A case of Jelly legs

I’ve never, ever felt anything like what I experienced on the 17^th of February.  Terror in its purest form threatened my sanity that night. I may as well have been staring down the barrel of a gun, past the snapshots of  what seemed then like irrelevant moments I call my life.

My numb palms were sweating, I could hear my increasing heartbeat in my ears threatening me with stress induced stroke, but everything else felt so quiet. I stood up, my legs a similar consistency to my vodka jelly, and I approached the microphone. And I sang.

                    

Maybe I sound like I’m exaggerating as for normal people, singing in public isn’t an issue. But for me, ever since I can remember, I instinctively do an embarrassed split second 360 to spot an unsolicited audience the moment  I forget myself and let loose on a musical favourite in public but now, I feel a musical note shaped weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Everyone’s got something they feel self-conscious doing in public: dancing, eating, speaking .

For me it’s singing and I’ve decided this is the year to confront  my fear head on like a man/woman.

Life’s too short to be scared of speaking to a variety of rhythms ,which is all singing is really.

I’m reaching the ripe old age of 23 and I think it’s time for me to ditch my singing phobia baggage. I’ve already got love handles and what not, I don’t need anything else dragging me down!

I will not allow it to bother me. ( Maybe it does because I secretly love it…ah hem!!)

I have so many friends that are singers, they all have completely different styles and they’re all so talented. I’m not saying that cos they’re my friends and I have to, they really are. When Amy took to me to her cousins Louis’ studio for some light-hearted jamming, I never thought I’d get the singing bug. I can barely hold a note and I must have sounded like a dying armadillo while they both looked  on encouragingly, but I loved unlocking what I had kept so hidden.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to carry it on, improve and “find my voice” as they say. (Sorry about the cheese!)

We all need to scare ourselves shitless sometimes and I’m so glad I did.

Hormonal Harmony

Hormonal harmony has been restored! The girl that could successfully plan her way out of dire plots commissioned by Hitler himself is finally off the pill!

To look at this beautiful stunner of a friend, (I’ve known her since school so I’ve seen her blossom into a bit of all right) you would never believe an everyday contraceptive pill (naming no names) CILEST would have turned her into - as she would freely admit I’m sure - even more of a weirdo than she usually is.

“To do lists, lists for party invites, “what to wear” lists and “who to invite on holiday” lists: Amanda has a plan for things I can’t even pronounce. But why do we just accept our contraception can work with us and our hectic lifestyles when sometimes, it just doesn't?

I, for one know that as soon as I noticed my love handles padding me against people on public transport and my face looking as if I had a mouthful of gobstoppers, it was time to give the pill-free life a go.

I’ve been on many contraceptives in the past 5 years to various effects: the contraceptive implant, two types of pill and, as much as the Sexual Health Clinics try to convince us otherwise, the rubbery moment killers.

All worked for me relatively well and I don’t want to sound vain or anything, but I looked like a heffer lump. 

My thighs rubbed together in a way I’d only ever seen on Lanacane adverts and my thoughts on my growing stature were cemented when my friends mum commented on me looking particularly “healthy”. I knew things had to change before I was shopping in High and Mighty.

But I wasn’t eating more than normal! I’d never really exercised apart from popping out the Vicky Binns “Dance it off” DVD every other full moon. As far as I was concerned, it must have been my change in contraceptive pill.

“Water retention” was my excuse for my, erm, extra layers and studies have shown that this relatively minor side-effect compared to the risks of breast cancer, cervical cancer and risk of stroke can be increased with long-term use of the pill.

Needless to say, the pill has changed so many women’s lives and is still probably the most safe, effective, non-permanent prevention of pregnancy. I’ll probably go back to it with my tail between my legs at some point, even with the possibility of a dose of the “crazies” side-affect Amanda experienced, or the possibility of gaining some under-the-skin leg warmers.

I truly believe we should listen to our bodies and do what is right for us as women. Not boyfriend’s telling us “sex feels better without condoms” or doctors pushing contraceptives onto us like Brixton dealers but just us, beautiful, free, sexually indulgent women.

Nigerians: Loud and Proud

Being of Nigerian heritage, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not actually my fault my voice is apparently ten times louder than the average 22 year old. I’ve inherited the vocal chords I’m sure Frank Bruno would be proud of and it’s all thanks to my dad Michael “the shouter” Akindele.

I love African people, they are my homeboys, but in all honesty, even I feel like I’ve been caught stealing the crown jewels or something when addressed by well-meaning Nigerians. The voice levels go up a notch when in the company of each other, and the enunciations of words are exaggerated with every facial feature it's possible to use in the space of a word. The diaphragm plays an important role in this type of exercise as you can imagine.

So I’m on the 250 bus, and the only seat available is between two African 50 something ladies, innocently talking about how their grandchildren are learning the alphabet, or baby panda’s or something quite sweet (yes, I have a modest understanding of the Yoruba language!) but the 100 decibel conversation sends the windows of the generously sized vehicle quivering in the frames and everyone on the lower deck running for cover unfortunately.           

And this phenomenon does not stop in public, o no! Many a nights when turning the corner into my Thornton Heath road trying to sneak back into my home after a alcohol induced night “just at Amy’s”, I have been greeted by the sound of my sister and dear father’s conversation, his signature mighty voice booming from the  constraints of our DOUBLE GLAZED windows 70 metres away as if he were competing with Pavarotti in an MC battle. My dad would win obviously…

But filled to the eyeballs with Gene’s special Strongbow and vodka Sombrero’s, my careful steps to the front door and laboured ring of the doorbell would be answered to a bellow of “Hello Gene, did you have fun?” that sends my on-coming hangover reverberating through my body thus ending the earlier pleasures of this carefully mixed drink.

I’m not guaranteed a quiet night, but It’s good to be home.