Setting boundaries

I pulled the ALDI flashing Christmas tree out of its box last night and plugged it in.

I’m going all out on my festive decorating this year.

No I’m not. The ALDI flashing Christmas tree is it.

There wasn’t time to do much else over the weekend – I was too busy writing an article called “How to set boundaries – and stay sane – this Christmas”.

I wish I’d set a boundary about writing articles about boundaries on weekends.

I have another two weeks of juggling full time work and prior freelance commitments before Christmas sends Australia into hiatus.

Since I spent my weekend researching and writing about boundaries, I’m going to try and live by my own advice and start setting a few to get me through.

I don’t hold high hopes because I’m pretty crap at setting boundaries. I’m a people pleaser, so I invariably say yes to stuff when I really want to say no.

However, I feel rage building inside me … and exploding at Porsche Macans. They are everywhere in my neck of the woods and they perturb and irk me.

Every time I see one I curse their unnecessary extravagance of a Porsche SUV. It’s not envy – despite my desperate desire to get rid of my crappy Renault, I wouldn’t drive a Porsche SUV if you gifted one to me. I walked past a carport on Saturday morning that contained a regular Porsche AND a Macan. FFS.

An author called Fiona Walker (using the pen name Georgie Hall) has written a book called “Women of a certain rage” – she describes menopause as “puberty’s evil older sister”.

I quite like that, except I’m not entirely sure whether what I have is menopausal rage or just the garden variety version. Having my womb razed a few years back means I don’t really have much of a gauge of what’s going on down there from month to month.

Walker noted in an article: “Fifty was a landmark birthday I approached with trepidation, along with oestrogen’s off switch. I’d made a personal pact that by the time I had a 5 in front of my age, I would have found my waist again, learned to love yoga, read all the Booker shortlisted novels and be balayage blonde.

“While I achieved none of those things, I didn’t beat myself up for not meeting expectations. Instead, I woke up after half a century more certain of who I am than I’ve ever been.

“Flawed, funny, a bit fat, unlikely ever to summon my inner marathon runner, but grateful for the wisdom to acknowledge that.”

I recognise that woman. Could be me.

I went walking with a friend yesterday who said she’s fed up with putting everyone else’s needs first and hers last. She reckons it’s time to be a bit selfish, especially when it comes to personal health and wellbeing.

I was winching my way along a bush track with her because my hip is playing up again. I admitted I should probably see a doctor about it, but don’t have time. If it was one of the kids with an issue, I’d make time.

As for Christmas, I’m struggling to make time for that too.

While the old me started Christmas shopping in October, the new me frantically commenced last week.

My family are celebrating Christmas early, then I’m running away on Christmas Day. And I don’t feel even a twinge of regret that there will be no cracker pulling or pudding eating on December 25.

I just want to press the restart button on my life in early January and hope 2022 is a better year.

Though Omicron might have a few words to say about that …

Song of the day: John Lennon “Starting over”

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