It’s around this time, when my bodily constitution is around 40% alcohol, 20% pigs in blankets and the remainder squishy, squidgy Camembert rolling over my waistband, that the post-Christmas regret sets in and I frantically scribble down a list of all of my favourite pastimes, whack the word STOP in front of them, and off I go, lumbering into the New Year, unlikely resolutions tucked in my back pocket – and the faint whiff of imminent failure (along with rotting sprouts) already carrying on the air.

Let’s face it, the only way I’m going to stop all my guilty pleasures is if someone wires my jaw shut in the night, brings back prohibition and closes every nightclub in London (if Westminster Council have their way, the last one is a distinct possibility). Yep, I’m an embarrassingly old Graver (grey raver): one foot in the rave.

I don’t mean to kill your “New Year, New Me” buzz as you skip off happily to the gym, chanting positive mantras and sipping on a green juice that you got up at 6am to prepare, but in my experience these out-of-character transformations tend to fall on their arse approximately three weeks into January when, suffering from stress, SAD and disillusioned by Dry January, my phone jumps back into life as various mates fall off the wagon…and back into the pub. Thank God for that. I hate drinking alone.

I’m not dismissing making positive changes to your life; on the contrary, I’m all for learning, improving and evolving, but I find that change happens when you’re mentally in the right place – not because society dictates that the first of January is the day on which we ditch all our bad habits and become mung bean-munching paragons of virtue. It’s just not realistic.

Change is more sustainable when it stems from passion rather than obligation. Last year I rediscovered my love of writing. Maintaining my blog has been relatively simple, as it’s something I truly enjoy. Funnily enough, the diet and exercise regime I also pledged to keep up crashed and burned at the first hurdle. Strange that.

One day last year, having pulled an all-nighter and smelling like an overflowing ashtray, I decided I was finally ready to stop smoking. I haven’t lit up since and it’s been surprisingly easy. I’d half-heartedly vowed to give up the cancer sticks practically every New Year’s Eve for the last 20-odd years, but I knew deep down it was just an empty promise mumbled to myself; my heart simply wasn’t in it.

So this year I’ve decided to give myself just one simple resolution: work less, live more. I’ve worked relentlessly since I was a teenager, with just the occasional sabbatical to go travelling. Not being able to have a baby means I’ve not had the pleasure of taking those child-rearing years off work like most of my peers. I decided a few months ago that just because I wasn’t blessed with the gift of a family why should I deny myself the greatest gift of all: the gift of time?

Over the past four years, since I downsized my home and life – reluctantly at first due to my newly-single status – I’ve noticed a shift in my attitude. Whereas in years gone by I’d spend every last penny of my wages on buying shoes, clothes and nice things for the house, now I think carefully about whether I really want or need that item…and usually decide against buying it. My motto has become buy less, do more. I want to spend my money on living not having.

So it’s a natural progression that I’ve now opted to reduce my working hours in line with my simpler life. As of this week, I’m cutting my hours to four days in seven. Put simply, as I get older I value my time over money. I’m trading in a chunk of my salary in exchange for an extra day a week doing what I want; I’m effectively buying a slice of my life back.

The way I see it, no amount of money is more precious than time. As long as I have food to eat, a roof over my head and enough spare cash for a spot of travel and fun, I’m happy to make sacrifices elsewhere. Once you have the essentials in life, everything else is just future landfill.

Rather than slog like a hamster in a wheel five days a week, month in, month out, focusing my beady little rodent eyes on some abstract concept of a relaxing retirement, I’m going to grab a little sliver of my time back now, while I’m still young enough – and healthy enough – to spend it doing the things I love.

Because here’s the thing: life is what happens whilst you’re making plans for the future. Yes you can avoid risk, stick to your resolutions, get a pension, eat your greens…but for what? A couple of extra eventless years tagged onto the end of your life in an old folks’ home, blanket across your knees, rheumy eyes gazing off into the middle distance? No ta – I want more free time now.

For me, 2017 is going to be about finding a better work/life balance, making memories and pursuing my dreams. I’m going to write my first novel. There, I’ve said it, so I’ll have to do it now. It might crash and burn, but I have to at least try (I’ve actually started writing books before but given up a few chapters in…but hey, God loves a trier, eh?). I’m going to sprinkle salt on the slug of self-doubt and plough on.

Sometimes we’re so focused on making a living that we forget to make a life. The calendar flips over at an alarming rate; before you know it there won’t be any time left to do all the things you really want to.

When I’m drawing my final breaths and my life flashes before my eyes, I don’t want to have to press fast forward on great boring swathes of Sam Walsh: The Movie because most of it has been filmed at work…

photo credit

This article has also appeared in  The Huffington Post.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post My New Year’s Resolution: Work Less, Live More appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

With my brain still pickled from celebrating (commiserating?) a recent landmark birthday, and having dashed straight from a two-day business conference, it’s fair to say that I arrive for my appointment at The Floatworks feeling somewhat frazzled. I’ve been burning my 40-year-old candle at both ends and despite my best efforts with the make-up, it shows.I get off the rammed Victoria Line tube at Vauxhall and head straight for my float session, tired feet aching in towering heels, and am relieved to discover it’s merely a stone’s throw from the station, nestled amongst plush residential apartments in St George Wharf.I am greeted by two fresh-faced, smiling young staff, who shake my hand warmly and politely introduce themselves, before offering me some water and a comfy seat and handing me a health and safety sheet to read. There is a pleasant aroma wafting throughout and a flat screen TV on the wall plays hypnotic psychedelic patterns enhanced by chilled background music, which all contribute to the relaxed ambiance.

“How deep is the water?….And how much salt?” I ask skeptically, contemplating the enormous corporate buffet I inhaled at lunchtime. It’s gonna take a whole load of epsom salts to get THIS body a-floatin’….

Soon, my pod is ready and I’m led into a room where my i-Sopod awaits. Sounds futuristic? Well, it looks it too : a huge shiny egg with a lightweight lid sits surrounded by a calming blue light. The water inside is around 25cm deep, and about half a kilo of magnesium-rich Epsom salts are added to create a super-buoyant detox soup.

I need all the kidney cleansing I can get right now, so I take a quick shower and hop right in, slowly lowering the lid on my watery tomb. I have reservations that the pod will feel as claustrophobic as a coffin, but to my relief it’s actually very spacious, and the high curved roof contributes to the airy feel. The water is so salty that it’s impossible to lay on the bottom, and I instantly bob on the surface like a careworn rubber duck.

During the first ten minutes the lights gradually dim and soft music is played which fades out whilst I adjust to my surroundings, until I’m left floating in the pitch darkness. Initially, I’m lying rigid with my arms stiff by my sides, but as my tense limbs become accustomed to the sensation I start to unfurl and I’m soon star-shaped and weightless.

As the water is body temperature and I’m engulfed in blackness, it’s impossible to feel which parts of your body are submerged, and I have to physically touch them to find out. Fortunately, for a die-hard make-up wearer such as myself, there’s no danger of your face getting wet. I already removed my face make-up in the shower, but this means I don’t have to worry about panda eyes with mascara ending up somewhere around my knees, plus you’re advised to dry your face before entering the pod. With this level of saltiness, you’re certainly not going to want to get it in your eyes, much less ingest any!

Similarly, if you have any cuts it’s sure going to sting, so those thoughtful reception staff hand you a few packs of petroleum jelly at the outset to apply to those areas. Shaving your legs (or any other area for that matter!) beforehand is a definite no-no.  However, these pre-float precautions are worth the effort, as the benefits of soaking in this high concentration of Epsom salts seem endless: from eliminating migraines to lowering blood pressure, reducing stress levels, improving circulation, concentration, reducing toxins – the list goes on…

I’m no hippified yoga bunny, quite the reverse, so I’m hardly expecting some transcendental spiritual experience – and none comes – but I am acutely aware of both my heartbeat and breathing slowing considerably.

I’m sure meditation experts can zone out and reach a higher plane, but for an uninitiated stress monkey like me it may take a little practise. I’m sure with regular visits even I could learn to reach that level of zen, such is the calming womb-like environment. After a while, my aching muscles feel less tense, my head clearer. I haven’t had a single urge to check Facebook for almost an hour now, so something strange is definitely happening to me….

I’m happily floating about contemplating life when, to my astonishment, the ching-ching tunes start up and the blue lights gradually come on, indicating I have five minutes left of my hour-long session.

I reluctantly climb out of my pod and enjoy a hot shower, availing myself of the delicious complimentary toiletries. Then it’s time for a quick tidy-up in the Hollywood room using the turbo-powered hairdryers and GHDs. I’m offered a free herbal tea on the beanbags in the chill-out area, but alas, I have to dash, which I do as quickly as my blissed-out bod will allow. Back at Victoria Station there are delays and an accompanying level of travel chaos which would usually make my blood boil, but to my surprise I struggle to even raise a frown.

Finally home, I sleep like a baby and wake up in the morning with the soft skin of one too, which is an unexpected added bonus. Floating has never before been on my health radar, but I think from now on I will be making space in my diary for it. This is one item on my to-do list I definitely won’t be pushing to the bottom….

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Whatever Floats Your Boat appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.