Thursday 12 February 2015

Life After Germany: Parked On "Civi Street"

Usually, there's too much going on for me to really mull it over. There's always an empty Word document crying out to be addressed, nights out to dress up for, rude customers to bite my tongue at every weekend whilst behind the tills. My life in Glasgow simply doesn't allow me the time to sit and think "god, you know what? I'm missing it. I really bloody miss Germany"

But I'm going to confess it all now. We are six months gone - half a year - and I am still seriously missing Germany. I even cried about it the other day, and I am famously reluctant to do anything that might jeopardise my meticulously applied mascara.

But there's almost shame attached to how this feels; I'm a military child, I was brought up to not invest meanings into the places we inhabit for such short times. Military children are good at getting over it. We're good at saying "thanks for the memories - but it's time to say our goodbyes"

Home was always less where the heart is, more "where the helicopters are".

So this is unusual. This isn't how it works. I shouldn't be thinking about how much I'm missing all the places I love in Germany as often as I currently do, because leaving places I love behind is all I've ever known. I shouldn't even be thinking about my old home, let alone actively longing for it - let alone ruining my mascara in my real moments of sadness.

Yet, for the past few weeks it's been like this little dull ache in my stomach, like very tame period pain; not particularly interfering nor harmful, but always present and a constant nuisance. When I was in Berlin with my friends last month, I actually had to leave the hostel bar early on the first night - parting from my actual German Jagermeister, the horror of it! - and take a moment to myself in the room. I found it overwhelmingly emotional to be back in this country I loved, but was already anticipating just how hard it would be to leave again.

To be honest, getting over leaving Germany hasn't been the only thing I've struggled with. As the months have passed and I spend my life pretty much exclusively on "civi street", I feel the distinct loss of my identity. It's hard to describe to people on the outside of it all, but I sincerely used to like being able to say I was a padsbrat. Less so because of the whole "proud of our Armed Forces!" rhetoric, but because it was, well, almost like a badge of honour; more of a "see all the shit I've had to go through because of this lifestyle; see how strong it's made me?"

But the past eighteen months or so in Glasgow has taught me to keep my mouth shut regarding that area; to put it bluntly, I've had people make their anti-armed forces stance very clear to me, and perhaps not in the most tactful of ways ("your dad's probably shot someone, how does that feel?") either. I mean, I've always acknowledged that there would be people who absolutely hated them and would have their reasons for it - whatever, I can deal with that. But...for want of something less pathetic sounding to say, that's still my dad those comments are aimed at. That's the man I can't even find the words to describe my love and respect for.

So I've taken to avoiding telling people my dad's profession, because I now see what they might be thinking, and despite my best efforts, I can't help but take it personally. Therefore, the padsbrat in me is keeping very quiet these days; so much so that really, she's hardly there.

I'm still struggling to keep quiet about these intensified feelings of longing and nostalgia, however. Maybe it's something to do with my childish resentment of the fact that I'm flying home to our new base in Yeovil on Sunday - not Dusseldorf airport.

In my original blog written on the night before we moved out of our house last summer, I described how moving away from a place you loved was "like grieving not for a person, but for a life you once had". So I guess this is just how it'll be for a little while longer. I'm still grieving, and don't people say that there's no time frame for this sort of thing? Most of the time it's manageable, certainly, but when the things that remind me of Germany appear in my own little life in Glasgow, I can't help but feel more bothered than usual; like during my German seminar, when I see a man in uniform or hear a helicopter outside as I'm falling asleep.

Yeah. I'd be lying if I said those moments didn't really bother me.

Sunday 8 February 2015

A Note on Valentine's Day

You can see it too, right?

That's love. Like it or not, it's that time of year and looooove is in the air.

Love floats from the restaurants of Ashton Lane, you can't move for it in Royal Exchange Square. It's drifting around the chapels, the quirky cafes and the parks of Glasgow.

Love for the person who holds the other half of the proverbial split-heart necklace; or as the case may be, you're like me and don't even have that necklace. So instead it's love for the sight of the bottom of the bottle, a takeaway of your choice and that card falling through the letterbox that you already know is from your gran (of course you love it - there's probably a tenner inside it)

For Valentine's Day this year, I'll be dragging my untoned bottom ("what's the point of squats? It's NOT LIKE ANYONE IS GOING TO SEE IT!!") to work for the full day shift - god, it's like they knew I wouldn't be spending it with a boyfriend or anything remotely nice like that. Eight and a half hours of couples strolling hand in hand into the shop, giggling and whispering at the condom section, eventually arriving to the till with lipstick, chocolate, lube and a smirk on their faces.

"Bloody lucky you" I have to stop myself muttering. For me, this year's Valentine's Day will be as romantic as crying in Marks & Spencers because my boss told me off, or getting sent an unsolicited dick pic from an unknown number.

I hope it won't be busy, and the romance stays strictly in the chapels, the cafes and the parks of Glasgow, because when it's quiet in the shop and all I have to do is stand there, that's when I think about things properly; when there's no phone in hand, no laptop in front of me. Just everything in crystal clarity.

With that clarity along with the poignancy of the date itself, I'll probably recall the little romantic memories I keep stored away for the days I spend in bed listening to NeYo's So Sick more than one realistically should in a single hour.

Cuddles on that same old bench of my old college campus. Holding hands under a table. Waking up every morning to the same text with words that made me swoon. When he would shuffle towards me, use his thumb to rub the lipstick off my front tooth, then kiss me. George Square under the Christmas lights. The way it made me feel when I heard Unintended by Muse. Smitten side glances across a classroom. The sun setting over the abandoned, overgrown park where we sat on the swings; the last time he and I ever saw each other. Walking down Byres Road in the rain at 5am in my pyjamas on New Year's Day.

Those sorts of memories that I've collected over the years which I don't really mind not forgetting about; no matter how badly it may have ended with the person I shared them with, no matter how long ago it was, now. I'd be lying if I said these memories didn't make me wish I did have somebody to create new ones with; not just on this one day, but every day, really. Nevertheless, those sorts of wishes are futile and a bad usage of my headspace. I have essays to write and a head of hair to work on stimulating into more rapid growth; it has a whole inch to go before it's finally on my shoulders. That's a thought considerably more painful than having nobody to wake up and spoon on the 14th of February.

Nope, instead I'll put my make up on, pull on that unflattering fleece and stand at the tills, grabbing every moment I have to myself to reflect fondly on those memories. Then maybe I'll ponder the last time I actually shaved my legs, or inspect the contents of my purse. There's no aftershave I could possibly afford, anyway - I should know, I work in Superdrug. But there's definitely enough there for dinner for one at my favourite West End restaurant.

And then I feel alright about spending another Valentine's Day on my own.

Sunday 1 February 2015

"Feelin' Myself": Beauty and the Boots

It is the 1st February 2015. I am twenty years old, I haven't washed my hair in 48 hours, my skin is covered in spots, my moods are often unpredictable and I have never felt more beautiful in my life.

How do you feel when you read that? Are you happy for me? Are you happy that you'll finally stop pretending to find my self deprecating jokes funny (or the more recent development - just telling me that my jokes weren't funny)?

Or are you unnerved that I would make such a bold statement - unusually fearless and confident?

Truthfully, I've unnerved myself. This isn't a normal way for me to feel, this chirpy self assurance. For as long as I can remember, I've struggled to wake up as Floraidh Clement each day, in her spotty skin and unsure of whether she'll laugh or cry in those first few seconds of connecting those early morning dots - "who am I? What is my situation right now? Am I happy?"

The last month was a time when those questions were not ones I answered in total confidence - I'm Floraidh and I could be a lot better, my situation could be a lot better, I'm alright I suppose but still, I guess it could be a lot better.

But after a hard few weeks, I'm beginning to wake up with gratitude for being in this skin, no matter how blemished and in desperate need of some Sudocrem it truly is. I have found the people I was always meant to be friends with. I'm finding my degree course especially difficult at the minute, but I've not given up. I write a column I am sincerely chuffed with. I hope, at least, that I am making my mum and dad proud. I have let go of the people I clung to for fear of them moving on with somebody that wasn't me. I am growing less and less concerned about what people must be thinking of me with every word that leaves my lips.

But one concern that has taken me an incredibly long time to shake was the fact that I am not a conventionally pretty girl. I'm a plain girl who simply does the best with herself. For years I fully believed it to be the pretty girls who get noticed, the pretty girls who don't have to compensate for their lack of immediate allure by simply being funny or writing a blog to convey what they're really thinking; they are simply there, and that is enough for people to take notice of what they have to say.

But I have learnt particularly in the wake of the last month's adversities that feeling beautiful is not a purely aesthetic thing; it's not just pulling on the new bodycon dress my boobs look incredible in or buying a lipstick that surely costs the same price as return flights to Paris.

It is knowing people are finally starting to take notice of what I have to say because they sincerely want to hear it.

It is buying some badass heeled knee length boots that I stomp around and feel like I could smash through the glass ceiling in.

It is being surrounded by strong, intelligent girls who I'd probably feel intimidated by if I didn't know that that they miss their morning lectures just as often as I seem to, or wear Snoopy pyjamas to bed. It is having their positive influence and wisdom in my life; it is them making me both want to be better, but also reassured that it's fine to be how I am just now, too.

It is finding the dignity to walk away from a situation that is ultimately not making me happy. It is knowing better than to put myself in that toxic position where I feel I am competing with another girl.

It is taking every step possible to be my own best friend and doing whatever I can to look after my mental health.

It is finishing a yoga workout, lying there sweating and flushed on my bedroom floor in my American Pyscho t shirt and leggings, rolling over and dialling Pizza Hut; there is no punishing myself, no gruelling regime I acquire no pleasure from.

Yep, this "feeling beautiful" shenanigan seems to all be down accepting how I am, working with what I have and trying to refrain from ruthlessly punishing myself for what I don't. I mean, purchasing those boots helped infinitely...but still, I am starting to believe that the spotty chick in the mirror isn't so boring, charmless or uninteresting after all, and man am I beginning to really, really warm to her.