I deadlift double my body weight, I can get through an hour of HITT cardio without vomiting and I often match my male counterparts at the gym. I follow a disciplined gym routine, and calculate my macros with precision. My skin is clear, glowy and smooth, thanks to my elaborate ten step skincare routine, complete with eye cream with Vitamins A through to XYZ, and a weird cleansing tool that looks a lot like a vibrator. A king sized bed with approximately seven carefully placed and coiffed cushions. A wardrobe brimming with athleisure and suit co-ords. I’ve been praised for overcoming some pretty shit stuff, including a debilitating eating disorder and a very problematic relationship. I’m engaged to a man who is my best friend, treats me well, makes me laugh and is a steady source of support and unconditional love. I run workshops, pitch new ideas and I’m not afraid to hold my colleagues to account. I’m a senior content strategist at a reputable agency. In fact, for most of my late twenties, I’ve been typecast as a strong woman.Īnd, I have all the trappings of strength, professional success and poise. Little did he know that actually, I was floundering, fearful and pretty fucking fragile. Little did he know that this strong, career driven woman had a seemingly “successful day” to those around me, but was battling a racing mind, anxious thoughts and a deep concern that the plane’s wings might fall off somewhere between Hamilton and Wellington. That I’d been desperately trying to calculate whether the lightly salted corn chips or the Cookie Time cookie would fit within my daily calorie count.I’d spent the last ten mins dissecting a conversation I had with a client earlier, where I’d gotten a little too excited about the aforementioned colour coded spreadsheet.That my palms were sweatier than Eminem's in the Lose Yourself music video.He’d stopped me from listening to weird ocean sounds on Spotify in an attempt to calm down (admittedly not a great choice when you want to refrain from using a plane bathroom).He thought he was engaging in casual banter with a well put together woman. Little did this well-meaning, albeit nosey, stranger know that for the past 1 hour and 6 mins, I’d been trying not to have a panic attack. I slid my Macbook into its case, adjusted my blazer, and practically burst through the exit, sucking in the fresh air to alleviate the tightness in my chest. Thank you, I am doing quite well in my career for “a woman of my age.”Īs the plane ground to a halt on the runway, the relentless questioning finally came to a close. Yes, I’m engaged, enjoy going to the gym five times a week, and am a keen participant in Wellington’s brunching scene. Yes, working in digital is “fast-paced.” Yes, the workshop I ran was positively scintillating for all involved. I forced a polite smile, and braced myself for an hour of banal talk about my day. Pulling out my laptop and opening up an important looking spreadsheet.I’d just completed my exaggerated “I am not interested in chit chat” performance, which includes: Yet again, a complete stranger has sat next to me on this plane and misread the giant “eff off” plastered across my forehead.
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