There’s No Business like Shoe Business

Today, once more, I found myself helplessly entering into the rodeo where no self-confessed poor-willed follower of foot fashion should go and, as predictably proceeds on every occasion, was quickly caught up in the rope of no-hope that is the shoe lasso...

Like a moth to a flame, attracted by the bright lights of shoe delights, it takes just one glimpse of the eye to stop walking by. Then, like a mouse to cheese, to be irreversibly tempted, without sense or sanity, towards the savouring scent of new leather that quickly builds into an uncontrollable hunger that can only be satisfied with yet another pair of killer heels, tall enough to defy gravity.

I often marvel at the marketing psyche of shoe-traction. There is simply no deciphering the secret clue of  the sudoku of shoes - it can only be a waft of eau d’opium that triggers the early intoxication at the door of every shoe emporium and, as each cautious step sinks further into the deep pile of plush carpet, even heels that should demand safety wheels seem to have more comfort than our oldest slippers can feel.

So, teetering in my latest whim for Louboutin, I take my precarious practice steps to master my new levels of tall without taking a fall and yet, despite needing the sales assistant’s arm for standing support, I am convinced I cannot possibly live without this court.

For those of us unduly afflicted as a shoe addict nothing should prevent the perfect shoe investment and, as I scramble to sustain my high heeled pre-amble, I reflect on how far back did I actually graduate from the calling of the cookie jar to the styling of the T-bar….

It may not be surprising, therefore, that my first ever job was in fact in a shoe store where my weekend pay was more often than not already shoe-spent before the end of each working day.

And, as I look back, I recall how my own passion for foot fashion may have influenced (often by means somewhat improper) the buying decisions of my own shoe shoppers ‘….of course they will stretch, you should carry an older pair in your bag as you break them in, try an insole, try two…wow, isn’t that just the perfect shoe?’. Indeed, I wonder, how much of my early-life obsession with new shoe possession has, quite possibly, curtailed an earlier recession?

So, firmly believing if the shoe fits, invest and if it doesn’t fit...well, try your best and, as I prepare to pay for the joy of sore vertabrae, I wonder....even from such a young age how much responsibility do I have for others' foot agility? In fact, with our Achilles heel clearly our killer heels, how many more coveted shoe collectors are now investing in the cures of an Imelda Marcos chiropractor....?

'Til next time, Pandora

Living the Thanksgiving

Traditionally a time for merriment, family reunion, feasts and meals the true grace of Thanksgiving acknowledges all of the material possessions, good luck and kindness that has blessed each person’s life throughout the year so, on this US Thanksgiving, I thought it appropriate to take a brief rest and reflect on the best of my very own blessed...

As we all look back on our past year there will have been good times and bad in all that we’ve had. Helping us stay strong is the fortune we share from the people that that care but, conversely, for everyone whose year has been great there are others who have had less than good fate.

In our own ring-fenced world  we may have more than enough but we are surrounded by another that is much less well off and, as I consider my own good luck and achievements of the past 12 months, I wonder ...is the truth of Thanksgiving something we are all capable of re-living?

We live in a world of such fast pace that we are often too busy to pass on our grace. Time is increasingly precious yet we spend it mostly on work. Our homes are our soul yet we focus more on the ‘stuff’. And, although our loved ones are our rocks, they are sometimes the first that we drop.

In a world that keeps taking, I wonder...how much are we mistaken and do we too often forget the simplest thank you for the things that we do? So this Thanksgiving, as turkeys roast and glasses toast, lets take some time to re-consider our aptitude for showing real gratitude and make a timely reminder to be that little bit kinder...

Happy holidays,
'Til next time, Pandora

Work Hard, Pay Hard

With the busy demands of duty on our daily lives we all know and recognise the importance of protecting our inner sanctum, saving our sanity and sustaining our stamina. The reality for most of us, however, is that the constraints of time, demands and expectation of our weekly 9-5 more often than not runs well beyond the controls of an 8 hour day and the equilibrium that is meant to balance our proverbial work-life becomes permanently weighted with an imbalance, towards the work. 

As days merge to weeks and to months, finding time for time requires as much discipline as the diligence of the day job. The decadence of self-indulgence today has become lifestyle-necessary rather than a nice to have accessory.

This week I had the rare chance of double decadence by indulging in zen with a group of great friends. Despite exploring different walks of life, we share similar daily strife and whilst we all live our lives to the max, there is just never enough time to relax. Regardless of the where and what of our demands we all share a common need for calm and, as we continued on our exploration for relaxation and played the pipes of peace we all wondered....how much do we in fact need to pay for the price of peace?

Surrounded by soothing scents and smells to make us feel well and devoted to lotions and potions that slowed down our motion ...what actually happens to the thrill of the chill when we are served with the beauty bill?

Indeed, and as we cash up $100 creams to keep us serene, I wonder, does the cost of our exhaust in fact tamper with the pamper or can we only truly work hard/play hard on the strength of a loaded credit card?

'Til next time, Pandora

Feasting the Festive Fastivities

Well, it’s getting close to that time again - all the major cities are sparkling with fairy lights, shops are staying open longer, shepherds are watching o’er their flocks by night and the seasonal Coca Cola trucks are rolling through town to let us know the holidays are coming.

There is nothing more encapsulating than the first Noel – chestnuts roasting on an open fire, the twinkling of trees and the chanting of carols, and the beginnings of a party season blossoming at full Christmas bloom. But, as I saunter towards the season of Santa and consider the fun and frolics for the coming weeks of St Nic, I am forced to set down my eggnog for this brief yuletide blog as I wonder….are we facing a fattening folly by embracing the Christmas season too jolly?

Every year we seem to start a little sooner, tempted from late November to make it a Christmas to remember. But before we revel in the myriad of mistletoe and wine, should we stop to give some thought to the perils on the waistline?

Whilst ‘tis indeed the season to be jolly, unless rolling around the office party in a red suit is our Christmas wish, then the real santa clause is to quite simply put down the dish. For every mince pie hides an unpleasant surprise, every ginger bread latte a step closer to festive fatty and, after all, it doesn’t take St Nic to tell who has been naughty or nice with the cinnamon and spice when there is nobody rocking your Christmas stocking and the only way to go under the mistletoe is with another shot of eggnog to kiss the office frog...

So, before we hark the herald angels sing, I wonder .... if we want to offer peace and goodwill to all men (or at least a few wise ones), is it about time we embrace the true fast-ive spirit of the season? Or, to really sparkle and shine this Christmas time, do we need to say no-no-no before its time time for ho-ho-ho?

'Til next time, Pandora

Check your Totem

Ok, so I am a few months behind the red carpet release on this occasion, but this week I finally caught up with the cinematic phenomena of Inception and, in the spirit of its sensational script and screen, I was suitably blown away.

Now, although some may say that I can be somewhat of a dreamer myself, it is a hobby that is not habitually harnessed simply due to the fact that I am intrinsically an insomniac by nature. Coincidentally, and not unconnected to this blogspiration, any typical decanting of anything de Capriesque would be on the basis of leveraging his acting ineption so to induce a deep sleep (you may have guessed, I am not particularly a fan) however on this occasion, and this will mean more to those of you who have shared the movie marvel, I would be prepared to risk the deep sleep sedation required for Limbo to spend more time with this storyline. Inception, by my judging, is most definitely the di Caprio exception, and quite possibly his perfection.

The movie is built on the concept that ‘an idea is like a virus.  Resilient.  Highly contagious.  The smallest seed of an idea can grow.  It can grow to define or destroy you’.

But, without entering into the seven complex levels of a dream (you can dissect that puzzle when you watch the film), it is this potential of the influential on the ongoing sequential that has set my post-movie mind meandering and led me to wonder, outside of slumber… just how much of a domino effect do we really have on our peers, or how does our choice of friends actually influence our trends?

Looking around it is clear our society does tend to gather in tribes - like-dressed fashions and music and similar tastes, a sense of commonality breeds a joined personality. But how much of our behaviour can actually create a similar flavour in others? Does a tattoo lose its taboo, just because our friends have one too? How many of us join a gym because our peer group is getting slim? Conversely, how is it we suddenly 'enjoy' a social life indoors just because our pals have turned into bores?

In keeping with the guidance on how to grasp the Inception reality, I wonder if outside of the dream we should all carry our personal totem as a check on our control of consciousness.

Are we really confident that our every choice is driven wholly by our own voice or, as we consider the many changes of traction in our actions, I wonder ...just how individually minded are we or do we all need a little inception to find perfection?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Fast Forward to Rewind…

This weekend I found myself faced with a quite literal real-time rarity on my blackberry - settled on a Sunday afternoon with the unexpected utopia of untarnished, untouched, unallocated time. For someone who is stereotypically always on the go, time is the one thing there never seems to be enough of, so the apparition of a multitude of miraculous minutes was like an immaculate conception along the long route of the proverbial Holy Grail. Ironically, however, finding this free time was in fact more time consuming than not having it at all….

My conundrum was further compounded by the fact that the sudden apparition of the said free time had controversially presented itself at the end of my just completed me-time. Having just finished a long-awaited long weekend break I should, in theory, be feeling more inspired than tired. However, as I reflected on what I actually had had to do in order to be able not to do, I realised how much time I had actually invested in my pursuit to find time to get rested.

In true chicken and egg theory, for every 1 day of holiday there are at least 2 previous working days needed to catch up on things that would be done if you were not going to be away.

Following the logic, my 4 day break had in fact already chalked up a 64 hour time-stake.

Add to this vacation equation the hours needed for pre-departure preparation, a quota of a rota left almost always to the last-minute of the most precious midnight minutes the night before the get-away, 'Day One' of time-off is most likely lost to nodding off.

So, with my 4 days off now mathematically having only 3 days left, the race to use the free diary space suddenly has to pick up pace. In my attempt at non-working, however, I had forgotten to schedule the time required for the social net-working - reading book replaced with facebook, the holiday postcard has become a daily post on a wall board and, as I complete my own daily update on my latest status, I wonder if today's retreat requires time to re-tweet in order to be truly complete, is it really possible to have a vacation that includes relaxation or is there really such a thing as ‘free’ time?

Caught up in a life on the go, it seems we sometimes lose the ability to stop. Faced with an eternally packed itinerary during up time and down time I wonder....does the reality of time off from a busy schedule mean that we have to fast forward in order to rewind to be able to unwind or have are we in fact responsible for making ourselves so busy with a self-fuelling diary it has actually become a self fulfilling prophecy?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Greyed Expectations

This weekend saw me scheduled for my routine visit to the salon, a Saturday session that has suddenly gained increasing frequency and, as a result, has become more of a surgery than a sanctuary.

Greeted by a ‘Back so soon?’ surprise from my colorist, I am reminded of the quite literal root cause of my rapidly recurring rendez-vous. Coffee before coiffeur, served with a mix of magazines, I am soon adequately attired in my colour cape and placed face to face with the mirror-reality that shows how I have, practically overnight, generated the groundings of the perfect Cruella Deville DNA. Ahead of harnessing a century plus one of doting dalmations at my ankles, I quickly scan the seasonal samples of henna hues that are needed to de-stress my tress-stress and I wonder... what is it that allows men to be so free of the folly of fading follicles but women to be committed to colouring in order to escape going grey disgracefully?

Clooney, Gere, Pitt…one by one the poster-perfect princes of our past-passions build prowess with their prime and mature to even higher finery, like a vintage wine. Admittedly for some of our men, this vintage victory can often be a little too full bodied to the point of pot-bellied. Indeed some even aim to mystify a receding hairline by hailing it as the balding beginnings of a venture with virility, however isn't it interesting how quickly they re-brand themselves in the packaging of a mid-life crisis sports car as the process to the polished head progresses?

Nevertheless, as our men grasp their grey with grace, I wonder how it is that they have managed to master the mystery of their man-years through a miracle that women can never manifest?

The converse, indeed controversy,  for women is that the colour palette of au natural paints only a picture of feel-good fatality as opposed to one of femme-fatale. For the self-preserving female the question remains ...is an acceptance of ‘distinguished’ enough for the collar and cuffs? Or, as we denounce the signs of demise of our sexterior design, I wonder ...is it really that important if the carpets and curtains are not a perfect match?

So, as I check out my change to chestnut and confirm my salon return for another 4 weeks, I wonder ….when faced with the fearful find of the fading follicle should we really give in to the gratuity of maturity and go grey gracefully or, when the choice of colour co-ordination becomes permanently bleached, is colour revival the real root cause of our survival?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

To-Do or Not To-Do…?

This weekend I had my first proper return in some time to what has become an increasingly unfamiliar territory, aka home. No flights. No trains. No taxis. No commute to the office and meetings.

Psychologically I had been tracking the days in my blackberry, planning my lounging wardrobe for ‘working from home’ with more precision than I normally pre-plan packing of 10-day suit and heels ensembles, looking forward to a temporary routine of 9-5 home-office, evenings out and re-kindling the relationship with my settee.

When the long-awaited day arrived I got up promptly at 6am, sorted whites from colours and began the laundry cycle. I efficiently re-categorised the contents of my suitcase to their acutely colour co-ordinated hanging order in my wardrobe and generated a new dry clean bag to be deposited later that day (...2pm in blackberry - check).

By 8am I embarked on dialling duties, confirming the long list of consult catch-ups – doctor, dentist, optician, hairdresser, nails. 

By 10am I had caught up with a backlog of bills and admin in order of overdue date, renewed my house insurance online before settling down to a well earned coffee to commence my first conference call of the day.

5pm home-office clock-out klaxon called time for an evening stroll, supermarket-sweep style, to replenish a rather rudimentary fridge, followed with expense claim processing and the straggler emails and calls with my US colleagues.

By the time bedtime was upon me I had succeeded in being as rested as Sherpa at the summit of Mount Everest and, as I stared at the ceiling with a case of impossible insomnia, I wondered….when was the last time I actually relaxed long enough to relax?

Day 2, perfectly planned to complete a second checklist of chores (the same-street doctor and dentist combo should never be missed in scheduling) interweaved around a calendar of calls and comms, I am beginning to ask has the timer for true time-out actually already timed- out or do the high demands of today’s diaries mean the death of a day doing nothing?  

So, as my down-time rapidly becomes catch-up time and my photo album collects coveted memories of a visit to the bank and washing the car, I make a solemn promise to re-schedule the real essentials of life that should not require a reminder via a flashing light, and ask... are we really capable of the discipline of not-to-do? I guess only time, and timing, will tell....

‘Til next time, Pandora