We’re more than sun, sand and selfies

Finally the weather has started to cool off; I say cool off it’s still 36+ degrees most days but the mornings are lovely and so I have reinstated my poolside, post workout, sun worshipping. So last week, whilst I took in a moment to rest my achy muscles, I was joined by a few of my desert girls and we took full advantage of the perfect day. There was general chit chat and some self-deprecating humour about how lucky we were to have days like this. However this posed a quite serious conversation, as we realised to the outside world, at that moment, we were the picture of the expat wife cliché.  The question is, does anyone back home still see us for us, or is it all sun, sand and selfies?

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50 grains of sand

Living in Kuwait for 2 years at times still feels like only 5 minutes, but it occurred to me over a welcome back Friday brunch with friends, that we are firmly fixed in our expat lives. It’s become second nature and life in Kuwait no longer has the novelty factor. We are settled into our desert existence and are at the point where endearing jokes can be made about all things Kuwait, with as much fondness as our lives back home.

So in a more upbeat post, compared to last weeks rant, I started looking at the funny side to living in the desert.

The home straight

I don’t know how this has happened, but I’m entering my final week in Jersey. The six weeks seemed like an optimum time to get some quality time with the family and catch up with friends, but now I’m in panic mode as I quickly do a mental note to see if there is anyone I’ve missed (at this point I’m really hoping I haven’t and they aren’t reading this thinking, Oi what about me!?).

I have had a wonderful time during this trip and feel like this has been a good session of mixing some chill time with lots of eating, drinking and catch ups. Seeing the family has been so special, as the last time we were together was an emotional and tragic time, so for us to be all together all eagerly anticipating the new arrival to our brood has been everything. I have been keeping up to date, via every social media outlet, with my fellow desert gals and they too seem to be having a great time, if not busy, touring round their home countries and reconnecting.

All roads lead to…

It’s official, I’m two weeks into my summer holiday and I’m practically living on a diet of pork, gin and prosecco! The fact that I’m eating my way round the island and socialising over numerous dinners and lunches, it is no surprise that it’s getting to the point where I dare not put my jeans in the wash in fear they won’t go back on. My workout gear has sat in the bottom of my suitcase and just when I thought I should give it an outing my back has decided it had different ideas. So there is only one thing for it, keep enjoying my foodie trails and sweat it out in detox when I’m back in the desert heat.

The good, the bad and the ugly

Like most women, I’m sure, we all have one of those days where everything seems to be harder than normal, we are emotional for no apparent reason and you just want to curl up and have a good cry. Now I know these days are completely normal and quite frankly more often than not hormone induced, but I have found since moving away that these moments of irrationality feel like the world is ending, albeit for  24/48 hours.

The expat life initially is an exciting one, as you dive head first into your new life abroad the adrenaline kicks in and you run out of the starting blocks with as much enthusiasm and determination as Usain Bolt. The honeymoon period of exploring and embracing all that is new, the euphoria of finding the perfect apartment, making new friends and establishing you have a decent Indian restaurant in the vicinity  settles you in for the long haul. The Skype calls back home are up beat, as you reassure your loved ones that you are fine and finding your feet, the Facebook posts of smiles and sunsets proving that you are living the dream and secretly hoping this sparks an ounce of jealousy back home. 

We’re not in Kansas anymore

This week, like many others, the need for retail therapy was calling me. For the last three weeks I have been laid up with a slipped disc, so when the earliest opportunity came, where I could walk again, albeit like a 80-year-old, I jumped for joy (not physically; the back wouldn’t allow it, but in my head it was a leap of elation) at the prospect of a girls trip to the mall. There isn’t a lot to do in Kuwait, but shopping is one of them and boy do they know how to do it.

Our day started early and we headed to The Avenues, 800+ stores all set in multiple themed areas to appease every shoppers need. The escalator took us down onto the palm tree lined boulevard, a perfectly brick paved road. Parisian street lamps buffer the beautiful store fronts, as they reach up to the glass roof flooding light onto to the glistening gold temple that is Harvey Nichs. Just like Dorothy catching a glimpse of the Emerald City, I felt my heart skip a beat the possibilities that lay ahead.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore

and the Oscar goes to…..

Once the novelty of your new home wears off, lets face it it feels like a holiday for the first 2 weeks, you realise you can’t put it off any longer, you have to put yourself out there.

I know once I have been vetted and accepted into the fold, I can hardly shut up and become social secretary for all our engagements, and the people that know me would probably be surprised to know, that doing the whole meet and greet  is a nightmare to me….honest. . So begins the torturous weeks of making friends, it quite literally is the first day of school scenario, putting yourself up for scrutiny, first impressions count, praying in the taxi you won’t be left in the corner of the playground to play alone. Then hubby comes home that night asking, just like your anxious mum did 30 years ago, “did you meet anyone nice today?”

When doing “nothing” means everything

Around the world people are celebrating International Woman’s Day and it’s got me thinking about how far we have come. This could be a rather controversial post, yet I sometimes feel conflicted by the pressure to be a modern woman and my lifestyle choices.

Going to an all girls school we were consistently exposed to strong women, the feared matriarchal head mistress, who lived up to the Dickensian image of a boarding school spinster, who took pride over her girls. The 6ft wooden boards noting every Head Girl in the school’s 100 years gleaming back at you in gold italics, and the Houses named after the past century’s most celebrated women; Garrett Anderson, Nightingale, Cavell, Fry and Curie. My alumni produced doctors, teachers, lawyers and artists all making their way in the world as independent women, blazing ahead.