Everybody’s different; granted. We’re all individuals; I agree. But there are somethings that make us all the same. Here are some examples.
1. That feeling you get right before the wax is pulled off. When you’re lying on the table completely vulnerable awaiting someone to rip hair from your face or body. We all feel the same.
2. When you get to the counter and the sale item that you picked up is reduced even further: You know what I’m talking about.
3. When somebody asks you a question about something you feel like you’re fumbling through (ie motherhood or a new job or even weight loss) and you suddenly realise, hey maybe I’m not as totally incompetent as I feel at this thing.
and 4. When you’ve finished packing all the groceries, and the baby, and the nappy bag in the car, returned the trolley to the bay and put your seatbelt on and then remember why you actually drove to Woolies in the first place. Am I the only steering wheel-headbutter up in here?
If you ask me, we’re all the same.
Which is what my mum taught me when I was 12 years old. It was a sunny crisp morning and I was an awkward, pubescent, lanky year sevener on my way to being on a school-aged game show. For some unknown reason my school thought it would be a good idea to wear our brown and green uniform, despite everyone else wearing cool free dress like tweety bird shirts and jeans with Etnies.
I was nervous as anything, and thanks to my sheltered childhood (which I am appreciative of) knew barely anything about hip game show topics. Especially questions on Simpsons characters (which we weren’t allowed to watch), but fumbling again, got myself through it and won a holiday for my family.
I wasn’t a cool kid. I had a limp, and a scar thanks to several jaunts on the operating table to try and fix a gimp leg, and I wore boy’s clothing. In hindsight it’s probably a good thing that I was sporting a bottle green netball skirt. This picture is the formal uniform, thank goodness there aren’t many pics of me in a sports one.
As nervous as an old dog at a kids’ birthday party I wanted to runaway and not step on that excursion bus. But that morning my mum shared with me a truth that got me through the day. We all poop. Even Tony what’s-his-name the host of the show. Who for most of the forty- five minutes of filming, I pictured squatting over a porcelain reading a newspaper. Which apparently put 12 year old Aleesha at ease.
So next time you’re nervous, don’t picture everyone naked as I think that’s more confronting than their already intimidating state. Picture them vulnerable and comfortable and doing jobbies.