Last week I received a gift box of goodies. It was one
of those subscription boxes where you receive a collection of beauty products
each month as a surprise. It’s an awesome gift and I love getting my monthly
surprise. This one was a particularly good one, I got eyelash primer, face
toner, blusher, a peach lip pencil and some cleanser – all of them completely
new to me. I squealed in delight as I opened the lid, which prompted a few
colleagues to come rushing over to ogle my booty (of the treasure variety,
obviously).
My monthly beauty boxes have become something of interest in the office. As the foreigner in the team, mostly everything I do for the first time becomes a thing of interest in the office. Often a group of ladies will pop round to my desk and watch me unpack my gifts. So there was nothing unusual about this time. I pulled out item by item and explained the magnificence of every product. I got to the cleanser. I opened the lid, gave it a good sniff and proclaimed loudly that I couldn’t wait to use it (on my face). I got a few weird looks and the group soon dispersed back to normal life.
This Saturday while I was looking through each item reading the fine print, I noticed some detail on the cleanser that I’d missed. Firstly, it’s dermatologically approved (very good) and secondly that it is gynaecologically tested (wha-a-a-t?) Yep… it wasn’t face wash. It turned out to be a fairly common ‘intimate’ cleanser available from every store in the first world. It’s designed to help prevent ingrown hairs and the discomfort from shaving certain feminine parts. Perhaps not so appropriate to rub under my colleagues noses while proclaiming how good it’s going to feel on my skin. I. Could. Actually. Die.
Last month marked two years since I jumped on an aeroplane thinking I was temporarily heading off on an adventure. In some ways it feels like twenty years ago. In others, it’s like I just climbed off the boat and am adjusting to wobbly land legs. I’m still figuring out what some road signs mean (slightly scary since I’ve been driving for eight months). I have to Google English-English words from time to time. And for the life of me I can’t understand why the word ‘literally’ is used ‘figuratively’ so casually. I mean, what must the Queen think about that? This is England.
Since I’ve been in the UK I’ve experienced so many new things. Snow falling on my eyelashes. The first taste of Viennese Swirls (which I’m convinced was every bit as addictive as a first hit of heroin). Internet shopping with parcels bravely left outside my front door – including clothing, groceries, jewels and medication (mind blown). Strawberry jammed scones with clotted cream kindly baked by a wonderful colleague (yum). The Great British Bake-off. Walks in nature on my own. Walks through town on my own. Walks in general, on my own. Sleeping with the front door open – by mistake. Buying a down coat (actual tiny feathers – in a coat). Travelling on trains. Travelling on busses. Travelling in taxis.
Kissing French men. Sipping Prosecco. Pronouncing data, ‘date-er’. Going out without sunblock on. Going out in welly boots. Going out in flats and changing into heels at work. Putting on make-up on the underground. Getting my eyeliner straight while administering it on the underground. Going to the corner shop in PJ bottoms and no makeup. Going to the corner shop by foot – with my actual feet, every step.
My new life is a giant leap from my old one in so many ways – some good, some less good. I’ve been homesick, homeless, jobless, broke, lost, alone – so extremely alone. But what’s defined every step of the path is kindness. Every person I’ve reached out to along the way has extended a hand, a hug, some hope. The English may not be renowned for their warmth, but they sure know how to share it when they recognise it’s needed. From the comfort shared with me by my brand new housemate on the eve of Nelson Mandela’s passing, to the embrace from her mum the day my granddad passed and I needed a ‘mummy hug’. From the strangers who have helped me get un-lost to the acquaintances who offered their homes, their families, their special times. I’ve been overwhelmed by so much generosity and kindness.
Two years on I’m still Dorothy on this yellow brick road. I’m surrounded by different people who’ve brought many lessons and so much wonderfulness into my life. But there’s no place like home – kind of literally. Because on my journey I’ve discovered that home is less of a physical place than it is people and a collection of memories. My home is a memory box of love and experiences, gifts that I pack and unpack finding new surprises every time I open the lid. It’s intimate. Personal. Vulnerable. And filled with all the things that make me feel safe, scared, happy and incredibly brave.
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My monthly beauty boxes have become something of interest in the office. As the foreigner in the team, mostly everything I do for the first time becomes a thing of interest in the office. Often a group of ladies will pop round to my desk and watch me unpack my gifts. So there was nothing unusual about this time. I pulled out item by item and explained the magnificence of every product. I got to the cleanser. I opened the lid, gave it a good sniff and proclaimed loudly that I couldn’t wait to use it (on my face). I got a few weird looks and the group soon dispersed back to normal life.
This Saturday while I was looking through each item reading the fine print, I noticed some detail on the cleanser that I’d missed. Firstly, it’s dermatologically approved (very good) and secondly that it is gynaecologically tested (wha-a-a-t?) Yep… it wasn’t face wash. It turned out to be a fairly common ‘intimate’ cleanser available from every store in the first world. It’s designed to help prevent ingrown hairs and the discomfort from shaving certain feminine parts. Perhaps not so appropriate to rub under my colleagues noses while proclaiming how good it’s going to feel on my skin. I. Could. Actually. Die.
Last month marked two years since I jumped on an aeroplane thinking I was temporarily heading off on an adventure. In some ways it feels like twenty years ago. In others, it’s like I just climbed off the boat and am adjusting to wobbly land legs. I’m still figuring out what some road signs mean (slightly scary since I’ve been driving for eight months). I have to Google English-English words from time to time. And for the life of me I can’t understand why the word ‘literally’ is used ‘figuratively’ so casually. I mean, what must the Queen think about that? This is England.
Since I’ve been in the UK I’ve experienced so many new things. Snow falling on my eyelashes. The first taste of Viennese Swirls (which I’m convinced was every bit as addictive as a first hit of heroin). Internet shopping with parcels bravely left outside my front door – including clothing, groceries, jewels and medication (mind blown). Strawberry jammed scones with clotted cream kindly baked by a wonderful colleague (yum). The Great British Bake-off. Walks in nature on my own. Walks through town on my own. Walks in general, on my own. Sleeping with the front door open – by mistake. Buying a down coat (actual tiny feathers – in a coat). Travelling on trains. Travelling on busses. Travelling in taxis.
Kissing French men. Sipping Prosecco. Pronouncing data, ‘date-er’. Going out without sunblock on. Going out in welly boots. Going out in flats and changing into heels at work. Putting on make-up on the underground. Getting my eyeliner straight while administering it on the underground. Going to the corner shop in PJ bottoms and no makeup. Going to the corner shop by foot – with my actual feet, every step.
My new life is a giant leap from my old one in so many ways – some good, some less good. I’ve been homesick, homeless, jobless, broke, lost, alone – so extremely alone. But what’s defined every step of the path is kindness. Every person I’ve reached out to along the way has extended a hand, a hug, some hope. The English may not be renowned for their warmth, but they sure know how to share it when they recognise it’s needed. From the comfort shared with me by my brand new housemate on the eve of Nelson Mandela’s passing, to the embrace from her mum the day my granddad passed and I needed a ‘mummy hug’. From the strangers who have helped me get un-lost to the acquaintances who offered their homes, their families, their special times. I’ve been overwhelmed by so much generosity and kindness.
Two years on I’m still Dorothy on this yellow brick road. I’m surrounded by different people who’ve brought many lessons and so much wonderfulness into my life. But there’s no place like home – kind of literally. Because on my journey I’ve discovered that home is less of a physical place than it is people and a collection of memories. My home is a memory box of love and experiences, gifts that I pack and unpack finding new surprises every time I open the lid. It’s intimate. Personal. Vulnerable. And filled with all the things that make me feel safe, scared, happy and incredibly brave.
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