If I clocked all the steps I’ve ever taken as I walked into a clothing store and then wandered aimless around it and then meandered right on out of it having purchased nothing, I reckon I’d clock 10,000 steps in a day. Easy.

I am a hopeless shopper. Actually, correction…I’m a hopeless CLOTHES shopper (I have an unhealthy enjoyment of supermarket shopping…but that’s another story). I have no idea what I’m doing. I gravitate to black. And if that doesn’t work I look for something blacker. And stretchy. No zips or buttons. This is especially true since taking maternity leave from life three years ago, I have little need for structured clothing. When does maternity leave officially end by the way? Anyway…the point is my wardrobe (and I use that term loosely) consists of cheap and highly mass produced items that some poor underage worker from a country I know very little about has no doubt slaved over in order that I might avoid the real issue at hand.

And when I do shop I don’t buy clothes for my actual size, because, you know…I’m going to lose that weight ‘any day now’ so it’d be waste of money. Yeah, that budget saving mindset has been saving me money for close to 10 years now.

I don’t know how to shop to suit me. Not just my body but ME. The person that I want to present to the world…when I do in fact venture out into it, ‘cos let’s face it, mama tends to favour the couch and Netflix these days.

My husband thinks it’s hilarious and that it’s just the old clichéd cry of “I’ve got nothing to wear” from the wife who’s just maxed out her credit card and so she’s probably got a zillion options that she can pull out and at least say “this old thing?”.  But this is not me. Hand on heart. I know because I’ve just done a big clean out in preparation for moving day in a week’s time. I donated anything I hadn’t worn in over a year. Anything that I looked at and said to myself “one day I’ll make that outfit work” and anything that I didn’t feel instantly comfortable in. It didn’t leave much. I also threw out a bunch of stained, ripped and ruined crap that no one deserves…not even for free.

Have you got this in black?

Being uncomfortable with your body shape or weight doesn’t help either. Nothing fits, or feels like it should and you’ll believe any old bullshit the sales person tells you to make you feel good about buying that floral print dress with the side sash (Ok, so that’s probably a vision I had from a John Hughes movie because I’m pretty sure that such a thing does not exist on a 2017 clothes rack).

One of the main reasons I start fitness or eating programs is to just feel better about myself. Not to simply lose weight and get fit but to actually FEEL better. Most of the time I can accomplish that. I’m feeding my family and myself better and I’m moving more and doing more activity.  But try as I might I simply cannot package up my ‘feeling better’ when the choices in my wardrobe tell the world I’m a couch potato who has most likely given up on life and is happy about it. The biscuit crumbs and wine stains probably don’t help.

I’m in a constant love/hate situation when I pass fabulously put together women in the street (and some men for that matter!). You know the ones…they look relaxed and comfortable, they’re always fucking smiling and have a handbag swinging from their bent elbow. Yep. Basically your standard #winningatlife look. The only thing I have swinging from my arm is an over-burdened supermarket bag and my teetering self esteem …while I hitch up pants that don’t fit properly and clutch at my shirt which was never a good wardrobe choice for someone as well-endowed as me.

So, with a few work/life projects on the go at the moment I’ve decided that the time is right for mama to get her shit together. I’ve decided that I want to be that person on the street with a #winningatlife look. Basically, Mama needs a makeover and if that’s going to happen then she’s going to need some help.  Before I make mistake number 78,469 in my sorry history of clothes shopping I’m investing in a little personal development.

Some may say that my wardrobe is ‘on target’

Initially I thought I’d get myself a stylist and she can come and look at my collection of Target Essentials and then take me shopping and I’d feel a million bucks after probably having spent close to the same to feel that way. Yeah…that plan didn’t really resonate with the household budget so instead I’m joining a dozen others who are also lost in wardrobe malfunction land at a two-day workshop this week.

I’ve signed up for a workshop that promises to help me to “get me and my truth out there confidently, so I can make a difference in the world”.

Among other things I’m going to get a step-by-step guide on how to detox my wardrobe, learn what my body’s assets are and what 53 pieces of clothing I actually need in order to be ready for anything. I assume that means anything other than walking over to the supermarket in my Birkenstocks and trackies…’cos I’ve got that look sorted.

Apparently I won’t be learning how to get “dressed for success” because sadly that notion, along with Roxette’s rocking tune, belongs in the 80s with its mates shoulder pads and scrunchies (dammit). And, get this; I don’t even have to worry about being trendy because “authentic personal branding has nothing to do with transient trends”. I’m not entirely sure, but my much-loved capri leggings may deem me ahead of the curve on this one.

So I’m a little bit excited even if the pre-work has me worried. We’ve been asked to bring up to five items of clothing, shoes and accessories that we love to wear and believe they best represent our personal brand. Hmmm…I doubt turning up a with a dozen of Wolf Blass’s finest is what they meant. But honestly, I think I’ll be lucky to bring one item! OK, probably two: a pair of boots and my ray bans. We’ve also been asked to create a vision board of looks we like. Again…crickets. I have no clue where to start. Apart from this gorgeous photo of Princess Diana from 1990…see? I have no clue!

We were also asked what we hope to achieve by the end of the workshop. Aside from a wardrobe that doesn’t hate me, I expect I’ll be able to leave the house wearing anything I own and feel like a Goddamn rockstar (of my own making). Is that too much to ask?

Time will tell.  Stay tuned for my full report back.

THANKS FOR READING. Never miss a blog post again. Enter your email address at the bottom of this page (underneath the comments boxes) if you want to be notified when I post something new. x

Moving house has got to be one of the most annoying, traumatic and anxiety inducing things you can do. Am I right? I don’t mean to brag but I think I may be somewhat of an expert in the pain and misery of moving house. I’m about to move for the 24^th time in my lifetime.

The list of things to do is endless…removalists, packers, pet care, pantry clean out, fridge defrosting, laundry loads, a full garage than can no longer be ignored, gas and electricity and god forbid you have no internet on the first night in a new home…because that means no Netflix and then you’d actually have to talk to each other (because let’s face it, you’ll be ignoring all the unpacking that needs doing!).

This move is the first time that I’ve had to book not just removalists but a specialist treadmill relocation person! Can you believe it? I cannot move the thing on my own. I cannot pay the professionals to do it and I have had to find a strapping lad who specializes in just such a task. There are businesses that actually move gyms for you. Not that I have a whole gym. Just the treadmill.

So here’s my story of this, my 24^th house move… which is happening in two weeks. So you can expect another moving post about the trauma I’ll experience then too…’moving post’…see what I did there? 🙂

You know that old adage about buying the worst house in the best street so you live amongst it and plan to fix it up? Well that’s kinda my life. Except we rent that house. And today that house was sold to developers – foreign investors if my naked eye isn’t jumping to too many stereotype assumptions.

For that last five years we have loved our home. Sure, it’s someone else’s house but it was our home. We made it that way. We put pictures on the wall, we hosted backyard BBQs and dinner parties on our lounge room floor and binge watched the latest Netflix anything and brought our new baby home to this house. Her first home. Where she learned to crawl, walk and talk. Where we baby-proofed to within an inch of its life, where we tackled the sleepless first year (or four!) and where we learned (pretty quickly) how to be parents.

This is the home where we started our business and where I had three pregnancies but got just one baby. This is the home that we returned to after trips overseas for holidays and to help ailing family and this is the home we took sanctuary in when life and other curve balls came flying too fast.

In five short years we’ve lived a lifetime in this house. This house, that was never ours but that we loved, warts and all.

With a child now nearing school age we decided it was time to tackle the next big issue…which school? So, with that in mind I broached the renter’s biggest fear. Maintenance. What of it for our warty old house that had a leaky roof and an outside laundry and a back door that exited onto a death trap. Would these things get fixed? Did the owner have long-term plans?

Well yes, they did want to fix them. That is until they saw the bill from the myriad of tradies who quoted on all the work that was required to make this house safe again. Then they didn’t. With developers circling it didn’t take much for the seed to be sown and before we knew it there was a ‘for sale’ sign at the front of our home.

Mercifully, as it was packaged for destruction we weren’t burdened with the endless weekends of having our home open for strangers to trundle through and look through our smalls. Sizing the place up for their own memory making. No, the people that came to look at our home while it was on sale just looked at the land and the proximity to the local street life and the train station neighbour and the rich looking lifestyle that would be afforded to those who lived in the soon to be imagined 10-apartment building that could be raised from the ashes of this clinker brick, two-story art deco house.

So we were spared our home and our life being open for inspection. Thankfully.

I’m sad that houses like our home are so readily destroyed for progress and to meet growing demand in suburbs like the one we accidentally called home. This house where the floors creak, the paint peels and the drains smell. Where the electrical wiring blinkers frequently and the drafts are constant with the windows that rattle incessantly and then inexplicably stick. This house that deserved some love and attention to make it whole again, but sadly, there’s no money to be made in sentimental real estate acquisitions.

And that’s OK because when the auctioneers gavel called “SOLD” it didn’t matter to us. We’ve made our memories and they belong to us. Not the house. We’ll take them with us, to our next home. Which, no doubt I’ll get just as sentimental about. But that OK. Memories are made of this.

And despite living in 24 homes in my 45 years, I’m still a sentimental homebody and I don’t plan on changing any time soon.