Getting your ish together is the foundation to passing finals (and not dying in the attempt). Your ish can be a variety of things, in the same way that it can come out in a variety of textures. For some people, their time management skills are as haphazard as diarrhoea, it’s all over the place. For others it’s commitment, they just can’t commit to the time needed to get it all out. Some people might be so full of themselves they’re just gassed wherever they go and coming down a few pegs will help them see and feel better, I don’t know what yours is (i’m only just working out my own), but whatever it is, getting it together means every other part of your daily existence runs just that bit more smoothly.
Earlier this summer my sister and I met up with a friend in Brixton. We were on our way to an LBoogie concert and figured we might as well go the whole hipster way and check out the gentrified ends of former ‘Riot Central’. The set time was 3pm with the standard contingency time of 30mins just in case ( because, obviously, we had already planned to be late). 3.30 came and we weren’t even on the train. My sister turned to me, and said quite simply
‘K, we need to get our s*** together. We are grown women, this is not ok.’
Having graduated earlier that summer and found a job, my sister had taken on the mantle of a YOPRO a.k.a young professional (about town), and that meant an overhaul of her already pretty nifty wardrobe and a sense of ‘responsibility’. I, still an undergraduate who spent her summer doing the pre-production work for her last theatrical venture was, quite gladly, a chaotic mess that didn’t even try to be artistic.
4pm came and we had only just got underground. Our ish was definitely not together. And the most disconcerting part about it was that, yes, one was partially embarrassed for being late, but at the same time – we had planned to be late, hence contingency time??! Our ish was so over the place we’d bought a pack of diapers, not just in case, but for when our time keeping spilled over the bathroom floor and soaked the carpet. And in the back of our minds that was…normal, to be expected.
But that is some messy ish, and I realised, if I want to BOSS this year, as in totally dominate and walk out of this university city with my head high up in the clouds because, I came, I saw and I conquered, then how I use my time needed to be a top priority.
But linked into that awareness that I needed to be punctual (and therefore not miss lectures and run around all day like a maniac who then needed to purchase Mitcham ’cause normal deodorant was just not going to cover all that stressful sweating), was also presentation.
I’ve always been fond of the hobo look – it takes minimal effort. I also like the idea that people find my mind and my actions fascinating and not my body (there’s good value in this, but I also know i’m speaking from a small hole of insecurity too). But presentation is important. Last year, after one of my friends had graduated I went to meet her. She looked sharp. Black polo neck, big gold chain and earrings, dark bottoms and healed boots, she was suited, booted and graduated. When I asked her about the get up, she turned to me, and said gravely (but in a very animated fashion)
“This is war! We have work to do. I needed to face my final exam with my game face ON (she literally capitalised her speech). Do NOT get it twisted, rocking up in your PJ’s does not put you in the zone. I needed to dress like a Queen so I could dominate the exam like one. Nuff said’.
She had her ish together.
So yesterday, I went shopping. I was on time having made a checklist. I took the small money I’d been saving in the summer, looked at my empty cupboards with the lone secondary school jumper with its holey sleeves waving at me and was like
K – get your ish together. Get dressed for battle, because the war is coming.