A last post

Inevitably, everything comes to an end, and now it’s the turn of Fashion Limbo to close shop.

I created this space back in 2008. I spent most of my life in an office lit by fluorescent lamps, and conversation was either about how very little anyone cared about documentation – my job – or who was banging whom. Frustrated with the fact that no one around cared about the things that made me “click”: fashion, art and music, Fashion Limbo was born. I marvelled at how easy it was to build a world of my own, still conversing by myself, but conversing nonetheless. And guess what? Little by little, many of you joined me in the talk. I got things out of it that I never thought I would: great gigs – thanks Miniguide, thanks Michael – new like-minded friends, I even got trolls – oh how I loved those that failed to grasp the meaning of sarcasm, and had fun insulting me! I got invited to parties, was sent freebies, and even managed to see the inside of London Fashion Week – thanks Jill!

Alas, I’m done now. Fashion Limbo is going to exist for a while longer, but no new content will be uploaded. My Facebook page will be deleted in the coming weeks.

My writing career lives on, but it won’t to be under the Fashion Limbo constraint. Unexpectedly, the little world I created for myself has ended up being a bit of a cage too. So I’m flying free.

You will still find me on Twitter and Instagram under the same monicker, because I still exist in my own fashion limbo. I am still into clothes -especially leopard print coats – sequinned trainers, cute shops, good coffee and anything with a sausage dog.

However, my fashion habits have changed. I barely shop anymore, I can’t afford it and also, I don’t agree with the existing fast-fashion industry. I don’t get excited when I walk into a shop with humongous amounts of merchandise, I don’t smile when I see a big brand ripping off some artist’s design, selling it at the price of a sandwich. Frankly, I cannot happily contribute to an industry that seems to care very little about the people who make clothes, the environmental damage it does or the sheer amounts of waste it creates.

Personally, I am not sad to shut down this website, on the contrary. I am truly excited for what lies ahead. My future just doesn’t reside in fashionlimbo.com anymore.

I cannot begin to thank each and every one of you who actually read what I wrote. I loved your comments, your shares, your nudges on social media. Thanks for joining me in limbo for these past years. It’s been a wonderful ride.

It’s not goodbye, it’s an extremely camp and warm see-you-later 🙂

xxxxx

I had that job – sexist job ad goes viral

I’m not one for burning bridges, so I will name no names. If anyone from my past reads this and recognise themselves, I hope it makes them think a little and maybe, just maybe, question their behaviour: what they think is normal, is pretty damaging.

A job ad on LinkedIn went viral a couple of days ago. A Canadian company advertised for Content Writers, requesting that candidates spoke Russian, had strong linguistic abilities, a wide knowledge of SEO and a bunch of other skills. The really interesting bit came at the end: “Please note the Position requires filling in the responsibilities of a receptionist, so female candidates are preferred.” 

The ad was spotted by several media outlets after it was shared and retweeted countless times and, unsurprisingly, it was finally removed. The Pool has featured a brilliant article written by Marisa Bate and I beg you all to go read it if you want some extra reading on the topic.

Weirdly, I wasn’t shocked about the ad, nor I was outraged. The fact that looking good as a receptionist trumps education and experience practically meant nothing to me, why? Because I worked at a job like that for an entire year.

An office run by men, in which men held the managerial positions and repeatedly hired girl after girl like me, with languages, degrees and exceptional computer skills. Why young women? Because they also wanted us to cover reception duties.

During my time at that company, I was asked to drop any writing work if reception had to be covered. Texts I had been working on for days were taken from me so I could order cabs for the managers, translations I excelled at were re-assigned, so I could make my male bosses coffee.

Whenever I asked for a rearranging of my hours, to be changed to a shift in which more content writing was available, or to be allowed to work remotely once a week, the answer was no: “we won’t have you here in case we need someone to cover reception” When I enquired why they wanted me to focus on phone duties instead of getting more content writing done, all I got was shrugged shoulders.

It didn’t matter that I had postgraduate studies, that I wrote and spoke several languages, and that my experience in the field of content writing mounted to more than 10 years. A decade of experience was hardly important. The salary reflected it and the hours I spent at reception being told to “smile more” reminded me every day that they didn’t care.

I did try to speak up -politely- and tried to change things -professionally organising meetings with my manager-, but nothing ever evolved. In an office created by men and controlled by men, the voice of a woman was easily replaced by another. After a year, I left.

This is what happens when you don’t let multilingual content writers do their job

That Canadian company should be deeply embarrassed. Not only are they stuck in the past but, like many, are perpetuating a vision of life that will justify every single word of disrespect their daughters, nieces, sisters and wives will hear, limiting them for the rest of their lives.

To my former bosses and those behind the Canadian company: content writing is sex-less, receptionist duties should be sex-less too. Yes you may have a penis but you also have hands, so make your own coffee and stretch your narrow minded heads to hire people because of what they can do, not what they look like.

Self-Care Sunday – Just STOP

This is a Self-Care Sunday post, which was started by wonderful blogger and social-media expert Elizabeth from Rosalilium: a weekly post to talk about self-care. And because I believe self-care is extremely important, I have decided to join my fellow blogger and write about it.

This week I’ve been thinking about stopping: dropping everything and just standing still. It’s like when you used to be a student with no car and had to walk or take public transport to go to the supermarket. You would put all of your groceries in plastic bags and carry a week’s worth of shopping home. You’d begin with a lot of energy and determination, to soon start questioning how smart it was to buy a box of detergent and that huge bottle of milk. With those crappy plastic bags cutting your fingers, your back seizing up, you quickly realise how worthless it was to shower that morning, now that you are completely drenched in sweat. You spot a bench, drop the bags, sit and you’re in heaven. Not only does it feel wonderful, but that short pause gives you the extra energy you need to get home, with a better stance so your back suffers less and an actual smile when you walk into the guy you like.

Self-care is self-preservation. Animals know it best. They won’t put themselves at risk if they feel weak or vulnerable, because they don’t want to pay with their life.

Why is it that some of us ignore the warning signs and carry on? Why is it that when we know, deep down, that we are not functioning, we still keep at it? We become snappy towards those we love, we get sick, we take stupid risks like driving under extreme stress, or make the worst decisions of our lives out of a form of self-inflicted pressure.

On Friday I stopped. I just couldn’t function anymore. Sick, weak and in a lot of pain I held on to the idea of walking my dogs. I kept thinking I had to do it even when I broke down in tears, even when a coughing fit almost made me choke, even when my abdomen hurt so much I could scream of pain. All I had to do was stop. Nothing else.

I spent the day on my sofa. I watched Jane The Virgin, I took a couple of naps. The world didn’t stop spinning, I still have to do the dreaded tax-return, finish knitting some 2,000 pieces, unpack my travel bag, dye my hair, go to Yoga… the list goes on.

If you don’t stop, how are you going to be the best version of yourself? How are you going to function when your body shuts down? You are of no use to anyone or yourself if you are not strong and healthy.

If you don’t practice self-care, who is going to do it for you?

Why I buy into the Beauty Myth

While drinking my morning cup of coffee, wondering why my body ached so much – ‘cos it’s Monday – my eyes kept closing – ‘cos it’s Monday – and genuinely worrying about my upcoming tax-return saga – ‘cos it’s Monday – my inbox presented me with The Guardian’s fashion digest. Among it was an old yet fantastic report on beauty fixes that require no surgery, written by Sali Hughes. In my opinion, Sali is a pretty decent beauty writer. She bases her reviews on products that have been tested by herself or by her friends. Through her I have learnt a lot about make up and beauty, but also, life – she’s particularly brilliant at The Pool . Having read this article when it first came out almost 2 years ago, I went to the comment section to check whether any of the regulars had used the products mentioned or had other suggestions.

However, what I found was hate. No other word for it, just pure, undiluted, heavy hate. Hate for Sali, hate for her writing, but mostly hate for the “beauty myth” and anyone who dares buy into it. Apparently, if you are a feminist, or of sound mind, or if you have any self-respect, beauty products are a massive NO-NO. Here are some of my favourite quotes:

“Advice for the obsessively vain on how to spend (or should that be “waste”) vast amounts of money on their vanity. Makes you wonder why we bothered with feminism.”

“This article makes me sad.”

“Is society really that obsessed with wanting to pretend to be young? What’s the point? We’ll all be dead in the blink of an eye.”

Oh and the winner:

“The Guardian readership might be interested in the columnist’s Twitter feed or the comments on her site http://forum.salihughesbeauty.com/forum.php – to see what she and her group think of those who have dared express an opinion here which is less than flattering.

Reply: Why? I am not in the least interested in your bitch fest.”

So, in view of all of this, I’m just going to say the following:

1. If you are so bloody confident you ditch beauty creams, facials, make-up, good for you. Now piss off
2. If you have a perfect face/hair that requires no make up, no colour, no re-touching, good for you. Now piss off
3. If your life is about judging others for not being as “awesome” as you, good for you. Now piss off

You see, I’m a feminist, a strong-minded woman with my own political, philosophical and social views. I have a Master of Arts, I speak 4 languages and, guess what? This morning I put on make-up. I did so in the way tutorials by Sali Hughes taught me. I work from home, I am not going out today and spending my day alone. So why did I dare plaster my face with the ointments the patriarchy wants me to use? Because when I look in the mirror, I choose not see an exhausted version of myself, as guess what? Looking like I’ve just been dragged through the sewers is a style I don’t favour.

Make up and facials, creams and red lipstick have A LOT to do with being a feminist. Women rights today allow us to make our own mind, taking decisions for ourselves and no one else. Oh and also,

4. If you ever think I overdo it with the eyeliner, or the number of face creams I buy, good for you. Now piss off

I’m off to play with the eyeshadow palette I bought myself for my birthday, so I’ll leave you with this:

Janet: 8 of her best fashion moments

My brother played an important role in my early childhood. Like any younger sibling, I closely monitored his every move, wondering about his obsession with trainers of a certain brand or taking note of his opinions about the Marvel universe. I also discovered music through what he listened to, which during the early years revolved mostly around Michael Jackson – and a questionable Samantha Fox period. However, the rebel in me couldn’t embrace Michael just like that. Learning Michael had a sister, I became a feminist before I knew what it meant, rooting for the girl. That was the start of my obsession with Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.

I fell for her amazing moves, her gorgeous voice, and those amazing cat-like-eyes. It was a pretty serious girl crush. While Madonna was my Bible, Janet was my glossy magazine. From her choice of clothes, to how she wore her hair, every style she rocked, fascinated me. Here are my favourite Janet moments, über stylish examples of pop music at its mightiest.

1. The Pleasure Principle

Ever dreamt of moving to the Big Apple and living in an abandoned warehouse? I did, thanks to Flashdance and this video. It’s impossible not to watch in awe as the adidas-clad feet strike some truly awesome moves, this was Janet coming out of her shell, finding her own persona. It’s also proof of her raw talent before she became a household name. 

http://cache.vevo.com/assets/html/embed.html?video=USIV20300168&autoplay=0

2. Rhythm Nation

Nowadays, you would be hard-pressed to find a 23-year-old pop star, fully clothed, head to toe and with shadows hiding half her body on every frame, seriously limiting her exposure. Similarly, you would struggle to find a choreography as effective, sharp and powerfully executed. It’s a flawless pop hit and cemented the launch of Janet Jackson worldwide. It also blew my mind.

3. Love Will Never Do (Without You)

Herb Ritts was one of those talents we lost way too early, and part of his legacy are videos like Wicked Game, Cherish and Janet’s Love Will Never Do (Without You). Sporting a cropped top, high-waisted jeans, Janet epitomises fashion in the 90s. When I first heard LWND I was convinced it was a duet, but it’s all Janet, showing off a stunning vocal range that makes this single so special. There isn’t a song out there quite like this one.

4. Rolling Stone magazine cover by Patrick Demarchelier

This iconic image brings us to the entire “Janet.” era, the one that made me record That’s The Way Love Goes  on a VHS tape every time it came on TV, over and over again. I ended up learning every frame, every move, every line uttered by Janet and her troupe. I bought a choker just like hers and copied her make-up. Sidenote: how cute is J-Lo in the video?

5. Got Til it’s Gone

A beautiful video shot by Mark Romanek, it’s stylistically gorgeous, complimenting the trip hop beats of the song flawlessly. Janet’s look is a complete departure from her previous work, and it came after a painful period of self-discovery and acceptance in Janet’s life. The Velvet Rope is a masterpiece of an album and even today, it sounds fantastic. 

6. Everytime by Matthew Rolston

It’s just Janet, with a piece of fabric to cover her modesty and a lot of water. It’s stunning.

7. Scream by Mark Romanek

And this is where I get controversial, because, in my opinion, Janet steals the show. The PVC trousers, the spiky jumper, that -insane- coat, it all seems made for her. I will not elaborate on how she wears her hair. Let’s just say I loved it so much I asked a hairdresser to recreate it…with very dodgy results.

8. All Nite (Don’t Stop) by Francis Lawrence

No one has earn her abs more than Janet and she knows how to flaunt them. All Nite gives you goosebumps at the start, with Janet introducing the brilliance of the song: “this is sick”. The tiniest of cropped tops, a sexy game of lights and shadows, and we are gifted with yet another masterful choreography.

Sadly, everything she has done since that “boobgate” incident has been blatantly ignored and blacklisted by the-powers-that-be. A female nipple is still seen as something offensive, Instagram and Facebook urging everyone to cover up or be banned. Whether it was deliberate, whether it was a wardrobe malfunction, why does anyone care?

Janet is the only artist – apart from Madge – who has an exclusive playlist on my Spotify, my ringtone is Janet’s intro to Escapade and yes, I did lose the plot slightly when I heard she was making a comeback. Unsuprisingly, I am not the only one currently fangirling over Janet. 

Her new single, No Sleeep, is another of those quiet and sexy affairs she is so great at delivering. Fait accompli Miss Jackson, it’s so nice to have you back.

Monday’s music therapy – Brandon Flowers

Is Monday getting to you? Did you wake up with murdering thoughts, only quietened with coffee? Did the light coming through your window make you feel like a vampire? If like me, you feel more like crying than facing the world, maybe listen to Brandon Flowers. His brilliant new album, The Desired Effect, does have it (the desired effect, get it? wasn’t it clear? Just me then? ok).

Brandon Flowers has produced a courageous anthemic pop/rock album, with plenty of uplifting moments. Perfect for a miserable Monday are opener Dreams Come True and club-worthy I Can Change, skilfully sampled with Bronski Beat, it will have you cranking up the volume.

Diggin’ Up The Heart will make you think of Billy Idol, and a platinum-blond rock god is a fantastic image for a grey day, isn’t it?

Never Get You Right – starts very mid tempo, building up slowly with a wonderful 80s feel, just like my personal favourite, Lonely Town. The album’s final cut, The Way It’s Always Been is the hug you need today. And if a cuddle by Brandon Flowers is what you get listening to The Desired Effect, I’ll be hitting ‘repeat’ all day – seriously, is it just me realising only now how beautiful this man is?

Listen to Brandon Flowers if you like: The Killers, a bit of Bruce Springsteen, a pinch of Starship and, obviously, Bronski Beat.

Picture: brandonflowersmusic.com

Confessions of a grown-up groupie

I’ve always been a bit of a rock chick. Whether dreaming of bleaching my hair and becoming Debbie Harry, joining Prince’s band à la Sheena Easton, or discovering the badass side to silk blouses and mermaid hair with Alanis Morissette.

The true feminist in me would love to tell you that my love affair with rock music came from idolising inspirational women. But alas, before becoming a rock chick, I was a groupie. Not that I actually trailed tour buses because where I lived, southern Spain, very few buses were worth jumping on. Teeny me would see a man with a guitar on MTV and forget about my toast and nearly burn the house down. My younger self would hang a gigantic flag with a certain rock idol’s face, taking over half of the bedroom, while my little sister was forced to stick her Spice Girls posters behind the door. 

So, here it is: I publicly confess a liking for tight jeans, leather jackets and Ray-Bans. It started at an early age and as I grew up, went through a list of crushes I will now proceed to share with all of you… because I feel like embarrassing myself.

Age 7 – Joey Tempest, lead singer of Europe: In my defence, this one sneaked up on me. Up until that age my life was Madonna, hiding under the bed whenever the Thriller video came on and learning Janet Jackson’s best moves. Watching Europe perform Carrie on TV, my parents blew my cover noticing me staring at the screen, hypnotised by the skin-tight leather and permed locks. While I longed to be Carrie, Joey Tempest never replaced my New Kids On The Block posters, so this crush was short-lived.

Age 12 – Jon Bon Jovi, lead singer of Bon Jovi. Because, what’s better than a long haired rocker? One that cuts his hair and becomes the sex symbol every single teen in the nineties wanted to snog. The first vinyl I bought – as it came with bigger pictures of the dude – Keep The Faith, had me dreaming of becoming Mrs Bongiovi. I bought a Bon Jovi t-shirt and decided I would get a Superman tattoo as soon as I hit 18. A couple of years later I stopped paying attention to the band and thankfully, never got that tattoo.

Age 15 – Jarvis Cocker, Pulp icon, a god on stage and the guy that made me realise clever lyrics and the right attitude were far sexier than ripped jeans and curls. I wanted to be in his band – oh Candida Doyle how I envied you – I dreamt of moving to London and bumping into him in a pub, a romance blossoming around chintz wallpaper and sticky coasters. Years have passed since my britpop fever, but I still love Jarvis Cocker’s moves, his wit and yes, one of my dogs is named after him.

Age 17 – Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith. The definition of a bad boy, the guy that had been around for decades before I spotted him, and the sexiest man to utter the word pink. My crush was short-lived though, as I soon discovered Alanis, Sheryl Crow, TLC and Aaliyah. I thought I had kissed the bad boys goodbye, until …

…at the age of 25, I was dragged to a Stereophonics gig, seeing Kelly Jones live for the very first time. And this is where I stop, because honestly, we are at a point that is hard to beat. Leather jacket? Check. Shades and a rock star attitude? Check. R-rated lyrics? Have you heard I Could Lose Ya? And finally, THAT voice. The kind that hits you and all you can utter is “wow”. The raspy type that can’t-sound-this-good-live but then it does. It’s obvious, I’m still hooked.

The funny thing about having a thing for men who play guitar, is that you look back on the –very questionable– real life guys you dated, and how can one not blame rock n’ roll? We all have a dodgy past, our “what was I thinking” crushes. Mine reflect a side of myself steadily developing over the years: the rebellious side, the one that got tattoos and piercings, the one that wasn’t afraid of falling for the less popular guy, dumping those wanting me to be someone else. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to play that new Stereophonics song  one more time.

C’est La Vie is the first single from Keep The Village Alive, Stereophonics’ new album, out 11.09.15

Pictures: Europe/Epic, K Fuchs/Rex Features, Steven Tyler via Facebook

Dog aggression, bad behaviour & how I fixed it

This is a terribly personal post. I say “terribly”, because I did write about this a few months back, then swiftly deleted it out of shame, fear of being judged, but mostly, because I saw no light at the end of the tunnel. At that time I was considering getting rid of one of my dogs.

This is Jarvis:

I adopted Jarvis in September 2013. He was only 7 months. As a newborn pup, someone cut his tail off, then sold him over the Internet for a mere €200 (around £170). The girl that bought him, abandoned him a few months later. The “only” nice thing she did to him was giving him up to a dog rescue organisation. When we adopted Jarvis he was a happy bundle of fur, full of energy and ridiculously clumsy. However, he also barely let you touch him, would freak out if you picked him up and constantly urinated out of fear.

Before Jarvis came into my life, there was Nero. He has been my constant companion since I adopted him 7 years ago. He has travelled with me all over Europe and has barely left my side since I first got him. Nero has always been extremely playful and social, so I decided to bring in Jarvis as his new friend.

At the start, they got on fantastically. We had six months of constant play, games of chase, tug of war, wrestling. It was non-stop. These two beasts would wake me up at 6am running around like loonies, jumping on and off my bed.

Because Jarvis had those initial issues, we enlisted the help of a well-meaning dog trainer in Spain. He helped a lot, and his approach to dogs was kind and positive. The reason I mention him – I honestly have nothing but good words to say about him – is because during one of the hide-and-seek exercises the trainer had recommended, everything changed. Jarvis fought with Nero over a piece of food they found on the floor. It was a serious fight, and for the first time, Jarvis realised he could overpower Nero.

Moving to the UK also took its toll on my dogs. A new home, new surroundings, new people. It all proved too much for little Jarvis, and he began to attack Nero. Each time more unpredictably, each time more aggressively. There was blood, Nero ended up with cuts in his ears and scratches on his head.

Desperately, I decided to educate myself on the subject and seek help. Sadly, most testimonies I found online about this type of issue pointed to a single solution: rehome the new dog. By this time, Jarvis had been in my life for almost a year. I loved him. Thinking of letting him go tore me apart. However, every time I saw Nero scared and hurt, my mind would consider giving Jarvis up.

After yet another gruesome, and terrifyingly out-of-the-blue attack, we took our dogs to our vet in Lewes. She checked my dogs for signs of sickness but found nothing obviously wrong. She did however, recommend us a dog trainer she had used.

I have wrestled with whether I should name this “expert” or not. I don’t want to bring attention to the guy, and I obviously don’t want to provide him with free publicity, so I won’t name him on this post. I will, however, tell anyone who asks me on the subject to avoid him, and this is why. The man considers himself a dog expert and claims to have years of expertise around the East Sussex area. Not only did he charge us £120 for an hour of his time, but he subjected my dogs to a terrifying experience. This man seemed to consider himself the next Cesar Millan (read about this celebrity trainer here or watch this interview). He was a big guy, who constantly slammed the floor trying to get my dogs to submit to his requests. Luckily, Nero, the oldest and more sensitive to this kind of behaviour,  retreated to his bed for almost the entire time the man was at our home.

I hated myself after this man left, regretting having invited him into my home. However, as the days went by I realised it was he who should be blamed for my discomfort, not me. It was he who had filled his pockets with my money, engaged in scare-tactics with my dogs, and not actually listened to me. He dismissed my accounts on the fights, said he saw no issues. A few days later he sent me an email with what he considered tips to solve Jarvis’ issues. It all revolved around the idea of Jarvis trying to “dominate us”, with tips that added nothing to what I was already doing. He made no reference to the fights.

The issues with Jarvis not only continued, they worsened. Extremely distraught, I shared my troubles with friends and family and someone mentioned Michelle Garvey, the lovely woman behind Essentially Paws. She came to see us several times, and assessed both dogs separately. Michelle’s training methods used treats, rewarding positive behaviour and setting safe limits for each dog. Jarvis quickly proved to be extremely responsive to tasty rewards, and seemed to enjoy being set limits.

The thing I liked the most about Michelle is that she made no false promises, that she understood the gravity of the situation and that she honestly warned things would get worse before they would get better. They did. More attacks occurred, and again I wondered whether Jarvis should stay with us.

After the last attack I cried a lot, questioned every decision in my life, but gave it another shot. I became really strict with the training and began to think more positively. I ran my dogs’ existence around a tight schedule, implemented Michelle’s tips religiously, and after some nicely quiet weeks, it happened: two days ago, Jarvis went to Nero to play, and Nero accepted his invitation. Cue doggy wrestling, tails wagging and a sight I hadn’t seen in more than 10 months. An hour later and they were both lying in the sun together, Nero feeling safe enough next to Jarvis to close his eyes.

I can’t say the situation is completely fixed, but I now see the light at the end of the tunnel. I know that living with dogs means constant training, which is OK, that’s the fun side of having dogs. For the first time in more than six months I feel positive about Jarvis’ future. It would have been so easy to take him to another shelter and pass on the problem to someone else. I chose the harder route, and I will probably choose it again, because that’s who I am… some sort of masochist.

I know Jarvis is not a child, not a human being, but I love him dearly and he is part of my family. My job is to care for him. I know he exists because of the growing trend of owning dachshunds. He was bred, he was sold. Someone else’s abuse became my responsibility. Why did I set out to clean up another person’s mess? Because I look at Jarvis and see a poor animal that was barely given a chance. An innocent creature that was probably beaten up more than once. I didn’t want to be the one who saw this and gave up on him.

Thanks to Michelle, Rob, Micaela from Sr Perro, Denise and everyone that has been there for me. I owe you this little massive victory.

You can follow Nero & Jarvis via Instagram @sausagemafia.

Pictures: Fashion Limbo

The trouble with not acting your age

A few years ago, I used to be an amateur actress. I even took part in a huge production. The day we opened, we did it in front of 500 people. I knew my lines, wore the heavy 18th century dress, petticoat and all, and walked out on stage. Leading the rest of the cast, I attempted to close a parasol I carried. Not only did I fail at closing it, I sent the damn thing flying. It slipped right out of my hands, launching into the air and falling right at the edge of the stage. I heard the gasps and the giggles, and my heart sank. Panicking and breaking a sweat, all I could do was pick up my parasol and say my lines. The show went on.

People may have laughed at me, they may have thought I screwed up my performance, who knows. I didn’t have the world’s media watching me, or millions of people tuning in to an online stream. Twitter didn’t exist back then, and I wasn’t a 56-year-old professional performer. I wasn’t Madonna, falling at the Brits. 

Last night Madonna fell from a raised part of her stage, to the floor a metre down, while almost choking on an Armani cape that refused to unhook. It was not a light tumble. The entire world gasped, a lot of us cringed, and due to today’s technology, we all got to see Madonna’s look of horror. Appearing to be sore, she missed a couple of her lines but went on with her performance, singing live and dancing in frightfully high heels.

The first thing I thought after her fall was the sheer amount of negative remarks it was going to generate. Not negative as in “your performance was not the best” or “what a disappointment”. The ones that troubled me were those that, for the last years, talk about a 56-year-old in need of a retirement plan. The headlines that call Madge an oldie that should cover up or behave appropriately. The comments on social media that express disgust or wonder about her children’s wellbeing whenever she choses to “not act her age”. 

A number suddenly becomes such an important matter, warranting discussion and heavy criticism if it dares go over 50. Apparently once you reach that amount, you’re done.

I wonder about those who cringe at Madonna flashing her bum, or talking about sex… are they grown up? Are they ignorant teenagers who think it’s cool to live fast and die young? Are they women over 50 who abandoned their own dreams and can’t stand to see others doing it differently? Is it men who are throwing the nasty remarks? Being over 50 and being Madonna…how is that a bad thing? Why does it bother some so much?

When I was fifteen, a few years before my parasol fiasco, I lost one of my closest friends. She died of cancer. She never got to experience what turning 18 meant, she never grew up to reach 40 married or unmarried, who cares. She never made it pass 15.

Last year, gorgeous Averi, a wonderful girl I met through my sister, died at age 17. Cancer too. 

Reaching 50 is no easy task. The people that turn that age and continue to celebrate birthdays, have earned their right to be on this planet through survival, hard work and resisting the rubbish life throws at them. 

One of the ladies I admire the most, my aunt and best friend S., she’s around Madonna’s age and like the blonde pop star, still wears lipstick, still is a hell of a sexy kitten channeling Susan Sarandon. Should she dress differently?

C, another lady in my inner circle, separated from her husband when she was around Madonna’s age. She lives alone by the Mediterranean sea. She goes to parties, she does Yoga and now has re-discovered her singing voice, performing stunning solos to numerous audiences. Should she be dressing in black, covering her ankles? Is she not entitled to fall in love again? 

I’m certainly not acting my age. I’m not 25 anymore – I keep telling everyone I’m 28, you can guess whether that is true or not. I certainly don’t behave the accepted “standard” way. I’m not married, I don’t have children, I still rent, and I have no plans of doing what is expected of me. I never have. I’ve been judged, crucified, told I’m unbalanced for not “settling down”. I never will. My gender, the way I wear my hair, my job, and certainly my age, do not define me or my life. 

Age is a blessing, a massive gift. Women over 50 are not going to shrivel up and die. Give up the hate, Daily Mail and other tabloids, trolls and ageist idiots.

Madonna got up, she sang her lines, she nailed her performance. Even non-fans are praising the levels of professionalism of the biggest icon in music. Unlike many of her peers, she’s still here.

Life is to be celebrated, end of. If all you throw at the universe is your negativity and nasty thoughts don’t be ofended when I ignore the hell out of you, and dream to grow “old” like Madonna.

Pictures: BRITS, Fashion Limbo

GIRLS: The show I want to hate

I don’t know what it is about HBO’s Girls that as much as I don’t want to follow the show, I end up watching it, season after season. Is it just me feeling like this?

Girls started off as a really funny comedy, about some unashamedly spoilt characters with awkward sex lives and undefined yet high ambitions. All of their attempts at growing up seem to be repeatedly sabotaged by the characters themselves. The show seemed to tick every box: fake friendships, ugly breakups, low paid jobs, dodgy internships, and unsurprisingly, some great wardrobes. I never minded Hannah’s (Dunham’s character) repeated nude scenes, even finding them refreshing amongst the daily “perfect” bodies Hollywood throws at us.

Then at the same time, after the first season, I began to grow unsure about the show, even dropping it for a while after that twisted sex scene in season 2, involving Adam and his then girlfriend Natalia.

You can argue that the characters in Girls are pretty shallow, that the lifestyles they represent are impossible in reality. However, you could say the same about Sex & The City and Carrie I-write-one-column-and-live-like-a-celebrity Bradshaw, or many other portraits of life in the Big Apple. You can argue that Lena Dunham is not only overrated, but very well connected through her own family and the families of the other cast members. On season 2 the show seemed to not want to be a comedy anymore by turning pretty dark, whether by raising the debate on sexual abuse or by portraying extremely broken characters. However, as its fourth season began this week, there I was, watching the show, laughing again.

I’m still fascinated by Jessa’s long hair and her natural ability for not giving a sh*t. I still want to see Marnie make half the effort for something, then fail miserably, then let herself be picked up again. I want to see Adam and Hannah together and Shoshana still entertains me with her fast paced monologues.

At the same time, I really hate that it is impossible to live like Jessa and survive in NYC unless you have rich parents. It irks me that Adam can be abusive and how he seems to be excused, being the romantic hero for our heroine. I hate how Hannah’s character takes over the entire show most of the time and that Marnie seems to be the token pretty face with very little else to offer. Shoshana…if there was ever a character that resembled a charicature, that’s Zosia Mamet’s character.

Alas, here I am, writing about the show and waiting impatiently for the next one to be aired. Because Lena Dunham is doing something right, it seems. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.

Picture: HBO