In Which I Do Battle with a Travel Blogging Calendar

A couple of months ago, I unwisely signed up to The Travel Blogging Calendar.

Yes, a travel blogging calendar.

This is, as the name would suggest, a laudable initative whereby travel bloggers, male and female, pose for a calendar, which is then sold to raise money for charities (pre-order here!).

I’m not, honestly, quite sure why I did this.

I thought I could dredge up one of the few decent shots of me and the boy together – you know, the ones where we both have our eyes open, nobody’s gurning and neither of us are visibly food-stained – whack it over and be done with it.

Ya know. It’s a giggle, right?

It’s for charity, right?

And if there’s one thing a woman of rising 40 who alternates between a completely sedentary lifestyle and random spasms of extreme activity – hello, Everest Base Camp! – needs, it is not to pose for a calendar.

Right?!

I pore idly through the scant few shots I have of me and Zac together.

Sure, the last ones I look decent in he’s nine.

But wait! There’s that one on Mount Sinai. We both look alright in that. Nice backdrop!

Job done.

Oh.

Computer says, “Lost”!

Bugger. What about the one of us in gellabiyas? That’s alright, isn’t it?

On Facebook, there is ominous chatter about dates for “shoots”, and questions like “How close to nude can we go?”

Bugger, bugger, bugger!

Maybe that pic of us in my “decent for Egypt” sack outfit ain’t quite going to cut it.

Now, we spent Zac’s last two days in Bali at the rather charming Ivory Seminyak, courtesy of the good folk at Asiarooms.

Well, we spent the first one alternating between the disco-lit pool and our ludicrously large “family room”.

And by “ludicrously large” I mean that we had an outside dining area and outside lounge, plus an indoor lounge, two bedrooms, a storage area the size of a budget Istanbul hotel room, and mod cons from a microwave to — eek! — scales.

Let’s face it. When you have not one but TWO flatscreen TVs with international telly, who needs the beach?!

Not Zac. He’s been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

This is the problem with Bali. We slip into the place like an old pair of shoes. It’s not so much travelling as stasis for us.

“You have a temple inauguration in your village this full moon, you say? Once every two hundred year event? Yeah, right, thanks… Maybe next time….”

Oh, I’m sorry.

I mean, of course, that we immerse ourselves deeply in the local culture and travel very slowly.

Whatevs.

On day 2, we managed our welcome foot massage AND made it up for breakfast. Well done, us!

Around five hours before Zac’s flight, it begins to dawn on me that if I am going to get a shot of the pair of us in time to make the travel blogging calendar deadline, poolside at Ivory is about as good as it gets.

Now, let me tell you. It ain’t easy doing a photoshoot.

Not when you’re 38. Not when you’re living out of a backpack.

Not when your makeup palette consists of a lipstick-cum-blusher, a scabby mascara, a blunt kohl pencil, one foundation for when I don’t have a tan, one for when I do, nail polish, and a comb.

And, further, not when areas of sensitivity include, but are by no means limited to, “fine” lines, crowsfeet, pores, upper arms, knees, muffin top, thighs and that bête noire, my chin.

Oh to be 23 again! When all I needed to worry about was my chin…

Anywise, we agree that Zac facepalming and eye-rolling in utter embarrassment while I vamp poolside will represent our special family dynamic perfectly and make a HILARIOUS pic that people would TOTES buy a travel blogging calendar for.

I drag myself off Facebook and Zac off Cartoon Network and into his white shirt and jeans.

I pull out my posh frock and heels, smear foundation over the worst of the pores, splurge an extra pale layer over the spot on my chin… – oh, gentle reader, how can this be? Spots and lines at the SAME TIME?!! — apply kohl with more vim than accuracy, think about sorting my nails out, get Zac to explain the self-timer on my camera, and head to the pool.

“What’s that black stuff round your eyes?” Zac asks.

“It’s eyeliner,” I say.

“What did you DO?!” he asks. “It looks like your mascara’s run.”

“Shut up,” I say. “It’s fine.”

Herewith a dispatch from the department of the absolutely bleeding obvious:

When using the self-timer function on a camera, even one that has continuous shoot, you can’t just place the camera anywhere, you know.

Otherwise you cut people’s heads off.

Thanking you…

Oh, yeah. And when you’re taking pictures by a pool on autoshoot, even in a small hotel, people tend to walk across the shot.

Still, as the dazzling Balinese sunset fades into darkness, I look upon my handiwork and think…

“Yeah, sod it. It’ll do. It’s cute, it’s funny, I don’t look fat. Whack the luminance up, crop it to 8.5 x 11, and it’ll be fine.”

Job done! Look!

So off we tootle to Denpasar airport, where Zac will be heading to Brisbane to see his father, and perfecting his airport navigational skills. This confuses the chap at reception somewhat.

“You’re leaving?”

“No. HE’S leaving. I’M coming back. He is going to see his father. In Australia.”

The poor guy pauses while this sinks in.

“He is going to Australia on his OWN?”

“Yes. They have hostesses to look after him.”

“So brave!”

“He quite likes it, actually.”

“And then you go to Australia?”

“No. I go to KL, and he flies from Australia to meet me in KL.”

“With his father?”

“On his own.”

“So you live in KL?”

“No….”

After our ritual if not-really-allowed airside dinner – a sashimi boat, gyoza, seaweed salad and edamame at Fukutaro – we make our fond farewells, and I loiter at the airport until Zac’s flight is in the air.

For a scant five minutes I mourn my little boy’s departure. Then…

I’m solo and single in Seminyak! Yay! Time to party like I’m in Beirut! (Well, hopefully not like THAT.)

Oh, wait.

I’m solo, single, under a stack of deadlines and with an assault on Everest Base Camp to organise.

Unyay!

Doubleplus unyay!

On my return to base, I log onto Facebook. Miss January, a smoking hot 20-something Hawaiian, has put her calendar picture up.

A message pings in from my single mama blogging friend, Lainie.

“I KNOW!” I message back. “What the FUCK are we going to do?!”