ys are also coupled and married!

I've watched with interest how my celebrity (single) peers are behaving - Jen Aniston is my favourite to watch, and unfortunately she just keeps going for the younger guys because q frankly (I believe this is why) she has a hot bod and has kept herself looking smokin'. Why would she want a 45 - 50 year old when she can get a 30 year old? Problem is, the younger age bracket of men are unlikely to stick it out with her when they can get Taylor Swift (who 30 year old Jake Gyllenhaal bagged).

Then Kate Winslet rebounded with her younger personal trainer - hot, but I read she's split from him too. Cameron Diaz is just plain embarrassing - a serial monogamist who repeatedly gets them but doesn't keep them - surely Matt Dillon, Cam?

Now Cam's on with A-Rod, Madonna's sloppy seconds. Downward slope.

Sandra Bullock thought she'd met her match and we know what happened there, Reese Witherspoon will hopefully experience a happy ending after her recent engagement, but it took her some time to move on from her broken marriage and rebound relationship with Jake Gyllenhaal.

And then the dazzling Liz Hurley pashing on with serial womaniser Shane Warne and (Australian model) 35 year old Megan Gale just keeps getting them younger and younger (all power to her, but if she thinks for a second her 22 year old footballer will bring her what 29 year old Andy Lee couldn't, she's going down Kylie Minogue's path (ie gets them young and then younger - while she keeps getting older. Tick tock, tick tock).

It's a disappointing world we live in this difficult dating palaver and even more so when I spend my evenings at home (yes, resorted to internet dating this week) because I lack single, 30 something girlfriends to go on the town with - the old fashioned way to meet men!

It's all a bit, god forbid, can I say? Depressing.

They say, put yourself out there (remember Sex and the City and Charlotte?) so here I am online throwing it to the universe. If there are any single, attractive men (over 5'11 and above 33 years) willing to swoon me, feel free to make contact! wink, wink. If I'm not at home (online trawling through the maze of men seeking to date 20 something, slim women) I'll be at my married girlfriend's house as the 'plus 1' for their family dinner.