So, are YOU brave enough to host a party where your friends
Posted: 20th Mar, '08, 11:00
The invitations for my rebranding party read as follows: "I'm the wrong side of 40, need new challenges, am feeling unfulfilled workwise, unsure about the need for romantic attachment and confused about how one presents oneself to the world.
"Can I still shop at Topshop? Cram my feet into platform shoes? Wear a bikini? Date younger men? I have the confidence of age but the fear of ageing.
"Please can you help me maximise my potential for the next 25 years without life becoming a hazy blur of unfulfilled disappointment, ailments and grumpy old woman complaints?"
The rebranding party is a craze currently sweeping America. The idea is that instead of friends telling you how wonderful you are, they tell you everything about you that they don't like - with tips on how to change.
Each attendee must be brutally honest about the elements of your personality they feel may be holding you back.
They must bring positive and constructive ideas, offer assistance, and are given carte blanche to say whatever they want, on this one occasion, without you taking offence.
This was something, I decided, I could do with and went ahead and organised one.
There is a particular British reticence about asking for help as it reeks of self-indulgence and vanity.
The only times we really offer help and mean it are when friends have suffered a loss or have been diagnosed with some terrible illness.
"Call me anytime," we say, or "if there's anything I can do".
It's not that we don't mean it, but we also know on some level that they won't call.
As a nation, we are uncomfortable with not being able to sort out our own problems. It somehow smacks of weakness.
As I nervously prepared for my party, I couldn't help wonder whether Madonna, that mistress of reinvention, had ever asked Gwyneth or Stella about the wisdom of wearing a purple bomber jacket, leotard and fishnets?
The answer almost certainly is no, but celebrities do have a retinue of stylists, make-up artists and PRs to keep them on top of the game.
Then again, if someone is being paid to give you advice, they're never really going to give it to you straight, are they? I mean, shouldn't someone have told Madonna that her get-up was all a bit much for a woman who's about to turn 50?
So, I erected my whiteboard headed "Rebrand Maria" in the centre of my living room, supplied marker pens, made sure there was plenty of wine chilling in the fridge - I knew I was going to need it even if nobody else was drinking - and had some party snacks warming in the oven.
Now, would it be possible to make it through the evening without bursting into tears or wanting to punch someone's lights out?
By 8.30pm a dozen of my friends were milling about clutching drinks and chatting happily, but no one seemed to want to go near the 'Rebrand Maria' board and the markers remained unopened.
I tried to get people to go over and write their thoughts, but they weren't having any of it. They may have agreed to come but it was obvious that none of my guests felt comfortable with such a public display of criticism.
As one friend said: "It just feels horribly cruel and unnecessary, and we're all having such a nice time."
This wasn't going to be as easy as I was led to believe by my chums across the pond.
Conceding to British reserve, I ripped some pieces of paper from a notepad, found a large sun hat, and instructed my friends to write down their suggestions anonymously and stick them in the hat while I busied myself taking mini quiches from the oven.
Before I knew it, my hat was filled to the brim. Cruelty, it seems, is fine as long as we're not accountable. I elected an actor friend to read each one aloud and suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable.
"Stop wearing Eighties make-up and pearlised nail varnish," he boomed. As an opener, it was pretty tame and everyone laughed.
It's certainly true, my decade was the Eighties and I have often found myself admiring Keeley Hawes's wardrobe in Ashes To Ashes, idly wondering if I can dig out my white boots and matching leather jacket combo.
The note also contained the number of a make-up artist. Perfect.
I publicly vowed to call the following morning and thanked the mysterious donor effusively whilst secretly trying to work out who it was and plotting to kill them.
But that was just the start. The advice was now flowing thick and fast: stop dieting and accept the shape you are - you have lost and gained the same ten pounds for the last 20 years!
What a waste of time and pointless denial of pleasure (good point); share your love and care a little wider (ouch); stop watching so much television and get out a bit more (I'd been promising myself this for a while).
The more obscure suggestions included: dye your hair blonde and become a ski guide (unlikely); learn everything there is to know about one thing and become the expert everyone turns to when they need to know about that thing (I love this one - I'm just trying to decide what thing).
I was also given the numbers of several suitors who would be "perfect" for me.
Worst of all though was a strange object I found at the bottom of the hat. I eventually deduced that this was a nasal hair trimmer.
When I pleaded for everyone to tell me if I really did have nose hair, there was an ominous silence.
All told, it was an extremely illuminating experience and to finish off, as instructed by my American counterparts, we ended the evening with a lot of positive and flattering comments being made about me to undo any possible anxiety I that may have been feeling.
All a bit too touchy-feely and American for my very British tastes, but useful for some people, I suppose. Two weeks on and the momentum of the party remains.
My make-up is now of the "less is more" variety, as taught to me by professional make-up artist Anthea Clarke and I've thrown out my dated clothes.
I have two romantic liaisons lined up with two of the men whose names went into the hat, and the diet is history (and my weight hasn't altered a jot).
I have also committed myself to one day a week of voluntary work with young offenders and have three evenings a week without television when I go instead to the theatre or cinema, and I am also going to hold a book club and discussion nights.
Rebranding yourself needs a sturdy disposition, but if you're stuck in the doldrums, I strongly suggest you order a case of wine and hold your very own party soon.
Oh, and as for the nose trimmer? My puppy now has hair-free ears and I have a regular appointment with a beautician.
"Can I still shop at Topshop? Cram my feet into platform shoes? Wear a bikini? Date younger men? I have the confidence of age but the fear of ageing.
"Please can you help me maximise my potential for the next 25 years without life becoming a hazy blur of unfulfilled disappointment, ailments and grumpy old woman complaints?"
The rebranding party is a craze currently sweeping America. The idea is that instead of friends telling you how wonderful you are, they tell you everything about you that they don't like - with tips on how to change.
Each attendee must be brutally honest about the elements of your personality they feel may be holding you back.
They must bring positive and constructive ideas, offer assistance, and are given carte blanche to say whatever they want, on this one occasion, without you taking offence.
This was something, I decided, I could do with and went ahead and organised one.
There is a particular British reticence about asking for help as it reeks of self-indulgence and vanity.
The only times we really offer help and mean it are when friends have suffered a loss or have been diagnosed with some terrible illness.
"Call me anytime," we say, or "if there's anything I can do".
It's not that we don't mean it, but we also know on some level that they won't call.
As a nation, we are uncomfortable with not being able to sort out our own problems. It somehow smacks of weakness.
As I nervously prepared for my party, I couldn't help wonder whether Madonna, that mistress of reinvention, had ever asked Gwyneth or Stella about the wisdom of wearing a purple bomber jacket, leotard and fishnets?
The answer almost certainly is no, but celebrities do have a retinue of stylists, make-up artists and PRs to keep them on top of the game.
Then again, if someone is being paid to give you advice, they're never really going to give it to you straight, are they? I mean, shouldn't someone have told Madonna that her get-up was all a bit much for a woman who's about to turn 50?
So, I erected my whiteboard headed "Rebrand Maria" in the centre of my living room, supplied marker pens, made sure there was plenty of wine chilling in the fridge - I knew I was going to need it even if nobody else was drinking - and had some party snacks warming in the oven.
Now, would it be possible to make it through the evening without bursting into tears or wanting to punch someone's lights out?
By 8.30pm a dozen of my friends were milling about clutching drinks and chatting happily, but no one seemed to want to go near the 'Rebrand Maria' board and the markers remained unopened.
I tried to get people to go over and write their thoughts, but they weren't having any of it. They may have agreed to come but it was obvious that none of my guests felt comfortable with such a public display of criticism.
As one friend said: "It just feels horribly cruel and unnecessary, and we're all having such a nice time."
This wasn't going to be as easy as I was led to believe by my chums across the pond.
Conceding to British reserve, I ripped some pieces of paper from a notepad, found a large sun hat, and instructed my friends to write down their suggestions anonymously and stick them in the hat while I busied myself taking mini quiches from the oven.
Before I knew it, my hat was filled to the brim. Cruelty, it seems, is fine as long as we're not accountable. I elected an actor friend to read each one aloud and suddenly felt incredibly vulnerable.
"Stop wearing Eighties make-up and pearlised nail varnish," he boomed. As an opener, it was pretty tame and everyone laughed.
It's certainly true, my decade was the Eighties and I have often found myself admiring Keeley Hawes's wardrobe in Ashes To Ashes, idly wondering if I can dig out my white boots and matching leather jacket combo.
The note also contained the number of a make-up artist. Perfect.
I publicly vowed to call the following morning and thanked the mysterious donor effusively whilst secretly trying to work out who it was and plotting to kill them.
But that was just the start. The advice was now flowing thick and fast: stop dieting and accept the shape you are - you have lost and gained the same ten pounds for the last 20 years!
What a waste of time and pointless denial of pleasure (good point); share your love and care a little wider (ouch); stop watching so much television and get out a bit more (I'd been promising myself this for a while).
The more obscure suggestions included: dye your hair blonde and become a ski guide (unlikely); learn everything there is to know about one thing and become the expert everyone turns to when they need to know about that thing (I love this one - I'm just trying to decide what thing).
I was also given the numbers of several suitors who would be "perfect" for me.
Worst of all though was a strange object I found at the bottom of the hat. I eventually deduced that this was a nasal hair trimmer.
When I pleaded for everyone to tell me if I really did have nose hair, there was an ominous silence.
All told, it was an extremely illuminating experience and to finish off, as instructed by my American counterparts, we ended the evening with a lot of positive and flattering comments being made about me to undo any possible anxiety I that may have been feeling.
All a bit too touchy-feely and American for my very British tastes, but useful for some people, I suppose. Two weeks on and the momentum of the party remains.
My make-up is now of the "less is more" variety, as taught to me by professional make-up artist Anthea Clarke and I've thrown out my dated clothes.
I have two romantic liaisons lined up with two of the men whose names went into the hat, and the diet is history (and my weight hasn't altered a jot).
I have also committed myself to one day a week of voluntary work with young offenders and have three evenings a week without television when I go instead to the theatre or cinema, and I am also going to hold a book club and discussion nights.
Rebranding yourself needs a sturdy disposition, but if you're stuck in the doldrums, I strongly suggest you order a case of wine and hold your very own party soon.
Oh, and as for the nose trimmer? My puppy now has hair-free ears and I have a regular appointment with a beautician.
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