Blessed Stressedness

The tingles arise. The palpitations start. A small bead of sweat runs over a popped forehead vein. It's that enemy we all know: stress, with its unattractive mystique, fast-talking personality and sudden fits of rage. You know when it's coming - it lets you know hours, even days before. And you certainly remember the time it lays its unwelcome head on your welcome mat. No amount of yoga meditation can help you now.

But what if stress was our undercover friend, a kind of frenemy? Maybe its sweaty-palm odour was really a guarana-infused aroma, bettering our lives. Perhaps it was a form of protector, alerting you to a 'run vibe' with rapists, putting up red flags on your bad date, letting you know when someone from work was a little disappointed with your efforts. It may be that friend that gives you a swift kick when you're letting yourself down, especially in a hungover hemisphere. It wipes the smeared mascara off your face after a bad day, leading you reluctantly back to Excel. It might even give you a little kick at the gym after that myriad of coffees, in order make that tush a little tighter. What was the reason it was supposed to be bad again?

Lactose Intolerance: When Did It Become Cool?

Of course there will be stress disorders. But these don't affect the average person, whomever that is (unless of course you're one of those lactose-intolerant, 'shopping-addicted', semi-employed chihuahua types). Stress is a friend to be sat in like an uncomfy chair. The more you are aware of the reality of the chair the more you hate it; however if you were to appreciate that it is holding you up more than your lax La-Z-Boy, you might come to adore its uncomfortable ways. It's like that bit too much chilli in your sandwich: it may be a pain but it certainly makes you aware (and similarly teary, at times). To be blessed with stress is to be aware of your surroundings, akin to swimming in a kind of crazy ch'i. Feeling semi-run over but alerted to all that is wrong in the world, you can make your own life better via your own caffeinated kick-in-the-guts.

To those currently holding a stress serum or smelling salts under the tongue, the message is clear: less stress is only a beauty therapy massage away. But perhaps it may be time to enjoy the rollercoaster that is your hormones and personal problems; perhaps as an ode to the frenemy that is clearly here to stay. Stressedness is blessedness, the tool of the powerful and the complaint of the weak.

Honoring the Humorous: How Jokesters Jump From Anonymity to Friendship in One Easy Line

This week is about paying tribute to that thing we all like to do: relax. Because, really, there are too many boring banalities in our lives already. Spreadsheets. Cleaning. Cooking (the hatred of which many of us are too ashamed to admit). Bank balances. Petrol stations. Threads coming off your clothing (which happens in a sadly large price range of clothing for our 'first-world' country). Much of life is really preposterous and painful, a thief of the nano-seconds of your time that you could be using to, say, watch Jersey Shore. Too many tetchy tidbits taking up your time really furrow that Botoxed brow.

Which is why we love those that create the more desirable of facial lines, the ones around the mouth. Not the haggardly smoker's ones, faintly reminiscent of the scrunch of a crispy wonton, but the jovial laugh lines so coveted in an accountant's office. The lovely people that create these lines are the jokesters. Pranksters. The naughty ones. The ones that think outside the box and will refer to yours without missing a beat. These are the ones that bring the joy into work lunches, the pissed into parties, the gossip into get-togethers. We all know a few, we all remember them. They make us feel a certain way.

The Unofficial Muse of the Smoker's Mouth

To be dry and insert an adage into a light piece of material, there is an Oprah-esque thought that fits in quite nicely here: 'We don't remember what somebody has said, but we always remember how they made us feel'. Whomever this anonymous asp is that slid into Oprah's good books was either talking about a good (or terribly bad) date, or a humorous human. Humour really is the feeling of relief we all need from whatever troubles we're having, place we're staying or person we're dating. Laughter is in itself memorable because it made you feel better; made your laugh a shriek in a quiet boardroom; helped erupt a not-so-subtle snort in the kitchen. A good laugh inserts activity in your own life regardless of who set it off. It leaves that little bit of gratitude for the guy who granted it, they the god of relieving the mundane.

A jolly jokester can win your heart in no time. A couple of cheap lines can make up for the lack of a couple of expensive ones in the bathroom, even for the most toxic of social groups. The guard is let down. The jest slides through without obstruction. A connection is made. And it always is astounding just how fast it is made, in comparison at least to the ant-like conversation of those without the tricks. The famous book 'How To Win Friends and Influence People' could be summarized in a few words: make people laugh. At least you'll see less frown lines because of it.

Mimicking The Mask

It doesn't take long in the business world to realize that the ladder to success is multi-dimensional. Rising up in the company or getting that promotion isn't just a matter of doing your job properly, or even better than properly. It's about whether people believe you're doing it properly. Others need to believe in your greatness so you can rise. The opinions of people we often don't even consider are the yeast in our professional muffins, the electricity in our career elevators. People get job offers, promotions, good words often just based on word of mouth, right? 

Keeping in mind that this piece is a light blog rather than a hefty, eventually full-of-self-loathing self-help book, there is a piece of wisdom worth sharing. It's name? Professional distance. Upon entering the world of suits and ties, one feels a sense of intimidation, the feeling that, at your core, your heart and soul are not  as professional, packaged, and lint-free as your exterior. But then, considering the office is full of other human beings, it must be remembered that their souls are not fluff-free either. It is more that their exterior has a professional mask that goes with it: a mask that smiles, orders and doesn't back down. A mask that fights for the smallest piece of information merely to uphold its superiority. And this, my friends, is what I would call professional distance.

Excel: Proving that uni did teach you something you can use in the workplace

Upon first encountering The Mask of professional distance, my enthusiasm slid like a stripper down a pole of degradation. Why were people not chucking Post-It notes over my desk and sending jokes via Facebook chat? Was I liked, equal even? A smile here and there felt like an extra dollar in the garter, a mood-lifter but faintly smacking of humiliation and disregarded opinion. The need to please, to please, to please arose, as Excel tricks and  crafty emails of inspiration flooded the dimly lit professional stage. 

Then the lights came on. I saw a crack in The Mask, a chipped fingernail, a piece of fabric which showed a lack of drycleaning, a label reading 'Farmers' even. The lightbulb within shone, revealing the professional light within. For it was not a trait of character, a plasticity of persona that was needed for success or recognition, but a form of acting. The Mask was needed by all of us for respect, so that people would get things done. It was a mask of fear, almost, for fear instilled action. The Mask could be removed in one's private time, if need be. It certainly explained the industry's love of drinking.


The Mask, now, is still a little green: green with envy, green with sickness induced by a life of partying, green from staying in the office too long. But the professional Mask, or professional distance, is only one of many masks we wear. Sexiness, class, prissiness, being a 'team player', civility, and sometimes even interestedness are things we wear almost everyday: our most natural masks. Seems it doesn't take being into showtunes to become an actor.

The Mosquito in Life's Mojito

The sun is shining, the weather is sweet, yeah. The emotional climate of the day is happy, humble, and honest - refreshingly simple. The amble down the road in your jandals is exactly where you want to be, a perfect slice of peace. Thoughts drift cloud-like in your mind, sprouting ideas inside your mind's bubble. Smiles pass and go with the people. It's all a dream and then - all is lost. You've found the mosquito in your life's mojito.

To the casual observer the above passage may seem an irrelevant ramble. It may stay that way for some. But for those who care for an explanation I shall make it more explicit. Life, it appears to me, is much like a wave. In any given situation there is an underlying current of expected emotion and action, which allows events to unfold smoothly. The flow of these situations is usually enabled by  good and noble thoughts: consideration for other people; acts of kindness such as opening a door; respect for people's space so as to not get in their way. A little something called emotional intelligence. Since the majority of people appear to not have evil agendas that need to be disrupted, this pattern works perfectly, seamlessly. It instills a sense of order in the world which is liquid and beautiful. Life here is your mojito.

Upon sipping the sweet nectar of the mojito, a mosquito may sometimes spy it's prey. The mosquito may come in many forms, but none of them pretty. The screech of their complaints and disturbance of the peace takes it all away. They might be the person standing in front of you in the queue, a disliked relative, a sassy schoolgirl with socks pulled high, an elderly lady crossing the road. You never do know when the mosquito will attack. But once the drone has hit the conversation and drowned out your Hegelian fantasies with it, the day is never quite the same.

Yet what is it that is so threatening about the mosquito? Well, nothing really. It is more that they disturb the current of what feels good in a situation, sucking the joy out of it for an unnecessary length of time. Upon taking the bus today I observed a prime example of the undercover mosquito: a loud-mouthed passenger. Watching the ticketing system with interest, she tried to shame the driver for no reason other than trying to assert her sense of authority. The seamless situation ruptured, my darkest frown was imparted to her to no avail; the passenger did not notice. And those of the mosquito persuasion never quite do; it's all about their own peace, since they're unable to respect the peace of others. My heart went out to the driver's pride and the tipped mojito, never to be experienced the same again. The mosquito's bitter disease infused the bus, spreading bad blood across its bitten congregation.


The moral of the story? Try not to be a mosquito, if you can help it. Most are considerate and never need to be told. Everyone has a mojito worth saving; the small irritations of life aren't where it's at. It'd just be nicer to not have to walk through their sting to learn the lesson.

The Gaol of Greatness

Great. Powerful. Important. It is these words we use to describe who we want to be. Whether we're driven by career, or by popularity, or sex, or possession, the best is where we want to be: better than we are now, or than we can imagine being. The rise of the individual has framed our mindsets to greatness in even the simplest of everyday tasks. Being the best is what drives much of our capitalistic economy, Tall Poppy Syndrome and all.

But what if instead of moving up or becoming more powerful, we could only trade places? Perhaps I should elaborate on trade: trade as in a swapping of places with another person's role in society. Is that even possible, you ask? Well, sure it is - most decisions we make in life are trades. Passenger seat or back seat? To go to uni or not to go to uni? To buy designer or not? To swear or to not to swear? The simplest of choices coalesce together to build societal roles over time that, although not fixed or even true, are perceived by different members of a given society as a particular stereotype. At least, mostly. Not the same stereotype, of course: perception is always relative to where you're sitting. But a particular personality-at-a-glance sense that differs from one person to the next. A personality-at-a-glance sense that communities often share as the same perceived identity. Hobo. Metrosexual. Teeny-boppers. Hermit. Homosexual. Categories like that.

Many of us (without generalizing) think that by moving up particular ladders designated by our society as valued (salary, position, husband/wifedom, beauty) that we'll be better off. However, after a delve into the world of oft-scary literary theory, I stole an idea, or perhaps truth, that we often forget: no societal position is with full benefits. Really, you say? I don't mean necessarily that no position is best because of differing cultural values, or personal beliefs: I mean more that any position is a trade-off for any person. Well sure, you say: moving up requires hard work in almost any circumstance. Well, yes: but the achieved position itself both excludes and includes good things, even if it is seen as higher up on the hierarchy societally. Better is not not necessarily better-off.

I suspect the modern Western mind is so infused with particular ideas of success that this is hard to stomach, perhaps believe. I have to admit the idea was spawned from a queer literary theorist, one of the most marginalized of societal roles. But where else would such an idea come from if not the marginalized? The best way to explain the concept is through illustration. In a society there is always a network of meanings that constitute where a person fits in a given situation: ideas such as class, race, position, financial security. To be a combo of any of these positions is to be enabled in some ways, disabled in others. As a blue-collar worker, one will be accepted by one group of peers but not another. The same goes for a CEO. Both will be seen in particular lights by particular people. Both will be accepted in different situations. Both will be feared in some respects and not in others; both liked and hated in the same way, as judged solely by their societal roles. They will be treated differently by different communities. Higher on the ladder is not always better: just ask a politician. Who to better demonstrate the unenviable position of needing to be liked by a majority that mostly fears or distrusts them? A change of position is not an adding to the qualities you already have: it is a downright exchange.

But why, you say, should this matter? Surely you would rather be feared as a CEO than welcomed as a binman? Well, sure: it all depends what you want out of your situation. I suppose for one starting out in the world of business the idea was a revelation to me; social advertising quickly saturates the mind with who you should aspire to be. And with social track-records like Facebook Timeline to thank, perhaps our role histories will never be removed, our trade-offs always tracked. With our century's increasing focus on everything to do with #self, the idea certainly curbs my idea of freedom. Didn't university, our parents, our society, tell us that we could do everything we wanted? I certainly missed the part where every position excluded some things to include others. Having everything is overrated - the fun's in the struggle. Guess it's just nice to know that the binman, too, has something we don't.

The Fine Line Between Making the Most of Yourself and Looking Like an Egg

Tarting it up. Preening and Primming. Getting out the big guns. Whatever you want to call it, we all (especially us ladies) do it on a daily basis. It’s that little bit of perfume sprinkled on your jacket, that extra nice pair of earrings you don’t always wear, even that checking that your clothes are stain-free before they meet the public eye (well, hopefully, anyway). It’s called sprucing yourself up, and with a multi-billion dollar beauty industry booming, it seems we’re just that little bit into it.

Lookin' Pretty at the Gym: The Duck Brigade

There’s nothing wrong with a bit of a touch-up now and then. I guess the question here is when it gets out of hand. This whole debate is of course contextual. Working out at the gym is a low-key spruce scenario - your hair can be matted, skin smelly, looks ugly (although this one is a bit of a paradox, as you are indeed going there to improve your looks anyway). But then there’s a few tricky ones. Class. Client meetings. A cheeky one in the pub. Aimless wandering around the streets pretending to do work you should be doing. Do you have to look polished for these activities? Do you look like a dork if you do?

I’m not sure exactly who wrote ‘the rules’, but I gather they certainly do exist. There’s that linger on the person in the room who definitely overstepped the boundaries when it came to personal presentation. There’s that instant shuffling with the person who looks completely out of context. The question is: why do we care? I’m not going to be insulting and say it’s because you believe that what a person looks like actually reflects what they are like inside, let alone their dress. But then they do, in a way. A fashion choice in the wardrobe goes through several key stages: the magical moment, the money, and the modeling. If you can like something enough to be bothered to go through these stages, then in some way the pieces that you wear reflect what you feel like or how you would like to be seen. So to what extent does a dressy missy or hard-out hunk personally resemble the way they dress?

A demonstration of how to naturally finish your set

Besides the fact that I have used the term ‘egg’ in the title as connoting a type of person, there is one other aspect that makes this column unmistakably Kiwi. It is that it assumes there is something wrong with being a ‘hard-out’. Our tall-poppy syndrome can be rather hindering in this sense. We can be successful and elegant, friendly and fun, but there’s always going to be some bitter biatch in the corner that can’t take it. In the matter of people that overdress or dress actually how they would like to (e.g. not in a jeans, t-shirt, hoodie/ Kathmandu jacket plus chucks kind of way), are we as a society just being a bigger, bitterer biatch? What is it to us whether someone likes to wear heels to the football or studs in the workplace? Is it because secretly we think they look fabulous and can't bear to express it? Because we would, underneath, love to rock out some crazy form of hippy gear but don’t have the confidence they have to take it from the closet to the street? Readers, please. There’s enough guys trying to naturally finish their sets without having to comment on someone else’s.

To leave you with a less bitter taste in your mouth: be happy for those who dare to dress up or dress crazy. Secretly, we all know, there’s a part of us like that too. Think about what your dress fantasy is. Pocahontas? The Grudge? Yourself? For the meantime, though, go back to your fearful black cardigans and I-clearly-don’t-care-but-pay-a-lot-of-money-to-not-care Kathmandus. Your peers will thank you for it.

Shakespeare goes Shorty Street

A darkened stage. A shout. A love embrace. It was all very Shakespearean, and it was all very Maidment Theatre. After watching the embrace and wondering what it was like to dance with your face under your lover’s t-shirt, I was serenaded with a cacophony of interpretative dance, raucous voices and imitated drunkenness. It was a nice introduction to a piece which, to my shame, I was simultaneously watching and adding to my literary education. It was also a show appreciated by the audience, who smelt of cologne and alcohol and consisted of many a face off Shortland Street.

For those that do not know the story, it is typically Shakespearean: it starts with a tale of passionately requited love that is forbidden, and ends with a death of the beloved that is a sorely regretted crime of passion. Somewhere in the middle there is a meddling swine that twists everything around, accompanied by many a party to get the festive juices flowing. It is a classical drama of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’, elaborately intensified through classical postures and trained artistic skill.

I must say, as an amateur Shakespearean follower, I did rather admire the way the cast brought the play into the present time and humour. Still true to form and word, they acted remarkably, but were not averse to a few drinking and cheating jokes. Not knowing the story, most happenings in the play were picked up at the start by cues of intonation and body language, upon which one could build the scene with the beauty of old-world language like an artistic trifle cake. It was all very fluid, duly dramatic, and only a little over the top but in the most apt and predictable fashion for a play of such an era.

Remarkable on the stage was lead Robbie Magasiva (Othello), whose anger was gradually built up to the point of bursting shockingly and consistently throughout the story. Otherwise, none were under par but of particular mention was Olivia Tennet (Amelia), whose supporting act showcased her ability to sing, play the violin, dance beautifully and act modest all at the same time. All the characters, it seemed, were truly developed by the last quarter; nevertheless, the whole bunch of them were quite beautiful gym bunnies who contributed in some way to the tale.

Packed to the rafters with much laughter, Maidment’s Othello was certainly a sturdy effort. I would find it hard to pick holes in the performance, and certain scenes were truly delightful (Othello’s discovery of his deception after Desdemona’s murder was particularly heart-wrenching). All in all, a rainy night at the Maidment appeared to rain on a few faces within the theatre, too, a sure indicator of success.

Maidment Theatre. Dir. Jesse Peach. Duration: 2 hours; starring Robbie Magasiva and Matt Minto