Teawithle tweets.

I confess, before online news I tried twitter – and I hated it. With one swift glance I decided it was something to fear, something that worked against its user rather than with them.

I couldn’t understand so many parts of it – how to write to someone, how to see if someone wrote to me, and what was with these damn hashtags??

The worst part was keeping within the 140 character word limit. I’m a confessed babbler, and deliberately go the long way about saying things to create a dramatic effect. A story to a friend about a date, for example, will consist in carefully dissecting every detail: “well first he picked me up, in a sky blue lancer I think it was?

Anyway, he was wearing jeans and a top. Ok so he knocked on the door – three times I think it was – which was really cute and showed he’s not too persistent…” as you can see, my friends get everysinglebit of information, whether they like it or not.

Being blunt and to the point is something men are much better at – while my girlfriend’s voice messages often consist with a 10 minute analysis of what they’re doing at the moment and why, their messages consist of “Its Darren. Call me.”

So when I was required to face twitter again for online news this semester, I approached it with trepidation. Staring blankly back at the “write something in 140 words or less” tag, I begun to type, each time getting the “wrong answer” message from twitter – each sentence was way too long.

It was annoying for me, because shortening my sentences meant that my tweet wasn’t as funny or witty as it could be.

But, gradually over the months I got the hang of it, and now I’m shortening everything, even my neverending stories. Now even my in-person stories can be to the point: “date was worst. Had #motherissues”.

Tell it like it is?

I was out shopping recently when I had a bit of a wake up call.
While trying on a size 10 jacket and finding it a tad too big, I kindly asked the shop assistant if it came in a smaller size.

She gave me a swift head to toe once-over and declared (loudly), that there’s no way the size 8 would fit me.

I would have liked to tell you that I yelled at her, or reminded her a little something that I learnt in the retail business, that “the customer is always right”, but instead I muttered thank you and left immediately to avoid any sniggers.

Later on, fuming about it over coffee with a friend, I wondered whether the shop assistant was perhaps right – maybe I suffered from body dysmorphia, or high self-esteem?

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with it. An ex-colleague of mine used to always ask to borrow my clothes, pretty much every weekend. Now she was about a size 16 at least, and at the time I was a size 8 (believe it or not, Ms shop assistant).

I liked this girl so I didnt want to hurt her feelings. So, I’d let her borrow my stuff. As she squeezed into the teeny tiny dresses in front of me I tried hard not to wince when I heard the fabric snap and tear.
“See, it fits!’ She said, twirling gracefully, seemingly not noticing the huge rip in the rear end.

After about three ripped dresses I finally came up with a story that I hoped she would believe – I had sold all my good dresses to Vinnie’s and just didnt have any nice ones for her to borrow anymore. Of course, she found out that wasn’t true when she saw me post photos wearing the dresses on facebook, and we eventually stopped talking after that.

Yep, a friendship broken all because someone suffered from high self esteem, and the other didnt have the balls to tell it like it is.

Well, I’m sure you all think I’m a real cow now. But I just couldnt bring myself to say to her what that shop assistant told me - you are not a size 8.
The week after my shopping disaster I stormed into that same store and grabbed the size 8 jacket I had been advised against, head held high.
As I pulled it on, I noticed it was a little tight. As my fingers fumbled with the buttons, I could hear that same fabric-pulling noise. By then I was trying desperately to button it, making awful noises in the change room like I was in labour. “Errrrrrrrr” “offffff” “gahhhhhh”. I was determined to prove that shop assistant wrong.
Finally, when I had buttoned it all up, with huge gaping holes between each button so you could see my bra, each button straining, holding on for dear life, I walked out and surveyed myself in the mirror, ignoring the shop assistant’s collective gasps of horror.

“I’ll take it,” I said smugly.

And that, ladies, is the story of how I proved a shop assistant wrong.