9 reasons why it doesn’t matter if you haven’t got your shit together yet

  1. Nobody ever truly has their shit together. You could be riding your unicorn down Old Brompton Road with ten trillian quid in the bank and you’d probably still be having a meltdown about what kind of brie to buy at Waitrose.
  1. Just like your tastes change with age and status, so do your worries. Just because you think you’ll have your job, finances and relationship ducks in a row one day doesn’t mean you won’t have other (likely more important) things to worry about. Can I get a ‘fuck no’ for mammograms, menopause and the three yearly treat from mr postman that is your smear test reminder? I think we all thought once we get that first one at 25 out the way it gets easier, but I’ll bet ya it doesn’t!
  1. It turns out your twenties aren’t what we thought they were in our teens. If you’re thinking SHIT I thought I’d have kids by 27 at the latest, you ain’t alone. But next time you start to think you and your aging ovaries will die alone, eggless and childless, toss on your heels and go have an espresso martini and ask yourself if you really think you’re ready to be at home playing with megablocks and arguing over who’s meant to be on pooey nappy duty.
  1. Even when you do start to get your shit together, you probably won’t even realise it. Tbh I’m not entirely sure when I stopped spending nights in clubs with my head over the toilet before rocking back out like a wounded donkey for one last chorus of I Wanna Dance With Somebody, and when I started working freelance and living in a beautiful apartment with my boyfriend that has a marble bathroom and an infinity pool (soz and that)…. And I’m still all over the place.
  1. There’s always somebody worse off than you. Whether it’s through fault of their own or not. Okay sure, so you’re actually considering paying for Tinder now instead of spending weekends at farmers markets in matching tweed like you dreamed it. So what? At least you’ve got a job and you’re earning a living. You’re not on the streets, and you’re lucky enough to have your health. That’s some metaphorical shit, metaphorically together, right there.
  1. The news isn’t necessarily true. Now this is a bold statement for me, as I am one to immediately vow never to touch something like blue tac ever again if there’s the slightest possibility that it’s been proven to be carcinogenic. But in my clear mind, the news really is scaremongering us about having kids. “Women who wait until they’re over 30 for kids are at risk”. YEAH YEAH okay but when am I like, meant to travel the world and find myself or spend all my money on Asos or pay a small fortune to live in London only to end up moving further out to commute on a stinky train every day. WHEN WILL I HAVE TIME FOR THAT? Now. Do it all now. My mum had me at 33, I’m an only child and I turned out just about okay – and she’s still kickin’ too. Having kids later in life might be more risky, but so was that 80th tequila at Freshers week, and you survived that.
  1. You just might be on the path to something you’re meant to do. You might be sitting at your desk at a job you hate, waiting for this ‘shit’ to be ‘together’. Trust me, just wait it out. I always say the worst paths lead to the best people – and the best things. If I hadn’t made some of the stupid mistakes I’ve made in my time, some of the amazing stuff wouldn’t have happened to me. I once turned town an amazing marketing job in London where I basically would’ve schmoozed with One Direction on an average Thursday, based on a gut feeling I shouldn’t do it. For a while I wondered if I’d made the worst mistake of my entire career, but I found my way and I’ve never been more sure I did the right thing.
  1. Other people probably haven’t got their shit together either. Much like my previous post on social image, we only really know the very best of other people – because that’s all they tell you. Everybody worries they’re not where they’re meant to be, even if they’re already there. That mate who’s up at the crack of dawn for spinning before high tailing it off wearing a Zara pant suit and power bun to her managerial role could be neck deep in Big Mac’s by 9pm and swiping right to anyone who’ll have her, for all we know.
  1. At the end of the day, things’ll probably never work out exactly how you thought they would. Stop wasting time trying to press the fast forward button. Just enjoy life on pause for a second. Unforch, Netflix don’t yet stream reruns of your twenties, so you’ll have to enjoy them live instead. Live? Imagine that. Chances are, wherever you’re at right now, is exactly where you need to be right at this very moment in time. One day, you’ll realise.

Until next time,

Coco x

 

Here’s why you actually CAN get good at running.

Think you can’t run? I feel ya, believe me. For years I chunked about thinking my size 14 curves were just part of who I was, and that my thunder thighs were incapable of transporting my body at a fast enough pace to call it a run.

I was the slowest runner known to man (and my PE teachers enjoyed pointing it out to me), and I seemed to get left behind even doing simple things like trotting across the road (true story).

I’d see people out running on Saturday mornings and literally feel the jealousy penetrating my bones. I’d always wanted to be a runner, but for some reason my wobbly legs said it wasn’t too be. I truly believe some people just have the ability to run and some don’t. For all my trying, I’d never been able to break the barrier, yet there I’d be, cowering in the corner of the gym sulking on the cross trainer when some newbie would hop onto a treadmill on her induction and casually jog for 15 minutes straight declaring she hadn’t run since before her kids were born. Like seriously wtf.

I’d been flumping around the school track for years and nada. I remember one year, year six to be exact, I thought I’d made a sublime escape when somehow my teacher managed to assign a sports day event to everyone but me. There I was fist pumping to myself in the assembly hall thinking HELL YEAH I can just sit on the sidelines like an untameable badass scoffing mini rolls and dairylee dunkers and nobody gon’ tel me no.

Nah.

Somehow she realised and plonked me on the 400m sprint. SPRINT. Ummmmm what? My poor Mum. The poor little lamb had to leave work early to come and endure sports day with all the other Mums cheering on their little Olympians while I was incessantly lapped by my fellow competitors. When I finally flopped across the finish line the entire event had practically been packed up and everyone sent home. No sticker for Emma. No trophy for Emma. No participation award for Emma. No, niente, nish.

I actually have a vague memory of being told I ‘just had to try a little harder’. TRY A LITTLE HARDER? Are you kidding? I can assure you I was trying so flippin’ hard I honestly felt like my thighs were going to pop out of my pelvis and continue running off on their own. Try a little harder. PLEASE.

(Personally I think this is bullshit because if I’d gone into the dumbo class and told the kids they weren’t trying hard enough at maths I’d probably have become very acquainted with a scraper and the underside of a gum-ridden table. But yeah sure I’m just not TRYING hard enough in PE. Okay.)

So yeah. That pretty much scarred me for life and I had a fear of running ever since. I sort of accepted that it wasn’t for me, and that my poor body just couldn’t haul weight around for longer than a few minutes.

Turns out, people like me actually CAN run. And so can YOU. I actually regularly get told ‘I wish I could go running too’. BABES YOU TOTALLY CAN. If anyone knows the feeling of not being able to run it is me. Need I tell you another of the school stories? I’ll save you the pity. But let’s just say when we went to high school and met the infamous 3500m part of the athletics term, well, I pretty much had to be called in from the depths of the track as I’d ‘miss my next class if I didn’t keep up with everyone else’. PE teachers, hey. WANKERS.

I’d actually love to rock up to my old school head to toe in Nike waving a giant flag (perhaps with a marching band behind me for emphasis) and say through a giant megaphone “To all my PE teachers that taught me here between 2002 and 2009, FUCK YOU. I just ran 10k.”

Yep, it’s true. I can run now. Some days it’s 3k, some days it’s 10k. But I can run. Like the effin’ wind (ish).

The key, I think, is to let go of all the reasons you think you can’t run. Whether you’re like me and you’ve been scarred by a lifetime of jibes about your sporting abilities, or perhaps an injury or weight loss/gain, let it all go. Forget the bad memories. It’s just you and the track now.

Start small. You can only run within your means. If you can run 1k, run 1k. If it’s 500m, run 500m. When you feel like you need to walk, walk. But always keep going back to running. Some of my favourite ways to get started are these intervals:

  • 30 seconds run, 1 minute walk
  • 30 seconds run, 30 seconds walk
  • 1 song of running, 1 song of walking (if listening to music)
  • run until lungs feel ready to burst, walk for 1 minute
  • 30 seconds comfortable jog, 20 seconds harder, 10 seconds RUN LIKE MO FARRAH (repeat 10 times)
  • 30 seconds easy, 30 seconds hard

It sounds lame but these little intervals actually build you up really really quickly. Run at least 2-3 times a week and you’ll see a difference so fast I promise. Oh, and get decent running shoes. I’ve learned the hard way that Nike Roshe’s (while totally babetown with a pair of ripped jeans and a striped tee) ain’t a runner’s friend. I’m now rocking the ugliest, chunkiest New Balance kicks (New Balance 1260 V5 Stability to be exact), but they give me the support and shock absorbance I need to not, well, shatter my knee caps.

The Nike + Running app is also my best pal. It shouts out when you reach a certain distance and tells you your pace at the same time, so you can monitor whether to kick it up a gear or slow it down to preserve energy while you’re training your endurance. Oh, and when you’re passing a group of onlookers scoffing a Nandos in the park and it shouts out that you’ve just nailed your 4th kilometre, it sorta feels like you’ve just won gold at Rio16. Just sayin’.

If you like to run to music, go for it, but I’ve actually learned I prefer silence. I can nosey into other people’s conversations in the park, let the wind catch my hair and sort of pretend I’m Delta Goodrem in a music video, or day dream about a load of fantastical shit that’ll never happen like winning American Idol or bumping into Richie off The Bachelor and having an impromptu coffee while gabbing about life. It’s a great mind cleanser, especially for the uptight like me for whom meditation and other relaxation techniques are pretty much useless. Haven’t heard about my meditation experience? Have a read here.

Trust me, you CAN do it. And it feels really awesome when you do. Let go of everything that’d ever stopped you, lace up your hawttt running shoes and stick your middle finger up to everyone that ever told you to TRY harder, BE faster or that you’re anything less than totally rad. RUN THE WORLD, GIRLS.

Peace,

Coco xoxo

 

The Juan and Only Mexican for Me

Okay so let’s get this straight. I effin’ love Mexican food. Partly because it’s all carbs and cheese and spices and more cheese and allll the avo and sour cream I could dream of, and partly because of the plethora of puns that come hand in hand with Mexican chat.

So today I’m gonna taco ’bout some rad Mexican food I scoffed last week. See what I did there? Dw, I’ll stop now.

So last week Jess and I went to the Gold Coast, and somewhere between acting out all the scenes from the Inbetweener’s movie we managed to squeeze in a dinner at Beach Burrito Co. in Coolangatta.

Coolangatta by the way is well worth a visit. When people think of Gold Coast they think of Surfer’s Paradise. Take it from me. It ain’t paradise. Paradise to any self respecting female is chilling on a hammock in Bora Bora while staff fan you with palm tree leaves while sipping mojitos. Surfer’s Paradise is basically the Southern Hemisphere’s answer to Magaluf. Coolangatta is way more up my rapidly aging twenty-something’s alley. Plenty of pensioners, not a nightclub in sight, and a dessert bar IN THE APARTMENT BUILDING. Yup, Max Brenner. You dawg.

Anyway Beach Burrito. With an insane view of the clear blue ocean, the European style white decking and Corona laden interior, it was the ideal place to refuel after a mental day basically having Wet ‘n’ Wild to ourselves (and me nearly peeing my pants after having to be launched backwards down a vertical drop in a shared dinghy with Jess on one of the slides).

Jess had bribed me with the Mexican feast to get me on every ride he could at Wet ‘n’ Wild to relive his childhood (while I almost burst a tonsil screaming at every twist and turn), so I’d already earmarked the chorizo and halloumi plate for starter.

Beach Burrito Co Chorizo and Halloumi Plate
Processed with VSCOcam with f2 preset

While not what I expected, it was delicious. It was sort of like an open wrap. I even ate some of the corn which was inconveniently hidden in every crevice of the halloumi goodness – and for those who know how much I hate corn, this is a milestone. FYI I really hate corn. The cheese was as springy and salty and omg so good – as I’d want halloumi to be, so I was happy.

For main we had burritos. Big, foil wrapped, juicy, can’t fit my chops round it burritos. There are few words. I couldn’t get a decent Instagram worthy snap of it unfortunately, though if I’m honest I only gave it a few trys before I sunk my orthodontically offensive gnashers into the mighty diameter of my Tofu and Bean babe. I had tofu because I’ve sort of given up some meat because I don’t really know why but yeah. Lol yes I know, I had chorizo for starter, but whether or not meat causes cancer, soz life but chorizo is where I draw the line.

I washed this down with a larger, cos, ya know, when in Rome and all that. Aside from the burps that followed my lad style pint was a delight (might I add, Jess had a lemonade, so I did fully embrace the butch beer drinker image). I woulda had a Corona but frankly I find it weird when I sip it and the lemon touches my lip so yeah, went for the Cooly beer on tap (Cooly being the irritating abbreviation of Coolangatta).

All in all, a top place for a Mexican chow down. The tacos looked incred as well and I kinda wish I’d had a few of those instead as they were little tapas-y ones, but… next time! The nachos and loaded fries were all too tempting, but they’ll need to go on the wishlist, too. Even my appetite couldn’t stretch *crys*. I hear there’s one in Fitzroy so yeah, you’ll find me there (this time, taking better pictures!).

Beach Burrito Company
Image via http://www.beachburritocompany.com

Adios amigos

Coco x

Of Course Social Media Isn’t Real – But Social Image Never Has Been

In this day and age (hey grandma), social media and online personalities are constantly coming under scrutiny for presenting a dangerous, unrealistic image to the entire world.

Instagram accounts of skinny girls with perfect hair and perfect eyes encapsulating everything we think we want to be – none of it’s real, and recently, more and more people are piping up looking to be given credit for announcing that oh my effing gee, they used a filter on their Instagram photos. Shock.

The internet is packed with ‘inspirational’ declarations from those coming clean about how their life isn’t as perfect as it seems on social media, how much they were paid to post something to their multitude of followers, and the plethora of deep seated problems behind each and every inch of that golden glowing skin that’s splashed across their Facebook page.

What I want to know is, why did we ever think any of the bullshit that we present to those who judge us ever was real?

Think about it.

Before social media, generation Z and the likes, loves, follows, OMGs and every other public reaction we’re now surrounded by, we were never honest about who we really are.

Take cars. One of the most expensive things most of us will ever buy in our lifetime, yet not a single penny of return on investment. Your white Mercedes plummets thousands of pounds/dollars/yen/monopoly money the second you drive it off the lot, so why do we buy them?

They are an expression of our wealth. And yes, nowadays we display that on social media.

So shoot us.

Before social media, we still would’ve told our friends about it incessantly, snapped pictures on our (albeit dodgy) camera phones or disposables, and showcased our gleaming beacon of glory and success in any way possible.

Because that’s how humans work.

Nobody buys an expensive car purely to get from A to B. We have an inherent need to evoke envy in others.

Hey, for all anyone knows you could’ve landed a killer job with a six figure salary and bought the car with your hard earned cash. You could also have scraped together a down payment and be paying the car off monthly and barely making rent.

If you’re in the latter boat, you’re hardly going to surrender the truth to the world and drive around in a clapped out blue Nova with three wheels just so you’re being honest with the world, are you?

Let’s look at birthday presents, just in case I’m losing you.

Sure, birthday hauls are hella annoying on social media. But we’ve always been doing it. Just because it’s not scrollable, doesn’t mean it never happened.

At school when your mates asked you what you got for your birthday, of course you’d lead with the sassy Miss Sixty jeans and Hooch hoodie, and not with the Blue Tac you needed for your room or the boring old socks from ya Nan.

We’ve always wanted people to think the best of who we are.

That pretty girl you see on the street. That guy who’s just purchased the cool TV. Those friends who go on three holidays a year. Social media or no social media, these things are the very best of who we are. We don’t stand in the street with a sandwich board on shamelessly declaring the bad things about ourselves.

“I ate three doughnuts not one”.

“I got dumped last night”.

“I’m a size 14, not a 12.”

“I’m broke. I’m barely making rent because I earn minimum wage.”

“I have anxiety.”

“I didn’t make many friends at Uni.”

“I miss my ex.”

We’ve always wanted the outside world to think the best of us. It’s how we’re programmed. There’s actually nothing wrong with wacking a bit of Rise or Amaro on our Instagram pics, upping the saturation on our selfies and waiting for the weather to be perfect before uploading that on-point holiday snap.

Really, how is that any different to getting our eyebrows done before a party, wearing makeup and omitting that rainy day from your account of your beach vacay?

Sure, some people on social media take things too far. Some people in real life take things too far, too.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, we need to stop blaming social media for demonstrating an unrealistic expectation of who we are.

It’s not social media’s fault. It’s our own. We were naïve to think the world was ever an honest, upfront place. All social media has done is magnify the audience for our rose tinted reflection of our actions.

The only thing unrealistic is expecting ourselves to be completely honest about who we are 100% of the time.

So let’s wake up. Stop dreaming of the ‘honest’ world before social media, because frankly, there never was one.