Be a creator of time

Have you ever been guilty of saying:

“I don’t have any time” or “I’m too busy”?

And then the eye-roll that follows the response of, “Well make time.”

Is it possible to be a creator of time? To stretch the intangible and make it suit our needs?

Scientifically, no, because we have decided there are 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour etc. If time is a man-made thing, why aren’t we utilising that structure rather than assuming it as a limitation? While we can’t physically make more time, there are ways of making more of your time, which I’ve been slowly learning since the beginning of October when I started full time postgraduate study. Most people I talk to about it can’t understand how I’m “fitting it in”, because we all have a finite amount of time each day, week, month to do stuff with. I was nervous over the summer thinking and worrying about the same thing; how will I manage? How will I dedicate enough time to it?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s tiring because I’m doing more in the same amount of time, but I’m happier knowing I’m making the most out of my time each day. (Well, most days. I do still have those stay-in-my-pjs-and-watch-tv-days).

Ok so these aren’t tricks, and they definitely aren’t the beginnings of a new science, but they’re just a few examples of how I’ve been managing full time work, full time study and a looking after my own home (and myself) over the past couple of months.

Train time…

Is golden. If any of you geniuses out there are commuting by train, tram, bus, or anything else more exotic where you’re not the driver, use this time to do something you wouldn’t usually do. Rather than staring into space, read a book or listen to a podcast. Make it useful time rather than redundant time. I calculated the number of hours I used to waste on my commute and it was an eye-watering 12.5hrs per week! Now it’s golden time for getting through my course reading (and some of my favourite hours of the week).

Sleep…

Is a necessity. Never cut corners when it comes to your sleep. Find your ideal number of hours’ sleep each night and build it into your routine. You’ll find you’re able to function much more effectively if you let yourself rest in between those hectic days. I try to go to bed at the same time each night and it generally means I wake up at the same time each morning. That way I know how much time I’ll have in the day to make use of, as there’s nothing I hate more than feeling I’ve “lost time” or am late for something.

Being strict with yourself…

Is the hardest part. Have you ever been guilty of saying “just one more hour” in the office, and then it turns into almost three hours and you’re on a late train home and you get back and there’s no food in the fridge so you’ve got nothing for dinner and you resort to having cereal before heading to bed? Yep, me too! Some people call it being a workaholic but I just think it’s a symptom of conscientious people who care about doing their job and doing it right, and so the lines between working hours and down-time become blurred. It’s easily done. But I’ve made a significant change to my own behaviour and know that twice a week I have to switch off from work, pack my laptop away and make the short trip from my office to university. As there’s nothing I hate more than being late, the first couple of times I hadn’t quite mastered the art of switching off from work at a reasonable time have become my motivation to never do that to myself again. We’ve created time, so why not create your own boundaries within that to stop time running away from you.

Brain space…

The one I’m not sure I’ve ‘got’ yet. Brain space is something I think about quite a lot and it’s a phrase I use at work when I need to get up from my desk and go for a walk, even just to get a glass of water, to distract myself from what my brain was working on. Brain space. I’ve not quite mastered it but I’m working on it. Sometimes I feel like my head is too full and I struggle to make my thoughts about corporate projects stop and my creative ideas about identity in 21st century literature take over. Although I’ve not got the hang of it, I’m almost certain that brain space is central to being a creator of your own time. It’s not about cramming, filling, overwhelming. To make more out of your time is to just do more with it, think more in it, feel more of what you choose to do.

So we can’t stretch time, because there will likely always be 24 hours in a single day, but we can be smarter with our time. Do what you love and use your time each day to do it.

What are you famous for?

Over the last few months I’ve been battling with a question a senior manager presented to us as a team: What are you famous for?

I brushed it off as a fleeting comment at first, but its recurring utterances soon told me it was a “big idea” that was here to stay. I went for the obvious:

“Well, THIS THING, of course.” Duh!

But that was quickly shot down: “No, that’s not anything special.”

Then I tried explaining not what I do, but how I do it, based on a personal view of my approach to work as well as what peers have fed back to me over time:

“Well, people know me for how I work – I think that’s what I’d be famous for.”

That one didn’t pass the test either.

So I tried thinking about it another way: “Surely you shouldn’t have to ask the celebrity why they’re famous? Ask their fans, their promoters, their advocates.”

Again, no luck.

By this point my fuse was too short and I was frankly too busy actually doing the things I should be famous for to take up anymore of my time with this riddle. Not because I thought it was below me, but because it felt like people were shifting the goal-posts, rendering it an unachievable guessing game. I became increasingly frustrated, certain that I’d been given an action to prove why I’m worth it – whatever “it” was. I’ve never been one to shout from the rooftops about what I’ve delivered, nor have I ever been a “forced networker” in the sense of using people for your own gain. And I didn’t like feeling that the only way to be noticed, or recognised, was to be that person.

It was clear to me that what I was doing and how I was doing it meant very little unless  I made it someone else’s business to notice. So for once in my life I gave up on something. I even stopped caring. And those are traits I’m not willing to let become part of me. So before I let the politics get me down, I made a change. A wise friend once said: “There are certain battles you can never win, and you have to cultivate a level of acceptance or it will damage you in the end.”

I’ve accepted the way things are, but not what they could do to me.

Today I resigned from my job.

What are you famous for?

I’ll let you be the judge of that.

 

0-60 in 3 seconds

You may be disappointed to find this post is not about cars in any way. It’s about my brain. I don’t blame you for not wanting to read on – the title is a little deceiving.

I cannot think of a single morning in the last few months that I haven’t woken with a jump and within 3 seconds been whizzing through wedding-planning lists in my head at 60mph. It’s exhausting.

There are things nobody tells you about planning a wedding, particularly what happens to you in the lead-up. So I’m going to write the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

1. Nightmares

Nobody told me I could suffer from bad dreams for about a month before the wedding. From the beginning of July, I have had a horrible dream, every night, without fail, and almost all of them involve the groom going missing in some way; whether that’s in the form of him running away abroad just to get away from me or just not turning up on the day, they’re always pretty stressful.

2. Lack of sleep

The bad dreams make for a restless night, and total lack of sleep – oh and dark circles under the eyes, I might add. So much for beauty sleep! No such thing! If you’re a bride-to-be (and a worrier, like me), then your sleep will be completely disrupted. Even if consciously you feel fine, and even if every time someone asks you how you’re feeling your immediate response is ‘can’t wait’, sub-consciously you’re probably freaking out. I’m proof of this.

3. Weight loss

I have probably been eating more than I usually do in the last few weeks, but the constant on-the-go life that comes with planning a wedding around a full-time job, means I’ve lost a little bit of weight just before the wedding. Thankfully, my dress still fits, but that’s not to say the weight loss didn’t contribute to a whole lot of stress before my final fitting.

4. Hair loss

So I’m not sure if this is just one I’m suffering with or if there are lots of other blushing brides-to-be out there coping with what I like to call ‘malting’, but it’s not pretty and it means frequent vacuuming of the house. Bluntly, my hair is falling out, and it’s awful.

The reason?

5. Stress

The big ‘S’ word. No real definition and hard to quantify as we all experience varying levels and symptoms, but it’s pretty overwhelming. I’ve been so easy to upset recently, so much more emotional, and for no real reason. I wouldn’t quite go as far to say bridezilla (because I’ve met some of those and they are of a different kind), but I’ve definitely been more sensitive, likely due to the heightened levels of Stress – capital S for emphasis.

 

So, I haven’t blogged in a long time but I’ve only just had some breathing space to start again. I’m getting married in 3 days’ time and, as far as I’m able to tell, everything is in place. Planning a wedding is like juggling 10 million balls for over a year, and then hoping that each and every one lands immaculately, all on the same day. It’s a wonder how we’ve done it, but somehow we are here with just a few days until ‘I do’. I’m so excited, and the feeling of being a Mrs to my Mr in a matter of days is all I have to focus on to remind myself that the stress and bad dreams and dark circles and weight loss and hair loss are worth it. Over and out as Miss, back as Mrs.

Why I couldn’t finish the marathon, and why I’m going to try again

Running alongside my fiancé, we spurred each other on from the start line, and made each other laugh along the way. We managed a respectable 2hrs 29mins at 13 miles (halfway point), and we were still going strong. The peaks and troughs of pain were bearable, and having each other to run with made the world of difference, not to mention the unbelievable crowd support lining the full marathon trail. At mile 15 I started feeling slightly unwell; having gone through a bitterly cold tunnel, I was suddenly unable to warm myself up, and felt unnaturally cold, despite being in the middle of running the longest distance of my life.

But with sheer determination and a spurring on from my running partner, we kept going, and I managed to walk-run-walk-run the next 3 miles, until I got to mile 18 and felt like I was going to collapse. The shivering was severe and my skin felt freezing. I stumbled over, held up by my partner, to a paramedic who introduced himself as Joe. I sat on the kerb, explaining that I felt unbearably cold. He told me that I didn’t look great (fantastic, thanks, is what I thought!) and that he would need to walk me over to the nearest St. John’s Ambulance station, to be checked over by the doctor. At this point I just wanted a fluffy jumper to wear and I was happy to be on my way to finish the course, but when he said I needed medical attention, I felt panicked and looked at my fiancé, who was ready to quit to stay with me. So I pulled myself together, put on a brave face, and told him to finish it for us. He was reluctant, but gave me a big cuddle and said he would see me at the finish line, with a medal for both of us.

So, I got myself up, off the kerb, and walked to the nearest ambulance station with Joe, the paramedic, which was only a few yards away but felt like another mile of the course. The doctor walked towards us and signalled to Joe, by putting his thumbs up and then his thumbs down, as if he was asking, is this good or bad? Joe put his thumbs down. Then I got scared, because I realised this might be something worse than just needing a jumper, and that I was on my own. They lay me down, horizontal, but with my legs slightly raised (not the most comfortable of positions when you’ve been pounding the ground for 18 miles and not had a chance to stretch), and they wrapped me in 3 foil blankets, and 2 fabric ones. They took my temperature, looked worried, then took my pulse, blood pressure,  checked my blood-sugar levels, and gave me a huge bottle of disgusting stuff to drink to try and get my electrolytes up. I asked them what was wrong and they said I was hypothermic, with a temperature of 33.5. I said that sounded pretty warm and they laughed at me – “Your body temperature should measure at least 36.5” the doctor said. 3 degrees doesn’t sound like much in the grand scheme of things, but when it’s your body, it feels horrendous. I couldn’t stop shivering, and all the while I was feeling more and more sad, disappointed, and guilty for not being out there on the course, running the last 8 miles.

I was in the St. John’s Ambulance for over 2-and-a-half hours, while everybody else ran, walked, staggered past, on their way to the finish line. I was feeling sorry for myself, so the ambulance staff offered me a blueberry muffin to cheer me up. It was gladly received, but I still just wanted to finish the race. I thought I was a failure, told myself I was letting everybody down, especially the children supported by Save the Children, who I was raising money for. And I felt awful that I’d promised my fiancé we would start and finish it together, knowing that I was now stuck in the ambulance, unable to be where I said I would be. But after being picked up, and seeing my fiancé again knowing that he’d made it over the finish line, I felt a whole lot better (and teary). A big thank you goes to the St. John’s Ambulance staff, for all their efforts to get me better, and make me laugh! The atmosphere in London is one-of-a-kind and the people are what make it.

After making it home, cold and sore, I googled ‘hypothermia’ and was horrified by the severity of it. It was only at that point that I felt I’d done the right thing in finding a paramedic, rather than carrying on, as I could have made it a lot worse. Everybody has been so unbelievably kind and supportive, and the messages have meant a lot to me. I’m determined to keep my promise and give it another go next year: for me, for you, for charity, and why not?

Today is the day after the day I managed 18 miles of the 26.2 marathon distance, and I have the aches and pains to prove that I did my very best.

Politics. NB: not the House of Commons’ kind

Ever found yourself stood dangerously close to a half-naked gym-goer in the changing rooms?

Well, you’re not alone. I found myself in precisely that compromising position only last week.

Gym politics, especially those of the changing room, are one of a kind. I’m training for the London Marathon (because I don’t have enough to do between the day-job, furnishing a house, and planning a wedding), so I’m at the gym a few times a week to get my fitness up. I’m no expert, but I do consider myself a serious gym-goer, in that I actually go to exercise. The definition of exercise, that I live by, involves raising your heart rate, and breaking a sweat. So, I go to the gym as often as I can, and whenever I do, I go with no make-up on, my hair tied up in a ponytail so high on my head that I resemble a pineapple, and I go with full expectation to break a sweat, so I’m always well-equipped with a towel, and a huge bottle of water. Back to the naked gym-goers: they tend not to be serious about exercise, because, let’s be honest, a full face of make-up – and I mean FULL face: foundation, blusher, eye-shadow, mascara, the works – does not constitute the demeanour of someone expecting to work-out hard enough to see even a bead of sweat. Also, how is it possible to work-out with hair-down? And why is it always pristine?

There’s me, minding my own business, dowsing myself in cold water in the changing-rooms, only to find myself on the receiving end of judgemental looks from these half-naked girls, barging into me as they walk past barefoot in nothing but a thong. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for body-confidence, but when did it become acceptable to flash cheeks in public?

I don’t know if the same politics apply in the male changing rooms, nor do I want to know, but the level of cattiness in the women’s changing rooms is unbelievable. And for what? Maybe they didn’t like me because I was fully clothed? Or because I was sweaty-faced with no trace of make-up? I don’t know. But if I’m being judged for my fully-clothed, sweaty-faced, self, then so be it. Sweating should be cool, and totally expected, in the gym. That’s the point of exercise. So ignore gym politics and get your sweat on!

Settled, miles away

I haven’t blogged in over a month, and I’ve missed it. Between my last post and today’s, I have moved home, and found what it is to be settled.

I’m over 70 miles away from work, 80 miles from family, and 100 miles from my favourite city. But I’m settled.

They say that moving home can be the most stressful time of a person’s life, and up until a few weeks ago, I believed it. But now, I really think it depends on the circumstance of the move. When I moved from my parental home to university, I was excited for the new start, but always felt unsettled, as though nowhere was fully home. I hopped to a second house after just a year in the first (that doesn’t include all the to-ing and fro-ing to my parents’ home) and even though I had a whale of a time with my wonderful friends and housemates, it wasn’t ever home-home. Following three years of what felt like nomadic life at university – and after a brief stint back with my parents – I moved to somewhere new, to be near my workplace. Although I was looking forward to kicking-off my career, I still felt unsettled, as though nowhere would suffice for me to settle.

You don’t know how unsettled you have been, until you’re well and truly settled. I certainly hadn’t realised until I moved into my new home two weeks ago, and slept for a full 11 hours, with no interruption. Woken only by the natural light coming through the bedroom window, I realised how settled I felt, despite being surrounded by endless numbers of cardboard boxes; it was as though it had happened overnight. The last four years were no-man’s land – nowhere was home, nowhere was where I belonged. This house, though, is home.

I remember being stressed out and fed up with previous moves, but even with the close proximity to the festive season, this move, housed nothing but sheer excitement. The only wrapping I did Christmas just-passed, involved brown tape and cardboard boxes. I couldn’t wait to have somewhere to call home, and I could not have predicted the impact the new house would have on my well-being, either. If someone had told me I would sleep for 11 hours, uninterrupted, on the first night in the house, I would have asked what they’re planning to sedate me with. But it really did happen. And still does. I dismantle the pretty array of cushions from my bed, climb into the crisp sheets, bury my nose in a good book, and when my eyelids are heavy, my head hits the pillow and I simply knock-out. Zzzzzz… I’m happier, healthier, a better sleeper, and a better eater, and I’m probably better company as a result – but I’ll leave that for others to confirm. I also haven’t mentioned that I’ve moved in with my favourite person in the world (which helps).

Speaking of burying my nose in a good book, I’ve been reading every day, just before bed, and I feel better for it. I’ve found that the safer and more content I feel in my surroundings, the more enjoyment I get from reading. Some people would probably expect the opposite – that of using reading as escapism, I suppose. But for me, I enjoy both the escapism of reading, and the return to the environment I’m in. One of the most helpful things I have read in my quest to mindfulness, recently, has been this:

“Happiness is not a state of mind, but a way of life.”

It helped me find my ‘settled’, so I remind myself of it almost every day, and thought sharing it might be a good start to blogging again.