Count Down to a (Same-Sex) Wedding #1

7 Weeks to Go

I haven't blogged much yet about the wedding, because there's really not been much to say. We've booked stuff, organised people, bought gorgeous dresses, and dealt with various big-and-small issues along the way. We're down to the fine detail now though (7 weeks yesterday) so I thought I'd start talking a bit about it.

Next week I'm going to blog about the wedding process itself, but today I'm going to talk about Civil Partnerships.

You see, according to British law, what we're having is not a wedding, and what we're creating is not a marriage. We're having a Civil Partnership Ceremony, which leads to a Civil Partnership.

Now, you might say (as a great many have done): what's the big deal? It's only words.

Yes, it is only words... and this is an argument that can be applied equally to both sides of the debate. It's only words- so same-sex couples shouldn't care. But, it's only words- so the religious right shouldn't care.

Hmm.

Civil Partnerships are a compromise. Right now they're a compromise for which I am grateful: it would be extremely difficult to marry form a lifelong legally recognised partnership with my darling girl if they didn't exist. (Leaving aside the fact that a dozen or so countries have introduced marriage for same-sex couples on equal legal and semantic footings and their societies haven't imploded, of course). But it's a compromise that mystifies me.

Let's imagine for a second that most world religions dictated that some people could own cats, and some couldn't. After many centuries, people realised that this cat rule kind of sucked. Non-cat people were clamouring for cats, and cat-owning people were coming to see just how stupid this was, especially when many non-cat people had been keeping cats in secret for years anyway. There needed to be an overhaul, but a tiny vocal minority of cat-owning people were predicting mass moral confusion and social disruption if the rules were relaxed (and asking why non-cat people would want cats anyway since they clearly rejected the faith of the Cat-Dictating God...).

So, a committee (it would have to be a committee) came up with a solution.
"Right," they said. "Here's the deal. You non-cat people can keep cats legally. We'll give you paperwork and everything. But... you're not allowed to call them cats. You have to call them Fur Covered Individuals. The sanctity of the word 'cat' is preserved for the traditional definition of cat ownership, but we wish you many long and happy years with your Fur Covered Individuals."

Who'd want to refer to their cat as a Fur Covered Individual for the rest of their life?

Who'd think that their god was stupid enough not to see through the deception?

That's the bit that mystifies me. Civil Partnerships are marriages. Civil Partnership Ceremonies are weddings. They do exactly the same things, excepting only the gender of the participants. If they are truly abhorrent to anyone's deity then nothing but a couple of flimsy bits of terminology stand between us and a thorough smiting. Using different words means nothing and fools no one.

So, whence this compromise? Is it born out of a belief that people really can fool their god by putting different labels on things? Is it a desperate sop to try to appease people who really do believe that smiting is on the menu? Is it a stubborn resistance to change, or a fear of the unknown? Is it simply prejudice, sanctioned and legalised as so many previous prejudices have been?

I have no idea, but it both amuses and annoys me that my lovely wedding and marriage have these artificial labels slapped on them. Poignantly pointless!

A funny old memory...

I was searching through old files on my computer today and came across one of the oldest I've got - from all the way back in early 1995. It contained two poems written by my then-10 year old neighbour, Sarah C, one of which was about me.

It made me laugh heartily and reflect that in some ways I've not changed all that much since I was 14...

MY FRIEND IS CALLED A DIMWIT.

By Sarah C.

My friend is called a dimwit,

She lives across the road.

Most people call her Christine,

But I don’t think so.

She talks like she’s a dictionary,

She talks like she’s a twerp.

She talks like she’s a maniac,

But she’s my friend,

And that’s that.

Coming up for air.

Sometimes we get a wake-up call in our life.

Since January, I have been working in a school that demands extremely high levels of planning paperwork, which undergo constant monitoring. The workload is demanding, the management style highly critical and perfection-oriented, and 100% commitment is expected.

And I've been giving it, more than I ever have before.

I've been working 9, 10, 11 hour days and more. Plus hours upon hours on weekends to do the stuff I just can't fit in during the week. I've dropped out of a sport I loved because I had no energy for it, stayed in when I needed fresh air, given up opportunities for socialising, sacrificed sleep, dropped the housework ball more times than I can count, grouched at my family, and felt like an escapee whenever I found five minutes in which to pursue my own interests. My life these past few months has been a work-induced blur.

I thought it was the right thing to do, because this job was important. It was my key to ongoing employment: getting it right, showing my commitment, being the best I could be might lead to a permanent contract, and thus stability and financial security.

So, last week it came to crunch time. I interviewed for my own position along with potentially 1-2 more positions in Key Stage One. My lesson was good. My data analysis task was rated excellent. My panel interview went as smoothly as you could hope. I know the kids, I know how the school works, I have the knowledge and experience to make this work.

But they said there was someone better. I will not be needed next year.

Oh no, feel free, I'll just stand here while you punch me in the gut.

I got the call very late at night, and my deputy head - who had said that she wanted me in the job - sounded as gutted as I was. But that's as may be. I went quickly through the stages of grief: only a little denial before anger set in, barely a moment for bargaining before I hit a huge pile of depression. But after a good night's sleep and the first few conversations in the morning, I'd made it to acceptance.

Thursday and Friday were hard. In fact, they sucked. People were either shocked, or consoling, or avoided me. I was disconnected, suffering resurgence of the cricked neck that had plagued me earlier in the week, and feeling rejected and wistful and exhausted.

On the weekend, my body asserted itself, and gave me a sore throat and lost voice: the one complaint that can truly keep me home from work. Go, body. Today (Monday) was spent largely in bed.

The upshot of all this is that it's time to take stock. I've allowed myself to be overcome by this school's demands, which are far in excess of any other school I've taught in, and do not necessarily serve the needs of the pupils any better than systems at other (often much better) schools in which I've taught. There's only so much I can do to reel it in - as long as I'm there and needing a reference when I leave, most of their demands have to be met - but I'm going to try.

I'm going to leave early enough to see full daylight every day.
I'm going to source plans where I can and quit re-inventing the wheel.
I'm going to make sure I have the energy to go to gymnastics.
I'm going to get home early enough to have some alone time every day.
I'm going to use that time to do things for me.

and...

I'm going to start working towards what I really want in life - which is not to be a slave to an education system that lets down its staff as much as its pupils. I have some dreams and some half-formed plans, and I'm going to do at least one thing every day that is a step on the road to getting there. I got out of mainstream education once, and fell back into it... time to look at getting out again.

Changing body, fixed image

My job is eating my life at the moment - 11-hour days are the norm (not counting time spent working at home in the evenings) and I still feel like I'm not getting everything done. It's intense and not leaving a lot of time for anything else. Nonetheless, I'm stealing a half-hour for blogging.

This is a post that has been nagging away in the back of my mind for some time. I spent Christmas with E's family at a wonderful holiday park which included a "sub-tropical swimming paradise" - ambient temperature 25 C inside the dome - so we all brought our swimming gear along.

My swimsuit is a simple name-brand racing one-piece, bought because it was cheap and it fitted and I had to have *something*. It's not designed to be flattering or concealing. I was hesitant about going in the pool at all, for a variety of excuses, all of which boiled down to "I don't want to be seen in a swimsuit".

On the last day, when my cold had finally subsided and I'd run out of excuses, I finally went with E to the pool. In the changing room I freaked out briefly, not sure I could actually walk out there with my arms & legs on show. E looked at me as if I'd gone a little mad, and pointed out that I was wearing a size 12 swimsuit and had just changed out of size 10 jeans. "YOU HAVE BELOW AVERAGE THIGHS! STOP WORRYING!".

She's right, of course. I may not have a super-toned body but once I looked around - really looked - I could see that it was true. For the first time in 12 years, I'm below average in weight & width. But when I look at myself in the mirror, I still don't see it.

Since late 2010 - my last recorded peak-weight measurements - I have lost 12.5cm off my waist, 18cm off my hips, 10.5cm off my thighs, 7cm off my calves, 3cm off my ankles, 4.5cm off my upper arms, and even 1.5cm off my wrists. Size 10 tops fit me comfortably, size 12 slacks fit me with room to spare, and size 10 jeans with a gentle waist are just perfect. I'm only 6.5lb away from a healthy BMI. I am doing very, very well and I'm not ashamed to point it out.

So why do I still look at myself in the mirror and imagine that my naked body is so much bigger than it actually is? How is there such a disconnect between what I know to be true about it and how I perceive it? Why do I look out of a size 10 body and see size 18 thighs in the mirror?

It's sad to think that perhaps I've become programmed to think the worst of my body and to see its most negative attributes so clearly. What is it about our minds that denies us the triumph of seeing what we know we have achieved?

Food for thought...

Happy New Year!

Well, whoops. We hit the silliness that is December, and my intentions both of posting a photo every day and of blogging once a week went all to hell. Nevermind! I'm going to post photos for the days I've got them, and start again today.

I had a lovely 31st birthday and an amazing Christmas away with E's family. I have one more day of holiday tomorrow then one teacher prep day, then the kids go back on Wednesday. I am very nervous about getting started!

Photos will be up sometime today or tomorrow. Now to head out and replenish our much-depleted fridge for the week ahead.

Where have they gone?

When I was sick last week I lost 4lb in 24 hours, and it showed - my tummy got quite flat, my neck and cheeks were a bit more sculpted and my fingers looked positively bony.

I've now gained back 3 of those 4lb, as I expected I would, but I can't for the life of me work out where I've put them. My fingers are still bony, my tummy and neck are still slimmed. My cheeks have lost the slight hollow they developed, but I can't imagine the whole 3lb has gone into them. A mystery!

Aaand we're back!

The computer is fixed, I've recovered from the consecutive attacks of a cold and stomach flu, and everything is shiny again.

I hadn't had a proper stomach flu since I was a teenager, and it was a weird experience - I found I'd forgotten what to expect from it. I was revoltingly ill for 12 hours, nauseous for another 12 after that, and spaghetti-legged weak for a further 48 hours before finally pulling myself together on Sunday morning. It wasn't fun. E promptly came down with the same thing and is just recovering, and it seems to be doing the rounds as my supply teaching consultant also has it, and she doesn't even live in the same town!

So everything is pretty much back to normal. I didn't get a chance to blog about my job offer before everything went haywire with the laptop, but about two weeks ago now I was offered a two-term contract at a local primary school, starting in January. It's to take over a year one class, and I'm hopeful that it could lead to an ongoing position or at least secure my teaching experience over here as it's directly with the school rather than through a supply agency. It's an interesting school and a complex, challenging class so it's going to be a tiring role, but I believe a rewarding one as well. Certainly it'll stretch me to the height of my abilities. I'm looking forward to it!

It's been amazingly foggy in Hertfordshire lately. Fog is something entirely outside my experience - we really don't get it in Western Australia, not in this kind of density - so I find it quite marvellous. Here's some shots from Sunday:

I went to a shop on the outskirts of town on Sunday (for the Windows 7 upgrade that eventually fixed my computer problems entirely - it really just needed a wipe & reinstall) and had a strange experience on the way back. The fog had been so thick and obscuring that, although I knew there was a moderate skyscraper on the other side of the intersection, I'd forgotten its existence. The fog started to clear off as I was walking towards the building, and I did an absurd double-take as it appeared through the mists. It then took on an amazing blaze of light as the sun finally reached it. It was quite something!