Lauren_Edit

At the start of lockdown, I downloaded both The Nike Run Club app and adidas Training by Runtastic because I was about to become a trainer to tarmac enthusiast. An avid gym go-er prior to Covid-19, (who heavily used the cross trainer and not the treadmill - it’s better for your knees I swear) cardio went out the window for me when lockdown hit. Still continuing resistance training as much as humanly possible (with the assistance of bands and loops) I realised it was becoming harder and harder for me to maintain any kind of workout structure without the gym. 

One of my biggest (and possibly only*) faults is the number of times I ask people's opinions on things when I know what I want to do. I’ll just canvass anyone who will listen and running became one of the things I would nag people about. “Will I be alright running outside?” “Where do I go?” “Do you think people will look at me?” "Will people laugh at me?" “Where do I put my phone?” “What if someone records me running, uploads it to YouTube and then I become a meme????” 

About a month ago I bought a skipping rope on Amazon (you’re welcome) and made peace with the fact that I was never going to run. It just wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t handle the potential unknown upward incline and I didn’t have the right trainers anyway. Starting out jumping in our living room I steadily began to realise that a) it was stupid b) annoying for the people in the flat below and c) not like skipping when you’re a kid, at all. One day I decided to skip on our wooden floors without wearing any trainers (100% lazy 100% stupid) and I hurt my knee so badly that I couldn’t do anything for a week. I had frozen peas on it and I even consulted my entire family about the best physiotherapy approach to ease the pain (some more canvassing). I kept it elevated, iced and soothed on ibuprofen.

Anyway, after I recovered from the self-inflicted knee injury I planned to visit the local (now wrapped in hazard tape and no entry signs) outdoor gym to skip without abandon. With a few edges of exposed soft tarmac left to work with, I discovered I was able to jump rope much better than I could indoors (who would’ve thought?). I'd dodged the pressure of feeling like I had to be one of those morning people that shares their Nike tracked 6am run on Instagram (we get it) while successfully introducing cardio back into my own workout routine. 

In summary, it’s not too bad out there. 

1. There are loads of videos on YouTube covering everything from skipping challenges to giving really good advice on how to get started.

2. The surface you skip on makes a big difference. I don’t recommend wooden floors (ha), grass or concrete. Luckily the tarmac at our local outdoor gym is really springy which I think is better for my knees. 

3. I stretch and do a light workout before walking to the park to skip. This warms my body up instead of just going straight into jumping rope. 

4. I count 100 skips before taking a short 15/30 second break and starting up again. This helps focus the session and gives me something to work towards. Sometimes counting in blocks of 25 helps too. I try getting to 500 first. (I did 1,300 today and I think my calves are going to fall out the backs of my legs) 

5. As you’ll be staring ahead at one spot probably for the entire duration of your workout, I think it’s helps to find something to focus on. I could see the top of an ice cream truck today and I stared at it for 30 minutes. 

6. Anddddddd a slice of advice (that rhymes) which I never thought I'd be parting with is: if you ever find yourself in a situation where someone is trying to chat you up while you're skipping during a global pandemic (like me) stay true to yourself, you don't owe anyone anything. 

Good luck out there, remember to maintain a two-metre distance from other skippers, athletes and people. 

Buh-bye, 

Lauren x

*I’m obviously joking, I am deeply flawed. 

While scrolling through my VSCO feed just now (out of pure vanity) I realised I had several saved images from what I'm characterising as ‘lockdown park snacks’. Right at the beginning of everything the parks were open and then they weren’t. For those grass-less three weeks (or was it four?) I stalked the canal that shares a high fence with our local park wondering when we’d be allowed to walk amongst the flowers and have picnics again. Then the chains were eventually unwound and we were granted special access (like when they open the gates in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory) back into the parks of London. 

With an ice cream truck situated at every exit, beers flowing into plastic takeaway cups from local pubs and coffee shops providing iced lattes by the bucket load, if you weren’t rollerblading, running or cycling to celebrate the re-opening of the parks, then you were snacking. 

“Is the coffee shop near you open? Shall we get drinks and sit at opposite ends of the bench in the park?” became the new 'let's grab a cheeky (gross) drink'. Obviously, you can still 'grab a drink’, pubs are technically open, but on a midweek afternoon at 2pm I’m not going to be having an Aperol Spritz in the park while Samantha and her boyfriend Darren are trying couples yoga for the first time on their lunch break, am I? (Or maybe I am???)

Living in a sans garden flat, being able to go back to the park, and socially distance, was a thrilling experience. I was discovering so many local coffee shops and deli’s I never knew about, and in turn, began munching my way through a whole variety of snacks on offer. This included repeatedly purchasing a slice of red velvet cake from the same place (washed down with iced lattes), a Margherita pizza, a pint which came with its own plastic lid, two bottles of Corona, lemonade produced in East London, some homemade scones that I baked (with all the trimmings) and a 99 flake which cost £2.50. 

(Not all consumed on the same day).

Upon purchasing these snacks, and wandering the lengths and breadths of our local parks, I have had some of my nicest mornings, afternoons and evenings (ending at 6pm) in recent memory. From discussing relationships to politics to people watching (the best) to fantasising about living in a big three-floor townhouse overlooking the park, all these moments have been highlighted, triumphed and enhanced by the addition of takeaway food.

Lovely. 

B-Y-E  

Lauren x

I kept pausing tonight’s flat viewing of the 2020 romcom ‘Emma’ to tell Jules that the story is exactly like Clueless. “This part literally happens in Clueless, have you seen it? It literally happens”. “I saw that film when I was 15” Jules replied. I took to Google just now to confirm my theory and the producers say that the 1995 cult classic is ‘loosely’ based on Austen’s 1815 novel BUT there’s a guy in Emma called Mr Elton, just like Elton in Clueless (Hellooo?!?!) I amaze myself at least 15 times a day.

Can I just say that I also love Bill Nighy so much and wish he was related to me in some way? Like a long lost, twice removed distant cousin or someone that was there to give me impartial life advice.

After the movie ended (it was really good by the way, highly recommend, the costumes were incredible thanks to Oscar-winning designer Alexandra Byrne!!) I was looking in the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth and realised it’s been about a month since I cut my fringe. I have to say it was a really excellent decision on my part that helps frame my face. However, I’m not willing to go the extra mile and start hacking off the actual length of my hair even though I desperately need a haircut. I’ve dipped my toe in the hair alteration pool many times before and I’m officially retired in that department. 

I just fell down a hole on YouTube which involved watching four separate videos of Emma and Mr Knightley falling in love. Now I’m going to watch that scene from Pride & Prejudice where Elizabeth is dancing with Mr Darcy. 

I’m done. 

Ever your most affectionate blogger,

Lauren x

“I don’t feel very sexy today,” I said to Jules this evening as I plugged my nose with tissue from my bedside table stash. “Why?” she replied. “I don’t know I just feel unattractive, like, I just don’t even know, you know?” I say staring at her with tissue hanging from my face to stop yet another frustration nosebleed. “It’s just like this sometimes, you’re not stimulated,” she said back to me. 

Sitting down to assess if the bleeding had stopped, I attribute this frustration to my current read: Women Don’t Owe You Pretty by feminist powerhouse Florence Given (currently £11.43 on Amazon). A 222-page corker, the book is forcing me to reconsider the entire way I look at myself. (Honestly, like, the entire way). It’s as if she’s inside my brain asking me if the choices I’m making about my body, my wardrobe and my life are my actual choices. Or if they are, in fact, a direct result of living in a patriarchal society which forces me (and other women) to think that being inferior, quiet, pretty and submissive is all we should be, or ever need to be.

*internal screaming for 10 hours*

This reminds me of the myriad of degrading comments men have made to me in my life, the internalised misogyny I’ve experienced from other women, the choice to take an Uber for five minutes instead of walking (because I wanted to feel safe), the men who’ve moved passed me in a club and grabbed my waist or touched my bum, not knowing where to look when a passer-by leers at me from his car/truck/van or even getting dressed in the morning and then changing my outfit five minutes before I leave because I don’t want to be sexualised for what I’m wearing. 

It’s stupid and frustrating. 

Even now I’m sitting here grappling with own internalised misogyny towards myself, hating who I am for things I can and can’t do as a woman. Irregular periods = failure to reproduce. Having acne or bad breakouts = ugly by current beauty standards. Small boobs = ugly by current beauty standards. And I hate these things for what? For why? For whyyyyy? Is it because I feel that possessing fully functioning fallopian tubes and cyst-free ovaries will make me more attractive to the opposite sex? Because it's nothing to do with how I view myself at all. 

ARHHSJFKAJSNDAJKnfjnsdjkfndkdfvfm. 

Anyway, while I continue this important internal battle, I totally recommend the book; I only started it yesterday and I’m nearly finished. Jules actually bought it for us both to read as we each follow Florence Given on social media - which I urge you do right now too. I’ve struggled to find a decent book to read throughout lockdown but it’s so nice to sit down and get lost in totally important headspace that alters how I view life. 

LATERS, I’m going to try and not base my current level of attraction on whether or not I can fit into high waist denim shorts. 

Lauren x

(I'm using a Tesco receipt for a bookmark yes, okay?!)

A few days ago (I may or may not be resurrecting this post from my drafts. If I am, dear, sweet, future Lauren please do not let this world twist you into something bitter because of what’s happened) I had my phone stolen from my hands as I was crossing a narrow road in Shoreditch. It’s somewhere I’ve walked countless times, so this felt like a strange, annoying personal violation of my space. There was nothing more bizarre than watching my phone, my memories, my conversations and my photos slide into the pocket of a stranger as he cycled away from me. 

That moment was then immediately followed by a shockwave of disbelief, an exhausting panic attack, a shouting match with an EE customer service representative (because I couldn’t remember a memorable date - I still can't, I'm sorry) and an emotional bus ride home (tears absorbed into my face mask, of course, let’s not forget we’re in the middle of a global pandemic still). I then burst through our front door in bits, cried to Jules, cried to another employee of EE down the phone for an hour (Connor if you’re reading this, you’re a saint, and I did get a takeaway and a cup of tea and you made my day one million times better), followed by a brief conversation with the police. Then, after all that, I finally sobbed to my parents on FaceTime as I held my flatmate's phone at a wobbly angle in my shakey hands. This didn’t help; I was wearing orange and I’m ugly when I cry. 

I’m trying to be as light-hearted and as humorous about this as I can (to make myself feel slightly better, laughter is the best medicine, right?) but this experience, for me, in my life, is just another interaction to chuck on the ever-growing pile of things that leave me feeling frustrated, angry and let down. During my bus ride home I became agitated about everything: at how people have treated me, at family members who’ve passed away, at how they passed away, at how I’ve been mistreated by ex-partners, at how I’ve been mistreated by other people and at just the general state of the world. It was as if all the horrific interactions I’ve ever had were fusing together to grate on me harder than they have for a really long time. (In this scenario I am a block of cheddar and life is this rusty, out of shape £1 cheese grater with a broken handle). 

Someone told me once that the world would come around and get me like I was on a collision course for failure because he felt that that was what I owed. On my bad days, like this one, I almost believe that the most toxic words ever said to me are true. I’ve had two very, very, verrryyyy unpleasant experiences happen in quick succession that I now chalk every moment in my life up to, good or bad. This probably isn’t the best way to live but it helps me gain perspective on challenging situations so I can remember that each time I’m scared, angry, lonely, afraid, upset or hurt that nothing lasts forever, literally nothing. The sun will always rise and time marches on.

~

Now that I’ve calmed down, I’m not sure I even feel sad anymore. I just know that I’ve had days worse than this. Much worse. I feel a pang of empathy for the person who stole my phone and wonder what his life must be like for him to be riding around London taking things that don’t belong to him. It’s a strange world we live in that perplexes, confuses and terrifies me every day, multiple times a day. I always strive to be kind and understanding in any way I can; I never want to be sharp or cold or walk around with a chip on my shoulder that makes me lash out at other people. However, some days, some fucking days, I hurt so astronomically that I question: why be polite, nice or considerate when no one else is? How far has being nice and respectful got me anyway if I'm just cheddar in a cheese grater?

These are abnormal, trying and difficult times to navigate, be gentle with yourself.  

Lauren x