Gift box

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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Not my cup of tea

I went on a blind date last week with a really nice guy. Nice like a cup of luke warm tea. Nice like a garden salad, no dressing. Nice like fat free, sugar-free yoghurt... You get the point. This was someone who was really good for me on paper – kind, gentle, smart, healthy. But after talking to him for about three minutes my mind drifted to how I was going to get home and what length of time constituted an actual date. I tried. I really tried to find him interesting. The old me would have thrown in the cocktail napkin within minutes, but the new, improved me gave it two and a half hours. That I’ll never get back. Ever.

At one point desperate to get conversation flowing, I pulled out my fail-safe ‘man card.’ Though I had no desire to launch into a chat about England’s brave, but average, performance in the Ashes series (sorry my lovely Englishes) or the highly anticipated upcoming Rugby World Cup, I had strong desire to break the awkward silence. So I asked the question... “Right, uh… do you like sport?” He paused for a moment, “I’m glad you asked that” said he, “I’m actually really into golf.” Great. I know nothing about golf. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t even technically a sport. I’m sure I get just as much exercise as golfers do from a successful shopping spree – and I carry my own bag. Just saying.

I tried to hide behind my humour – which, to be fair, is an acquired taste – and mentioned my shopping-golf analogy. He didn’t crack the faintest of facial movements. Not even a pity cackle. Nothing. Somehow we got onto the topic of football. Phew! I played a bit of soccer when I was a kid. I was confident I had the conversation back under control. I smugly declared that I knew the offsides rule and that he should test me. Score. He took a polite pause and then even more politely informed me that “most, or perhaps many, people (careful avoidance of gender stereotypes but he was practically screaming “women”) aren't aware that it's changed recently”. Not so smug.

After we finished our first round, he asked if we should get more drinks. “Sure” I answered, even though I was considering propping up my eyelids with ice cubes. He didn't budge. He was being a feminist. When I realised this I jumped up with a little too much enthusiasm and played fetch. Now, call me sexist, but where I come from, guys collect the drinks. If the woman you're with is balancing two glasses filled with ice and two bubbling bottles, stumbling through a crowded pub in heels, you have failed at life. So this weird shift in gentlemanliness left me slightly perplexed. I mean, this guy seemed so well mannered, so well brought up.

On returning from the bar, I downed the drink – I earned it. Then I announced my departure. He waited for me to pass him and as I reached the door awkwardly pushed past me and then clumsily let the door go. It swung back almost knocking this maiden over. At which point I was pretty sure he had no interest in me either. Things got weirder when he gave me the odd cheek peck thing and stated "it would be good to see you again." That’s when I did the swivel and dash. Shamelessly. I practically sprinted up the cobbled high street in heels. It hurt.

So it wasn’t a good experience, in fact it wasn’t even an average one. But I’m glad I went on the date. Because it was good practice. It took me out of my comfort zone and introduced me to a bunch of new things on the list of what I don’t want. Sometimes through experiencing bad, we get closer to identifying good. We learn more about what we truly desire – the right job, real friends, meaningful adventures, the perfectly imperfect partner. Maybe it’s ok to fail at small things, so we can grow and build towards getting the big things right.

After many little moments of wrong maybe one day I’ll meet someone right. Someone who sweeps me off my feet for the right reasons. Who appreciates my weirdness. Who connects with my self-deprecating, warped sense of humour. Who fetches the drinks. Who knows?   

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