It’s European Multilingual Blogging Day!!! Today is all about giving bloggers an excuse to write in a different language.

Now I could have slaved for weeks over a post in my mother tongue but why make life difficult for my anglicized brain when a perfectly qualified linguist is close at hand in my circle of talented friends?

So here you have it:

Geheime Farblust, or 50 Shades Of Orange

(do scroll down for English translation!)

Im öffentlichem Nahverkehr, in Cafés und Parks scheint es nur noch ein Thema zu geben: „50 Shades Of Grey“, zu Deutsch „Geheimes Verlangen“.

So trüb der Titel klingt, so banal scheint auch der Inhalt des Buches, wie mir Leserinnen versicherten: Eine Frau zieht es in den Bann eines Mannes, der ihr die Sorte Sexualität näher bringt, für die ein Schrank voll Requisiten und Terminologie aus dem Wien Sigmund Freuds unerlässlich sind. Drei ziegelsteindicke Bände von mittelprächtiger literarischer Qualität, in allen Variationen. Ein Massenphänomen, bis zur Erschöpfung kommentiert von Journalisten, Feministinnen und Facebook-Mitgliedern.

Ich halte jedoch schon beim Titel inne: GRAU? Und das in fünfzig Schattierungen?

Wie viele meiner Generation verbrachte ich meine Studien- und frühen Berufsjahre schwarzgewandet: Rebellisch, sexy,  figurfreundlich und passend für alle Gelegenheiten – so sahen wir diese Nicht-Farbe und verweigerten sowohl das brave Dunkelblau unserer Großmütter als auch die schludrige Buntheit unserer Hippie-Eltern. Wird schwarze Kleidung gewaschen, entstehen Grauschattierungen – eine trüber und jämmerlicher als die andere, und im Gegensatz zu unserem Irrglauben keineswegs zusammenpassend. Schwärme von Nebelkrähen bevölkern die Büros unserer Städte. Viele von ihnen tragen nun dieses Buch in ihrer Handtasche herum, um sich nach Feierabend  zu entspannen – mit schlecht geschriebener und altmodischer Pornografie, bei der ebenfalls schwarze Utensilien zum Einsatz kommen. Muss das sein?

Meine Befreiung vom schwarz-grauen Einerlei begann mit einer „Farbberatung“, die mir liebe Freunde schenkten, um mich nach einem Schicksalsschlag aufzumuntern. Bei einer Farbberatung wird festgestellt, welche Farben und Kombinationen am besten zu einer Persönlichkeit passen. Vorurteile und Stereotype werden in Frage gestellt, ein individueller Farbpass weist den Weg in eine neue, bunte Welt. Ich entdeckte eine neue Liebe: Orange! Hielt ich es bis dato als unmöglich für Blondinen, rückt es in Wahrheit nicht nur meine grünen Augen ins rechte Licht, sondern ist mit seiner fröhlichen Aufdringlichkeit auch ein Ausdruck dafür, dass die Jahre des Versteckens in der Masse vorbei sind. Nie wieder „dafür bist du zu dick“, nie wieder „auf dem Kongress tragen alle dunkle Anzüge“, nie wieder „du musst auf die Sonnenbank/du musst dir die Haare bleichen“!

Das Erstaunlichste: Meine neuen Kleider in Orange (und anderen fröhlichen Farben aus meinem Farbpass) wirken sich nicht einmal nachteilig auf meine Karriere aus, im Gegenteil: Kollegen und Vorgesetzte freuen sich über frohe Farben mehr als über den verzweifelten Versuch anderer, ihre antrazithfarbene Misere durch Dekolletées, Stilettos und Peroxid aufzupeppen. Angela Merkels beeindruckende Sammlung bunter Blazer ist kein Zufall: Ob man ihre Politik mag oder nicht – sie geht in der dunklen Männerwelt nicht unter.

Inzwischen habe ich berufsbegleitend selbst eine Ausbildung zur Farbberaterin abgeschlossen und anderen zu einem neuen Blick auf sich selbst und die Welt verholfen. Wie das von mir „Graubuch“ genannte Werk arbeite auch ich dabei mit küchenpsychologischen Termini – doch nicht mit denjenigen der dunklen Seite unserer Seele, sondern mit allem, was Licht und Freude ins Leben bringt.

Sollte ich also jemals bei den falschen Leuten hohe Schulden machen und deshalb in Rekordzeit einen Softporno für Frauen schreiben müssen, so würde er heißen: „50 Shades Of Orange “.

In addition to colour-consulting, the colourwitch (colourwitch@skynet.be) works happily as a translator for an international organisation. She is connected to Nette not only through friendship, but through the love of wool and needles, which give her more opportunity to play with colours. Her other hobbies – or obsessions – don’t need props to be sourced in shady parts of town, but require only sheet music, other singers or Star Wars books. Well, grand opera houses and theatres are less modest places, but everybody needs a little glamour, don’t you think?

50 Shades Of Orange

These days there seems to be only one subject on the tube, in the office and in cafés: „50 Shades Of Grey“.

Well, the title sounds depressing and, as the people who read the book claim, so are the contents: A woman falls for a man who introduces her to the kind of sexuality that requires a closetful of sinister props and terminology from the era of Sigmund Freud’s Vienna. Enough to fill three bricks with mediocre writing and inspire countless journalists, feminists and Facebook-bloggers.

I for my part skip reading the doorstoppers and stay with the title: GREY? In 50 shades?

Like many of my generation I spent my university and early breadwinning years predominantly clothed in black: Black is rebellious, sexy, kind to the imperfections of the female body and appropriate for every occasion. So we thought, shunning the boring navy of our grandmothers and the motley of our hippie-mothers. Repeatedly washing black items nevertheless renders them grey, and combining different shades of black and grey does not – contrary to common belief – lead to a sophisticated outfit. Even today flocks of charcoal coloured crows populate the offices of European towns, as if emulating the mangy pigeons outside. Many of these ladies read the „Grey“-book on the bus back home – to relax with unnecessary detailed, old-fashioned pornography involving black utensils and a guy called… Grey? Really?

My own liberation from the black and grey drudgery begann with a „colour consultation“ lovely friends gave me to cheer me up after a hard time. Colour consulting analyses which colours and combinations best suit a given person. This process challenges prejucices and stereotypes, and the personal colour passport guides the way into a brighter world. I discovered a new favourite: Orange! I always thought it was a “no no” for blondes, but not only does the green of my eyes really sparkle when I wear orange, but the colour itself signalizes without a shadow (ha!) of doubt that there will be no more hiding myself in future. Never again „you are too short/chubby for that“, never again „everyone at the congress wears charcoal suits”, never again “you should get a fake tan/bleach your hair”!

And most astonishing: Though I am neither working as a yoga teacher nor as a cheerleader for the Dutch football team, my new quirk did not ruin my career. On the contrary – colleagues and bosses love a little unusual colour around them, when otherwise the dresscode is respected. Dolling up drab garb with hooker-heels, plunging necklines or an overdose of peroxide might please some Mr. Grey but long working days are more pleasant in a group whose members feel good about themselves in their own, cheerful colours.

In the meantime I myself have qualified as a  „colour- and style-consultant” in order to spread the cheer. Just like in the „Greybook“ there is some psychology involved – but not from the dark side. My field is the light – the unlimited, joyful variety of colours and personalities.

So if ever bad luck strikes and I have to borrow money from „men in black“, acquire cash in record time and see myself forced to sell my soul writing pornography, the title of my book would be: “50 Shades Of Orange”.

Images: wired.com, styleathome.com

I’m not a newsgirl. But something on the radio today caught my attention during my drive home from a weekend adventure with the girl:

LANCE ARMSTRONG STRIPPED OF HIS SEVEN TOUR DE FRANCE TITLES.

I once saw the backside of Lance Armstrong during the 2003 Paris time trials. Of course the riders whizzed by so fast that I really caught nothing more than a flash of yellow in amongst the red, white and blue of his team but still.

I’m not even particularly interested in sports, or public figures. What interests me is what drives people, their ‘human’ rather than their celebrity side.

I read a condemning blog post about Whitney Houston’s death, and the scathing tone touched me enough to comment that maybe addiction isn’t as logical and manageable as we want to think it is. That’s why it’s called addiction in the first place, and apparently being a celebrity does not make you rise above that. So just like Whitney was clearly addicted to substances, I am wondering whether Armstrong became addicted to the success he created.

Can you be so addicted to success that you would do anything to attain, and maintain, it? Including taking performance-enhancing drugs? Including pressuring your teammates to do the same by threatening their careers?

Can you get addicted to success in the same way that you can become addicted to alcohol, gambling and drugs? Is winning the next race, getting that next medal the same as craving that next fix, wanting to turn the roulette wheel just one more time?

How do you rationalize and reconcile this with being publicly celebrated for what no cyclist before had achieved? How do you live with that amount of deception? And why?

I believe underneath it all what every addict wants is a feeling of feeling good. Not so different from the rest of us, except for an addict, that feeling of feeling good is to be attained at all cost, no matter the consequences.

And maybe in Armstrong’s case, that feeling of feeling good came from winning. Not only the races, but the admiration of millions. To be admired and respected is just another way of feeling loved, and who doesn’t want that? Everyone, of course, except thankfully not everyone resorts to large-scale lying and cheating in order to get it.

Part of me is saddened that such a sporting legend has been stripped of his achievements. That’s not to say I condone the alleged doping. That’s not even to say that those achievements were real. But my heart goes out to the pain Armstrong must feel at having lost his iconic status, at having been deprived of his ‘fix’, at being stripped naked in front of his adoring fans.

I can’t begin to conceive how you reconcile yourself with all that. How do you deal with watching the world that you have so carefully constructed crumble in front of you, to lose the identity that you have created?

I am sure over the coming days and weeks there’ll be many more condemning news reports and commentaries. But my take on it is this: have a little compassion. Don’t condone the actions, but see the person underneath. The hurt, the addiction. Today’s news must be like going cold turkey on steroids.

Who knows whether he’ll continue to deny what seems overwhelming evidence, or whether he’ll decide to come forward with a ‘confession’.

All I know is this: Addiction isn’t logical, it’s emotional. If indeed there is such a thing as being addicted to love, then it’s just that – addictive.

And we might as well face it: Judgement never heals. Not us, not the individual we are judging.

Love heals, but loving an addict is hard.

I know. I’ve spent a lot of time judging.

Image: healthland.time.com

IT’S JACK’S BIRTHDAY!

Well, not exactly… since he was a rescue dog, we have no idea when he was born, so we celebrate his arrival in our family instead. And it was really yesterday, but laptop time was limited and I didn’t get this post up in time. So for the few minutes it will take to read this, let’s just all pretend it’s still October 15, okay?

Last year for Jack’s first ‘birthday’, I bought him a rawhide bone and a rubber chicken. The bone was swiftly dragged behind the bed… where it remains untouched to this day. The chicken provided entertainment for about 15 minutes, which was about three minutes longer than it took me to clean the rubber chicken pieces off the living room floor.

This year, he got a bonus walk with lots of ball throwing, and a can of (wet) dog food. Canned food may not sound special but it went down well. Literally. The whole thing was gone in two minutes flat. It must have seemed like a feast to a dog living on dry kibbles day in, day out.

It’s actually quite curious that I should have a dog. Because for the longest, I was quite afraid of them. Big dogs, mostly. I think my paternal Gran’s mean king poodle snapped at me a few too many times as a young child. This mild dog phobia was swiftly cured during my NLP Practitioner Training. We did an exercise where we imagined the ‘movie’ that runs inside our head when we think of something we are afraid of, and then change it. So my visual of a hugely terrifying bulldog bounding towards me in the park lost its grip when I imagined him baring his teeth to reveal a diamante-studded smile. BLING! Big dogs were never the same after that.

When I broke it to Rob that I wanted a dog, he pulled out all the usual arguments: ‘What will we do when we go away?’ ‘We don’t need a dog in a one bedroom flat.’ ‘Who’s gonna walk him every day?’

But I’m not one for letting a few valid notions get in the way of my desires.

He then tried the ‘next year’ strategy. As in ‘Honey, you can have a dog next year.’ That one worked until Jan 1 of next year, but not a day longer. 2010 was the year I wanted that dog.

Some ten months later, Jack entered our lives. We were trying for a baby at the time and I finally announced to Rob that this dog would have to appear soon as I figured me falling pregnant would add new fuel to his ‘We don’t need a dog’ case. (As it later turned out, I was already pregnant by the time we brought our four-legged family addition home.)

I love that dog.

I love being out in the park and seeing him bound towards me at full speed. I love seeing him chase a ball, especially at the beach where he fearlessly careens into the surf in hot pursuit of his little treasure. I love him curled up in his basket with his nose tucked under his tail, watching him twitch and whinge in his sleep. I love dressing him up for special occasions.

You can see more of my favourite Jack moments here and here.

I also love watching Lilly and Jack interact. The other day, I caught her picking up his dry food and hand feeding him his entire dinner. When he protested at being chained to the playground fence, she kept walking out of the gate to check on him. They’re like little pals following each other around.

So when Rob suggested that celebratory bonus walk, I was torn between taking Jack to the park and skiving off to the café to write.

But in the end, who can resist those puppy dog eyes?

Quite uncharacteristically, the girl, the dog and I were on our way to the park by 9am this morning.

There’s an undeniable sense of accomplishment that accompanies breaking away from your daily routine and getting out early. Sundays are especially good for morning walks as our usual afternoons in the park are unfailingly problematic for the canine. Too many teams practising ball sports, too many fathers doing the same with their children. All lovely, for sure, but not when your four-legged ball-obsession needs to be contained on a lead for the certainty that he will otherwise barge in head first to join (and take over!), not always to the delight of parents or offspring.

But on a Sunday morning, the park is empty save for a handful of fellow dog walkers and a team of eager tennis players on the courts. There’s a sense of serenity as you push your buggy along quiet paths and marvel at the sunshine breaking through drying leaves, hitting the fresh, unbroken dew spread over the grass. I love the unhurriedness of this time when the whole day is still freshly unfolding before you.

There is without doubt beauty in every season. The first signs of spring, when everything teems with new energy, unfailingly seduce me. I love the feeling of shedding dreary winter layers and letting bare limbs soak up the warmth. I love the lazy energy of hot summer days and the cosiness of long winter nights.

But there’s something special about autumn (or fall, if you live in the US). It’s my favourite season.

There’s the much-romanticised melancholy of fog and falling leaves, the irresistible comfort of lighting candles and ending your day snuggled under your favourite blankets. But what I love most is that transition from summer to autumn. The first crispness in the morning air, the gradual adding of layers happily discarded months earlier. Pulling on your favourite chunky knits, grabbing a scarf as you head out the door, dusting off your cashmeres and, most importantly, your collection of boots. As a lover of clothes and accessories, I always celebrate the feeling of having a ‘new’ wardrobe as the seasons change and old favourites make their reappearance.

This year especially, autumn is bringing a new surge of energy for me, a sense of new beginnings. I’ve been feeling it for weeks now. The freshness in the air seems to be bringing a breath of fresh air to creative projects that have been lingering all summer. I feel new excitement, and new ideas are popping up all over my brain like those dewdrops on the grass. I am actually finding this a great time to refocus in ways that are often lost to me as talk of goals and New Year’s resolution fills the air at the beginning of the year when I mostly feel a grey limbo (often mirrored outside) after the hype of the holidays.

But the chilly brightness of autumn sunshine is just the thing to get me going, both physically and creatively, and I am relishing a much-needed fresh start.

By the time we leave the park, the cricketers are just warming up and the previously dormant posh neighbourhoods (on the other side of the tracks!) are beginning to show signs of awakening. I feel accomplished and ready to write. Conveniently enough Lilly feels tired and ready to nap. Jack contentedly curls up having had his daily dose of exercise.

Win-win for everyone.

Image: blog.mikeriversdale.co.nz