Eat, Pray, Love, and Go

The irony is, I don't like the book 'Eat, Pray, Love'. The movie was a massive success, but as a former English student I have the bad habit of reading a book before watching a movie and then deciding whether I watch the movie based on my opinion of the book. I found 'Eat, Pray, Love' the book to be devoid of any substantial plot, too slow to keep interest, and thought it was more a one woman 'look at meeeee' party. Therefore I avoided the movie like the plague. Until, that is, I recorded it on the sky box, and decided  to give it a chance over a coffee breakfast the other morning. I have watched it three times this week.

You see, there comes a point when you arrive home after travelling that you feel like you are content to sit in your own country for a while and live a normal life and hold down a normal job. Some people become content with doing that and find they do it for the rest of their lives with 2 . 5 kids and a dog named Tom. 2.5 kids and a dog named Tom don't fit well into Ryanair cabin baggage allowance, so travelling becomes a yearly or so trip to a beach with a built in Irish bar. That's fine for the person that wants that, but it dawned on me as I watched Julia eat her spaghetti that I was 22 and didn't have 2 . 5 kids and a dog named Tom, and I wanted to eat spaghetti and see Rome. Suddenly, without much warning, the travelling bug was back full force! I tried to calm it down by saying 'no, you are saving money! You are living a normal life! You are not heading off again! You need to stay where you are!'

I consulted a usually understanding friend; former Thai teacher now KFC chip shaker James, who also expressed the feeling of an ever growing travel bug. Suddenly, it was 1am and we had the prices of flights, accommodation, trains, and could already taste the pizza. As James said at one point, 'Why not?'

So, its done. I am taking my week's holiday from work, and on the 16th of October I am getting a Ryanair flight to Venice (dirt cheap so it was. It was half the price of the return train from Kildare to Killarney. Dangerous prices!). I stay in Venice for two or three nights, then take a train to Florence and stay there for a night, then off to beautiful Roma, where I finally get to stand in front of that Colosseum. After three or four nights of my dream destination, I fly home.

After booking the flights yesterday morning and jumping around my kitchen like a Duracell bunny, much to the dismay of my dog, I realised that when Rome is gone off my bucket list, I have only one dream city left; New York. I thought 'only one dream city left. Aim of the day, find a new dream city!'. 'Cause that's the whole point right? Complete monotonous normality doesn't suit humans. Human life always needs a dream to work towards, no matter what that dream is. Thing is, you have to take the chance of living the dream when it comes around, otherwise, whats the point in dreaming?

To Italy we go!

Slán.

1,2, Cha Cha Hop .... 3,4 Cha Cha Drop

Peer pressure is an awful thing. It happens in numerous situations in adult life. You think it ends in the playground with 'I dare you to kiss Johnny and get cooties', which you go ahead and do and remain scared shitless of the killer cooties for days to come. But it follows you into adult life with more painful consequences. It's the 'another drink?', or 'want to share desert?', or 'ah the plane doesn't go that high, just jump'. I had this high and mighty idea of myself that I had gone beyond all that rubbish. Oh silly silly Amy.

I said in a previous blog, the one before I found myself screaming like a raving lunatic at my broken down car, that I was turning my life around one local activity at a time. So I tottered off to my local GAA hall to partake in a Zumba class. As a kid I filled most of my spare time prancing around dance studios and local halls, and I have done every form of dance I could get into. I was told that Zumba was the perfect way to keep fit and meet new people. Dance and a natter; I figured it sounded pretty perfect. I went in expecting to find it really easy as I am soooo fit with my size 8 jeans, and it would all be nothing more than some sexy shaking of the hips to latin music and a nice little step around. Boy was I wrong!

When I arrived in I was asked to fill out a form and on the form I was asked 'What is your reason for joining Zumba?', I said to meet new friends, and the guy on the desk looked at me up and down, laughed, and said jokingly 'well it isnt to lose weight'. I thought this a little strange, but as I am a pretty small person, I took no notice. I went into the class, and after 5 minutes I understood why he said that. The word 'calm' does not belong here, nor the word 'sexy', or 'step'. The words I would use are 'intense', 'sweaty', 'hot', and 'challenging'. After 5 minutes of dancing I was a puffing, knackered mess. I was slowly coming to learn that size 8 jeams mean nothing, and I was in fact incredibly unfit. In the few seconds of recovery I had between songs, one of the girls stopped beside me, and I looked at her and said 'tough isnt it?'. She said 'ah ye it is I suppose, but it should be easy enough for a skinny thing like you'. 

There is was. The peer pressure you think when you leave school that you leave behind. I looked around and realised that all of these women, most of whom were older than me and, honestly, bigger than me, were running rings around me. I realised that I had to put my all into this if I was going to come out even close to their stamina. Some of these women were on their second hour of Zumba, and I was struggling with the first 15 minutes. These women are fit, much fitter than me, and as small as I am, the only exercise I had been getting for the past three years was the running totter in heels across the road on a Saturday night. Well by God I threw myself around that hall. I whooped whooped with everyone while jumping and spinning and speed cha cha chaing, and I came out looking far from the sexy I was expecting. The next day, as much as I didnt admit it then, I was in massive amounts of pain. I hadn't felt pain like that since I thought I could handle 45 minutes running on a tread mill with a hangover 2 years ago in college (it was my first time inside a gym. Not a good idea)

Yet, despite the initial shock to the system and the pain every time I climbed a flight of stairs for the rest of the week, I went back. I felt amazing after the second week, and even better this week. The girls there are friendly and we all push through together. I am feeling it getting easier every week as my fitness gets better, and I talk to more new people every week. I guess this time around a bit of peer pressure was what I needed to get the heart going. 

Slán.

If It's Too Good To Be True, Then Logically ......

You know the saying 'if it's too good to be true, it usually is'. Why don't we humans take note of such sayings? We would save ourselves a lot of hassle.

I had my beautiful little Micra stolen from me about two months ago. A nightmare. But out of that nightmare came what I thought was a little ray of pretty blue sunshine in the form of a lovely 2003 Fiat Punto for an incredibly good price. It had recently passed its NCT, had tax, and seemed, as I said above, too good to be true for the price. I am a sucker for a bargain, to my own detriment. I had a few problems with the power steering pump a few weeks after buying it, which I had replaced and 'fixed'. Problem solved, right? Wrong!

Last night I donned the loose clothing and headed off excitedly to my first yoga class. It was a little drive away as it is in the town that I work in rather than live in for convenience sake, due to me being there more than I am home. I stopped off at a post office in a little town along the way, and hopped back into the car full of thoughts of the impending action of standing on my head and my attempts at describing that in this blog, when 'too good to be true' decided to hit me really hard. I put the car into reverse, locked hard on the wheel to turn out, and 'PHEW', something in the wheel blew. Suddenly the wheel went so heavy I could hardly move it an inch, the red wheel light on the dash came on, and any chance of me getting out of the spot let alone to yoga class went out the window.

The high capped boy racers in their zooped up bangers next to me must have thought I was insane as they watched me hit the wheel numerous times with quite substantial force while screaming 'FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK' at the top of my lungs. I then turned to them when I noticed them staring at me and shouted 'WHAT???'. They knew to back off. This was a woman highly scorned.

Numerous calls to the mechanic and a neighbour from heaven later I now find myself at home, 6 miles from the nearest shop, with (most disastrously and to the shock of my boss) no way of getting to work until the 'Rents come home from their elongated siesta in the Puerto Rican sunshine on Friday, unless the mechanic can save the day. But not to fear on the company side! I have two dogs, two cats, 8 hens, 6 chicks and a rooster named Roy to chat to (great listeners the lot of them. Terrible advice givers).

For now, I sit, drink coffee, and hope the mechanic won't have to endure the wrath of a woman scorned. At least a lesson was learned; If it's too good to be true, then it isn't true, its a big fat ball of stress disguised as truth .... Duh. Silly Amy.

Slán.

Life Realignment; Digging Yourself Out Of The Rut.

Its easy to get into a rut. One minute you are living your life, thinking that things literally could not get better, and with one fine swoop and a few drastic decisions, you find yourself relating to Meryl Streep. As strange as that sounds, its very true and will be explained. I have been finding it hard to write about my life and its twists and turns these last few weeks as I simply kept saying 'I have nothing interesting to write about'. Truthfully, I had interesting stuff to write about, I just didn't want to write it as it involved facing a few home truths.

When making the decision to attempt the life of an Irish emigrant, you think of things like food, and fitting in abroad, and missing home. Then you find that it all doesn't go exactly to plan and home isn't where the heart is, its where family is, and you suddenly find yourself looking at 'Failte Abhaile'. Coming home to a country is one thing. Coming home to your old life is another. I know I have previously written about getting back to western life after coming home and facing the rat race and cheese sandwiches, and I really did think that would be the hardest part about coming home. I was wrong. I never really talked, or thought, about how you get your actual life back. You know, that one where you went out with your mates every weekend and went for lunch on weekdays and spent days off in the city. You think when you leave that if you ever decide to come back it will all just be there waiting for you. Coming home to Ireland in it's current situation, the truth is very different.

I was watching 'Its Complicated' earlier tonight, having a few glasses of wine and relaxing on the couch, when I came to a shocking realisation. One of her friends, during a dinner scene, told Streep's character 'If you want your situation fixed (of a sexual nature, or more lack thereof) you need to date someone. Anyone'. Now, although slightly different, I realised I had become Meryl Streep. I was, am, in a rut. I came home after 8 months away to find that my sister had her own life in Dublin's fine capital, my parents were working and living their lives which for 8 months had not included me, and of some my friends had either moved on to jobs or further education in Dublin City, while the majority had simply emigrated in my time jaunting around South East Asia. I now live in an extremely rural town where I know nobody after three years in University and one year abroad, and I spend my days working and my nights sitting on my couch.

Depressing right? Yes. Fixable? Yes. I realised, like Meryl Streep in the cheesy rom com, if I wanted my situation to change, I had to change it myself. Nobody is going to arrive on my doorstep from the US or Oz, or come from Dublin and forget their new friends and life up there, and I couldn't ever expect them to. I need to find a new life. That's the realisation when you come home from a long term absence to your old haunt; you can't get your life back, so you have two choices

1. Sit and wallow in a pool of rosé wine and 'The Late Late Show' feeling pathetically sorry for your 22 year old single self like something out of 'Bridget Jones's Diary'.
or
2. You can get up, wear something else other than your pjs on your day off, actually open the make up bag and do something with your 22 year old single sorry self and throw 'Bridget Jones's Diary' out the window (metaphorically of course. Its not really that bad a movie)

So, I have enrolled myself in a few classes. I have done my research and realised that where I am living may have an opportunity or two for life realignment. I have enrolled myself in a Zumba dance class to get the endorphins going with a bit of cha cha cha and jumping up and down like something possessed, and I have found a yoga class near work to wind down in the evenings. I am also signing up for a fun make-up class next week along with possibly a bit of volunteer work in the locality with some teenagers.

It can be easy to get in a rut. A rut is comfortable. A rut doesn't care if you wear make up, or gain 6 pounds in a week, or check your facebook every 3 minutes out of sheer 'dunno what else to do'. But its lonely. There, I said it. That's what I have been avoiding admitting and writing about. Coming home from an exciting Thai life to live with your parents is against your life expectations and its bloody boring. But, like I have always said, this blog is the truth about life. Its admitting the hard bits because to leave them out isn't reality. So I am donning my tough attitude that so many people know me for and saying to myself

'Ye, you have a problem. So what? Get over yourself and fix it. Then, no more problem.'

Hmmmm. Well, we will see how good that attitude works after 20 counts of 'Tree Pose'.

Slán.