Learning About Me

Ejo #91 – Wave Your Arms In The Air, Like You Just Don’t Care!

When I was younger my family had a holiday house (a holiday shed, in reality) down the coast at Cape Schanck on the Mornington Peninsula. Between the ages of about 12 and 17, we spent every weekend at this property (which we called “the farm”), basically running around like wild, feral kids getting bruised, scraped, dirty and exhausted. It was awesome. Another great thing about the farm was that it had a private dirt track that led to a very deserted back-beach. That’s right bitches, private beach!! Did I forget to mention that I had an amazing childhood?

So every year we would spend most of the summer down at the farm, all piling into our decrepit, old Land Rover a couple of times a day to make the bumpy trek down to the beach where we’d spend hours fishing, swimming, crab-hunting, sand-duning, picnicking and lazing around. A rotating roster of relatives and family friends would join us, lending these summers a festive, carnival feel. I have so many vivid memories of these times. The time we found a huge echidna on the beach track, all rolled up into a ball – we tried to take him home with us, but he was having none of it. The time Uncle Paul was almost washed away to sea after a huge wave knocked him off some rocks. The time my Dad took a flying leap between two huge rocks, suspended in the air like Michael Jordan making a slam dunk.

Oh, and the time my friend Tina told me, as we lay on the beach perpetrating a tan (c’mon, it was the 80s), that I should probably start shaving my armpits and legs. I was 15 years old. I remember lifting up my arm in curiosity to examine the fluff growing there, wondering why on earth I’d have to shave it. I mean, I could barely even see it. I was bemused, and just laughed her off. It was only later, back at home, once I’d had time to think about it, that the shame set in. Shame that my body, in its natural state was apparently unacceptable. I was already a very self-conscious teenager but that was the first time someone had weighed in on my body hair. It wouldn’t be the last.

So I did what every young girl is supposed to do and started shaving. Right from the get-go I just hated shaving my legs. I hated the actual act of shaving, hated the bristly regrowth, hated how often I needed to do it for my legs to be acceptable (there’s that word again). So when I was seventeen I started getting my legs waxed. I haven’t put a razor to them since, and only need to get them done below the knee every 6-8 weeks to keep them respectable, sometimes going months between waxings. And even then the hair follicles have been so beleaguered and abused over the years that it’s all they can do to produce a few sparse, downy hairs.

My underarms are a different story. After that day at the beach, I spent the next thirty years of my life slavishly incorporating razor work into my shower routine, never letting my underarm hair get any longer than some slovenly stubble. And I never questioned why I was doing it. Not even once. In thirty years! Isn’t that crazy??? Everything else I do on auto-pilot has some kind of basis in hygiene. Shower, brush my teeth, wipe my ass, clip my nails. There’s a valid reason to do all of those things. But shaving the tuft of hair valiantly trying to grow in the space under my arms?? What was my reason for doing that??

Turns out that before around 1915 women didn’t care about their hairy armpits, because they were never on display. As soon as sleeveless dresses became a thing, so did underarm shaving. I wonder who decided that the hair underneath women’s arms was too “objectionable” to be shown in public. Oh yes. Objectionable. Check out this advertisement from a 1915 edition of Harper’s Bazaar:

Armpit Advertisement

And this British one from the early ‘30s.

Armpit Advertisement 1

 

It really gets my goat to think of the posse of gin-soaked ad-men at Dae Health Laboratories Ltd. sitting around a table in their double-breasted suits, smoking cigarettes and spit-balling ideas for how to get women to buy their product. Advertising’s greatest weapon is the consumer’s insecurity. Hair under women’s arms is no more disgusting than hair under men’s, but if women think it is, of course they’ll buy your depilatory cream. Of course they’ll buy your disposable razor. And they’ll keep buying it, over and over again until they die. It’s fucking brilliant marketing. And in the process, we’ve all been conditioned into thinking that armpit hair is gross. That it is objectionable.

armpit3

If it’s good enough for Sophia Loren, it’s good enough for me.  You go, girl!

My journey towards razor freedom started not as some kind of statement, but rather sheer laziness. Look, I’m nearly 46 years old. I’ve always been a low maintenance kind of girl anyway, stemming from my formative years as a tomboy, and from the fact that I am essentially a very slack human being. I don’t paint my nails. I don’t wear high heels. I don’t blow dry my hair, or even style it. And most of the time I don’t even wear any make-up. But after three decades of dutifully shaving my underarms, I started letting the regime slide a little. I just couldn’t be bothered. Instead of razoring every couple of days, I’d sometimes let two weeks go past without shaving (egads!!!!). Then, I’d notice the growth and do a quick shave. And the process would repeat. I wasn’t particularly fussed about the stubble, and David didn’t seem to care either (bless).

And then late last year, seemingly out of nowhere, I realised it had been a couple of months since I’d shaved and that I’d cultivated some cute little fuzz under my arms. I loved it. It felt a little rebellious to be sporting what Gwyneth Paltrow once dubbed, “a seventies vibe” under my arms. But I certainly wasn’t growing it deliberately, and I wasn’t trying to achieve some kind of edginess, or anything as interesting as that. It was simply the result of deep-seated sloth, and that is all. The day before our Australian holiday earlier this year I stood underneath the shower and argued with myself about whether or not I should shave it. And in the end, because I hadn’t been growing it for any particular reason, I succumbed and scraped the razor over my skin leaving me smooth and hairless once again.

But I do remember being a little bit sad about it.

Once the holiday was over, I stopped shaving again and allowed nature to do her thing. Once more the primary motive was laziness, but this time there was also a definite pinch of disobedience involved. To shave or not to shave had somehow become a big deal, not because the act of shaving itself was a big deal, but because the choice had been taken out of the equation. For the first time, I questioned why I was doing this odd thing. Was it for hygiene (would I smell bad if I grew the hair out)? Was it cosmetic (was hair under my arms actually ugly, or was I just brain-washed into thinking it was)? Would people judge me and consider me less attractive or less feminine? Maybe they would. But if so, whose problem was that? I decided it was no longer going to be mine.

armpit1

I defy anyone who says that Lola Kirke is less attractive because of her underarm hair.

In May we had a couple of friends from work over for dinner. Once more I found myself in the shower, in a terse stand-off with the razor, debating if I should shave under my arms or not. Would not shaving be some silly, pointless act of defiance? Against what? Would shaving be an act of surrender? And if so, surrender to what? To whom? And seriously, why was this such a big deal????

That’s when I decided to just leave it. Fuck it. I didn’t care. And for once I didn’t care if other people had a problem with it either. Here’s the thing with me. In some ways I’m still that self-conscious teenager, always worrying about what people think of me. And in other ways, I’m fiercely individualistic and don’t give a flying fuck what other people think of me (complex, much?). Essentially, I’m a good girl. But I have a streak of bad girl in me too. Just a tiny little streak, but it’s there and it’s real. It’s why the hair on my head has been every colour of the rainbow. It’s why I’ve had multiple body piercings, including in my tongue. It’s why the pizza boy once copped a beautiful eyeful when I was dared by friends to answer the door naked. These little rebellions don’t amount to much, but it’s part of who I am to kick back against the establishment, just a wee bit.

Unfortunately, because of where I live, I’ve had to tame that part of myself. When giving my husband a peck on the lips in public is something that could land me in jail, I just can’t afford to act out. But this small thing, allowing my “gross” underarm hair to grow out, is one thing that I can do to assert my individuality after years of it being suffocated. And even though not shaving my underarms has (somehow) become the difficult choice, I’m not actually trying to make any kind of statement. I’m simply exercising my right to choose what to do with my body, in a way that has absolutely no impact on anybody else. I might wake up tomorrow morning and decide to shave it all off again. I might decide to dye it fluorescent yellow. I might decide to throw some glitter on it and call it Betty. But whatever I do, it’s my choice and for the first time in a long time I’m proud of myself for not conforming, for doing what I want to do, regardless of what other people might think. And you can bet I’ll be waving my arms in the air about it.

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Even though I haven’t shaved for about five months the hair under my arms is even sparser than this – I do wonder if it was thicker if I’d still have the gumption to grow it.  Food for thought, eh?

 

Check out this amazing photo series by Ben Hopper which I discovered while writing this ejo. I like to think that the point isn’t that you can be beautiful despite having underarm hair, but that it just doesn’t matter one way or the other.

Ejo #89 – Airbnb & Me

David and I stayed in our first ever Airbnb apartment in San Francisco in May 2011. Since then we have stayed in 59 houses, apartments, cottages, studios, pool-houses, a houseboat, a palazzo and even a converted hospital.

Pool-house

The pool-house we stayed at in Adelaide on our most recent trip to Australia.  We had free run of the pool which was nice coz it was HOT!!!!

Palazzo

A palazzo.  In Barcelona!!!!!

It’s no exaggeration to say that we love Airbnb. But I’m not here to sell it to you – I know it’s not for everyone. One of my closest friends loves staying in five-star hotels and there’s no way I can convince her that staying in someone else’s pad could be better than 24 hour room service, someone making your bed every day and fresh towels on demand. So, this ejo is for people who may have heard a little about Airbnb and are interested in trying it but would like to know more before they commit.

Our experiences have, for the most part, been excellent*. One or two have been mediocre. And one was absolutely awful, but more on that later. Each and every one of the dozens of Airbnb dwellings we’ve stayed in has been a learning experience, and over the years I’ve got better and better at picking the right place. And I’d love to impart some of that knowledge onto you.

This isn’t a tutorial. I’m not here to tell anyone how to suck eggs. The website is very easy to navigate. You put in your desired city, your dates and your budget and voilà, you get to delve into the lives of people willing to open their homes to you, allowing you sleep in their bed, eat the food from their fridge and shit in their toilet. Oh, it’s intimate, folks. Before you gasp in horror and refuse to read any further, you should note that these days most places get professionally cleaned, before and after your stay. Of course you pay for the convenience but it is nice to know that the toilet has at least been scrubbed before you sit down on it for the first time.

And that leads me to my number #1 rule when making a selection. Cleanliness. If a listing has even ONE review saying anything negative about cleanliness, I nix it, right then and there. Even if it looks like my dream rental. I used to be a little more relaxed about this, giving hosts the benefit of the doubt if I read an iffy review, but then I got burned. So it’s become a very firm rule. Unfortunately, the only way to know if someone’s had anything bad to say about a listing is to read the reviews. All of them.

Unlike on TripAdvisor, the Airbnb host also gets to appraise you as a guest in return. And they can also comment on your review. Because of this, reviews on the website tend to be a little on the, shall we say, diplomatic side. Which is exactly why you need to pay attention to any negative ones. Someone is trying to tell you something, and sometimes that hint can be subtle, so it behooves you to read the reviews carefully.

OK, so not everyone has the time to read pages of reviews. If you find yourself stuck for time you can still get an idea of what previous guests thought of the state of cleanliness of a listing just by looking at the star ratings (though of course, it’s not as accurate). If either the cleanliness rating or the overall rating are lower than four, I move on. So should you.

Ejo 1

I don’t think we’ve ever stayed anywhere with less than a 4.5 overall rating. 

 

Something else I look for in a listing is the response rate and time of the host. I like to see a 100% response rate and “within a few hours” response time. I will persist if these are just a little bit off the mark, but I don’t even bother with hosts that respond only 34% of the time or “within a week”. I don’t have the time, or the inclination, to sit around waiting for some faffer to get back to me – or leave me hanging in the wind.

I also look for these auto-posts in the review section. So ominous.

Ejo 2

This has never happened to us before – because we stay away from hosts that cancel a lot. 

 

Even more ominous:

Ejo 3

Shudder.  I just can’t even with this.

 

Can you imagine booking a very special place to stay for your honeymoon, and then finding out when you arrive at the airport that you’re homeless??!! Of course sometimes there’s a very good reason for a reservation to be cancelled, and hosts are now able to leave a comment explaining why they did so. So one or two cancellations are fine, but if you see too many in a single listing, think twice before booking.

Let’s move onto photos. There are a lot of things to look for in the photos. Firstly don’t be fooled by the Airbnb photographer’s wide-angle lens and over exposure. They can make a couch that is this wide:

Ejo 4

 

look this wide:

Ejo 5

Same room!!!!  Look how wide the couch (and the map of Australia) looks in comparison to above.  Very deceptive. 

 

So, it can be a little misleading. I like to look at all the pictures, and then try to reconstruct the layout of the apartment in my mind, before looking at them again. You can usually get a better sense of scale that way. I tend to be drawn to the places that have had verified photos taken by Airbnb’s photographer. It shows the host’s professionalism and commitment to providing great accommodation. And I can usually tell from the cover photo if a listing is worth clicking on to inspect further. If I see a picture like this:

Ejo 6

C’mon, why is that cabinet door open??

 

or this:

Ejo 7

Where am I going to put my shit???

 

or this:

Ejo 8

I hate when a host leaves ALL their toiletries in the bathroom.  And WHY is the toilet seat up?  

I steer clear. It shows a lack of engagement, and if the host can’t even go to the trouble of tidying up and taking a nice photo of their place, it doesn’t bode well. Some better examples (of places we’ve actually stayed):

Ejo 6a

What a beautiful living room.  An apartment in Madrid. 

Ejo 7a

Look at all that space – and none of the host’s personal belongings.  An apartment in Amsterdam. 

Ejo 8a

No clutter.  Room for me to spread out.  A bathroom in London. 

Also, I like to see at least one photo of each of the main rooms. The living/dining area, the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom. If any of these are missing it raises alarm bells and I move on. No point lingering – there are SO many other options out there. For instance, I have NO idea what this place really looks like. It might be super nice, but I’m never going to find out.

Finally, be wary of close-up images. These tend to mask a problem with the bigger picture – otherwise there’d be a photo of the bigger picture, right? I learned this on a trip to Copenhagen when failed to properly inspect this photo:

Ejo 9

 

Unfortunately the only way to get to the shower was to climb over the toilet (ew!). And you can’t really tell that from the photo. Rookie mistake. Don’t make it.

So, it’s time to hear about our one crappy Airbnb experience? OK, so here’s how it went down. Airbnb #21. Hackney, London. April, 2014. We checked into the place and I immediately felt that it hadn’t been cleaned for a while. I honestly don’t mind if there’s a little dust here and there. It happens. But we had paid £40 for cleaning, and that gives you some expectations. The couches were absolutely covered in dog hair and when I tried to brush it off with my hand, plumes of dust rose up. Now, I am not a fussy person, but there was no way I was sitting on those couches. So, I set about cleaning the place. I intended to do a quick sweep and dust, thinking that would be sufficient.

Unfortunately I couldn’t find a broom and dustpan so we had to walk to the local store to buy one. Yep. Also, it turned out that the problem was more extensive than I first thought and it took me over two hours to clean it to a level where I felt comfortable to sit down on the couch and walk around barefoot. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, when we opened the fridge there was a plastic container full of mouldy mushrooms that made the whole place stink.

Ejo 10

Here’s the dirt I collected in just this small area.  The whole house was as filthy.

I kicked myself as I swept and dusted because I remembered stupidly ignoring the warnings of a couple of reviewers, one of which had mentioned that the place “needed a bit of a hoover”. The other one was from a woman who had said that there was dog hair throughout the house. But the real clue that I glossed over when I made the reservation was the host’s response to that woman. He attacked her personally, calling her “bizarre” and claiming that she was being unpleasant towards him because he’s gay. He insisted that other hosts not “deal with this person”.

Unfortunately for me, after our trip was over, he did almost the exact same thing to me. I left him a pretty nice review, considering the state the house was in. And in “private” feedback to him I made the comment “I’m not OCD, but I like a clean house.”

Here’s the review he left for me.

Chryss, in your extensive private feedback you sent me you mentioned OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Perhaps this is something you should explore with a professional. Sadly, I cannot say you would be welcome in my home again, at least not until you’ve addressed your OCD.

This really, really hurt me. I had 20 amazing Airbnb reviews under my belt and it just stung to know that there would be an incorrect, but public, record of me being a shitty guest. Potential hosts might see it and decide it’d be too risky to let me to stay in their homes. My reputation in the Airbnb community was tarnished and I was pretty devastated about that. I remember posting a woeful status about it on Facebook and being inspired by some of the comments to actually write to Airbnb and ask them to delete the nasty review. I knew they had a policy of not doing this, but figured it would be worth trying because the comments made could actually be deemed libellous. This was the response I got from them:

Airbnb

 

Amazing. It made me love Airbnb even more than I already did. And we went on to have another 38 wonderful experiences. I know we’ll have many, many more and I hope that you do too.

* One was particularly excellent. We loved our 41st apartment, an Amsterdam pad, so much that we asked the owner if she was interested in selling it. The answer, sadly, was no.

Ejo #88 – My Diary: Who’s The Boss?

Day #1
I’m not drinking for 25 days.

Huh?  Well, the Department of Health in the UK has recently decreased the recommended daily intake of alcohol, and as air traffic controllers we are subject to these guidelines. I recently had my annual medical examination for work, and it turns out that I should probably reduce the amount I drink. What better way to do that than to go cold turkey? So far today I’ve only felt an eensy weensy yen for wine. Nothing major. More out of habit than anything else, I think.

Day #2
Today I woke up feeling sluggish, stiff and swollen. Exactly like a hangover. What the hell? After getting out of bed though, I felt a lot better and I’m hoping it was just a vestige of the last few days of drinking. I’m actually committed to doing this, which is a new thing for me. I usually say to myself, “OK, I’m not going to drink today”, and then halfway through the day I’m gagging for a gin and tonic. What feels different this time is my attitude. I’ve decided. Like a switch has flicked in my mind, and it ain’t no thang. Of course it’s only the third day, so let’s talk on Day 18 and see how I feel.

Day #3
I’m wondering when the morning clarity and freshness is going to come, because today I woke up bloated and groggy again. What gives?? Is this detoxing? Is my body getting rid of all the shit from processing alcohol in my liver? Let’s go with that. Hopefully I’ll be bounding out of bed in no time.

Day #4
Today I had a pang, just a tiny little pang, for wine. Out of nowhere. It disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, but it definitely stood out, as it’s the first time a craving has shown its face since going on this crazy journey (oh yeah, I’m living on the edge with my 25 day booze challenge!!!).

I feel good. I feel clear. I actually think that sometimes I drink to make myself more interesting (if only to myself) but it’s nice to see that I’m pretty much the same and don’t need alcohol to feel good. I still write silly emails, laugh like an idiot at funny videos on YouTube and jump up to dance when a good song comes on. I’m still enjoying life, sober. And that is pretty great.

Day #5
The end of day five and just as I suspected, being sober on a day off work was hard. There were several times throughout the day when I could have killed a glass of crisp rosé. And I know that David felt the same way. Extra kudos to him because he never actually signed up for this and he’s coming along for the ride anyway. Maybe to be supportive, maybe because he knows it’s probably good for him too. Either way, I appreciate the hell out of it.

Day #6
Well, this is really sucking right now. There are so many reasons I drink – to relieve boredom, to reward myself, to inspire creativity, to relax. And suddenly my outlet for all that jazz is gone and I have to find something else to fill all those little holes. So far I’m having trouble finding a suitable substitute.

I can’t be bothered cooking dinner.

Day #7
So, last night we ordered Indian for dinner, but what I realised is that ordering takeaway (especially when I’m supposedly trying to be healthy) is a substitute for drinking.

Mind. Blown!!

I’m just finding it a little boring not drinking right now. But, I need to get over that and recalibrate my boredom meter. That’s what this whole challenge is about.  It’s been a whole week, and I’ve noticed rather amazing changes. I’ve always had oily skin, but lately it’s been some serious Deepwater Horizon shit. Seven days later, this has improved noticeably. I’m also sleeping a bazillion times better. And not waking up in the night as often. Getting up in the morning is still harder than I’d hoped it would be but the quality of sleep I’m getting is markedly better. Which is pretty awesome.

These things keep me motivated.

Day #8
It’s getting easier. New habits are forming – old habits are breaking. I’ve read that a habit takes 21 days to catch. To become automatic and natural. I’m already feeling something changing in my brain. I’ve never been physically dependent on alcohol – and if I was I would give it up completely. But I definitely have an emotional attachment to it. And it is this attachment that I feel softening, cracking, melting away. Huzzah.

Day #9
Uh, so why am I putting on weight? I mean, come on. Normally, if I skip the booze for a couple of days I see a drastic reduction on the scales. But no, in the last nine days I’ve actually gained weight. Sure it’s only 200g but… what the fuck? I don’t get it. I was really hoping to see some weight loss. Having said that, my clothes are definitely fitting a little bit better, so I guess something is going on. I just have to persevere.

Day #10
Today I was nostalgic. For some reason pear juice popped into my head, and I remembered this amazing organic pear juice we once bought in Amsterdam. We brought it back to Dubai, and made incredible cocktails with it. Good times. These thoughts differ from the ones I had a week ago, when I was craving booze. Today, it crossed my mind, pleasantly, and then faded away with no real urge to follow up on it. Progress.

Day #11
Today I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. It’s frustrating because I’d always imagined that a long stretch without alcohol would be some kind of panacea for my health.  So why aren’t I waking up feeling good?

I am definitely noticing improvements though.  My days are just better. I feel sharper, and more engaged. Which is a really nice feeling. I’m starting to have little mini-fantasies of continuing with this booze challenge once the 25 days are up. Today I even (just for a second) had a fleeting thought: maybe I’ll never drink again!!!!! It was summarily dismissed, but it actually felt like a plausible option. This would not have been the case 12 days ago.

Day #12
Another day down. It’s getting easier and easier. I feel like the habit’s back has been broken. Tonight, at 10.30pm I kind of wanted a nightcap to unwind after a long day at work. But this was less a physical urge than a mental one. The physical urges have essentially disappeared, but I guess the mental ones might take a bit longer to tame. We have another 13 days.

Day #13
Being teetotal is a completely different mindset. It kind of simplifies life, and makes a lot of things easier.

Day #14
We are nearly halfway through. How do I feel? Fucking great. When we first started not drinking I thought I would miss it every single day, all day long. But that’s not the case. I honestly thought my life would be taupe without booze, but it’s just as colourful, if not more so.

Day #15
I’ve been toying with the idea of giving up alcohol for a while. I don’t think I have a drinking problem, but I do like the idea of being completely in control. And then, out of the blue, a friend declared on Facebook that she was giving up booze for a whole year (shout out to Nancy). Twenty five days seemed easy in comparison. It was perfect timing.

Day #16
As part of our job, David and I are subject to random drug and alcohol testing. So this isn’t just a health-kick for us, it’s something we need to do in order to ensure we keep our jobs. This is serious stuff.

Day #17
I thought that giving up alcohol would make my days drag, stretching out empty and bland. But in fact, they are filling up because I am being more productive. I am ticking things off my ancient to-do list like a demon. There just isn’t enough time in the day to do everything that I want to do. Shit is getting done!

Day #18
I am so frustrated that I have been alcohol free for 18 days (COUNT THEM) and I have not lost a single ounce of weight. I mean come on!!! I am not eating any differently, in fact I’m eating better. I am active. I’m getting plenty of rest and drinking lots of water. I’m really bloody pissed off about this.

Day #19
Not drinking is the norm now. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to fight the urge anymore, because the urge is gone.

Day #20
Here’s my dilemma. I actually really enjoy drinking. I like inventing cocktails. I appreciate a fine wine. When it’s hot, I like nothing better than a cold beer to cool me down. And I actually trained myself to like whiskey (how’s that for dedication). I don’t like all booze – you couldn’t pay me to drink Jägermeister or Sambuca (blech). But for the most part, hell yeah, I like it.

What I don’t like is being really drunk. I don’t drink to excess, because I’ve been there and it’s shit. I know where my line is and I tend not to cross it. I love being in that glorious tipsy zone, and I manage my alcohol intake to ensure I stay there.

Day #21
Three weeks. The challenge is nearly over. So far I can’t say that there has been some kind of profound lesson learned or epiphany experienced. The challenge has done exactly what I’d hoped it would do, which was to break the spell that alcohol had on me and to prove that I could do it. To show alcohol who was boss.

It’s me.  I’m the boss.

Day #22
I feel so good about blitzing this challenge that I’d like to focus my newfound discipline towards other areas of my life, like diet and exercise. A lifestyle change might be in order.

Day #23
Today I had a bit of a sad spell in the afternoon, and in the past I might have been inclined to have a little glass of something – a drowning of the sorrows, if you will. I only realised afterwards, that the thought never even crossed my mind.

Two more days.

Day #24
It’s lovely, and somewhat surprising, how easy it has been to adjust to life without booze. We are fast approaching the end of this challenge and I haven’t really started to process how I feel about that.

On the one hand, I feel like I could continue not drinking. That, perhaps, I should continue not drinking. On the other hand, I’m really looking forward to a drink. On the third hand I’m a bit scared of drinking again. And on yet another hand I almost feel as though having a glass of wine will mean the undoing of all the hard work I put in to get to this point. And it will have all been for nothing. So many hands. Only one more day to figure it all out.

Day #25
Well, that’s it. The end of my no-booze challenge and I’m about to go to bed, having not allowed a single drop of alcohol to cross my lips. I have actually really enjoyed not drinking – the physical improvements to my life and also the mental improvements. It really does feel like my body and mind have had a nice little vacation in the last three and a half weeks.

It’s almost a shame to subject them to alcohol again, isn’t it?