A friend recently pointed out, only half jestingly, that I was opinionated and judgmental.
Another one said I was not social and friendly and my ‘well-meaning’ sister is always quick to add that I am moody and sulky. My husband, I notice, while he never adds to the long list of my apparent unfriendliness, nods rather vigorously.
So I only recently realised that I don’t come across as the sunshiny, warm, genial person I see myself as in my head.
This is why I think I should move to France and hang out with French people. Their decided unfriendliness, their obvious (apparently) disregard for going out of their way to be pleasant or even cordial.
And that was always the plan- to move to France and marry Pierre.
It would be a marvellous dinner party.
Finest silver, champagne and canapés.
Air kisses.
Jazz will play in the background.
As the saxophonist takes his spot for his solo performance, the cork will pop, I will laugh delicately, wave a garcon down and the watery afternoon sun would catch my Chopard ring and throw myriad broken sparkles across the ceiling.
Aah my champagne flute runneth over!
This would be my engagement party.
My betrothal to Pierre.
My future husband.
The French one.
I often tell/warn my husband, my current, Indian husband that is, that I will leave him when I find my French dreamboat. He smiles indulgently.
And besides being a one-way ticket to Paris, it would mean a cultural awakening (it’s a great reason to get married); romance, fashion, French croissant, and me and P walking hand-in-hand along the Champs Elysee, dancing under the fashionable French skies, sipping cafe at the local bistro.
Le sigh!
I am of course little wary of the French people, since stereotype has it that they're quite snooty.
But if you’ve met me, you’ll know that I am not the most social person.
I don’t chat up random people I meet.
I don’t share confidences in the vegetable aisle at the local Pazhamudir Cholai, with the nosy Mylapore maami.
I won’t attempt to break the awkward silence if we’re the only two people locked in a room for two years.
I will not even offer a comment to the old man who is talking to me about the weather as we work out on neighbouring treadmills.
If I am feeling friendly, I might acknowledge with a sage nod.
Sometimes I even introduce myself as Priyanka, in case telling you my real name, gives you a false sense of familiarity.
So don’t expect me to welcome you into my world with open arms just because you helped carry my groceries, baked me a cake, saved my life.
Because my philosophy is ‘I have enough people in my life, I don’t need more’.
But other than that I am quite friendly.
Which is why I think I will get along rather well with P and his peers.
Because there would be no awkward silences.
We will get through a two-hour lunch with just the harmony of the silverware and the graceful shuffling of our maids, housekeepers and attendants (are they still employed?).
Our conversation would go as such (pardon my French...literally):
Ami 1: Ma cherie, la blah, le bleh?
Moi: Oui
Ami 2: Bordeaux.Chanel.
Moi: Le lovely
Ami 3: Un, deux, trois.
Moi: Voila
See how well that went?
So if your French husband ever throws you a dinner party and you have to make polite conversation, and the only way you can be social is after a couple of Dom Perignons, don’t worry, here are a few handy tips.
Now don’t worry if your French is not as good as mine, just talk in English, throw in a few les and las, elongate the i and the e, and if you really want to be emphatic, the enthusiastic Indian gesticulating never fails.
Safe zones:
1. The weather- very safe conversation, no chances of you offending the hosts there with your broken French.
2. Food- compliment the choice of food, because the French die for the approval of foreigners, especially where gourmet cuisine is concerned.
3. Wine – let loose your inner-sommelier, even if you have no expertise with fine wines, just draw on all the experiences with Kalyani beer, Golconda wine and No.1 McDowells. But this is holy ground, so tread carefully, we don’t want an international incident.
4. Politics- so you know nothing about French politics? No problem. Just drop a few names of your local thug...err...politician.
Let’s give it a shot shall we?
French person: Le how are you? (All this is spoken in French, translated for your benefit)
You: La weather...tres bien. Le Madras, only le summer.
French person 2: I love la Indian cinema. Are you le actress?
You: Le escargot eeees magnifique...
French person 3: You are tres beautiful.
You: I love le arrack.
French person 4: Are you enjoying le France?
You: Carla Bruni. Le Mayawathi.
This is a mere tip of le proverbial iceberg. I will start classes soon.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Of fair maidens and youthful fountains
I had a near-death experience recently.
It made me question my life, my achievements (or lack thereof) and the moments preceding the said experience...
...when I found my first grey/white strand of hair amidst an otherwise young, carefree and multi-coloured bunch.
Life as I know it is over.
This was not supposed to happen yet (ever). I am twenty-something.
There is so much for me to do still, experience, mull over, stress about; come on- I still have bills to worry about, body issues, the future, and being an angst-ridden writer is one thing, but looking like one doesn’t get your picture on the jacket cover. And when I was just about beginning to love my hair for what it really was, for this to happen, is nothing short of a tragedy.
Was this follicle-karma for the follies of my youth, for all the straightening, and colourings and smoothenings and ironings? Isn’t karma supposed to bite me in the ass in my next birth?
My first thought was to yank it out. Nobody was around; no one would know...it would be the perfect crime.
But I couldn’t do it. In those terribly traumatic seconds, post-discovery, I had grown fond of Simone (I had to give her a name) and not just because white strands had demon parentage, the 'one give rise to two' theory, but because some cosmic force stayed my murdering hand, pushing it away from fair Simone.
A great calm washed over me, the world appeared clearer, my destiny awaited. Is this what wisdom feels like? With grey strand comes great wisdom?
Or is it just my old companion talking, comforting me in my hour of need? The fortifying brew, my fountain of happiness.
Ah Simone. I am a changed woman already.
She will be the testament to my struggle against...higher powers, the establishment, bureaucracy, government, the shackles that bind me, society, sobriety.
She and I will stand alone (please let it be only the two of us, more than one strand of wisdom will result in genocide) as we face life head on with courage and honesty and integrity.
But not yet.
Fair Simone, you that shine so brightly (tauntingly so, you *#@%!), you came too soon, much ahead of your time. It’s been pre-ordained that you will succumb, you will not survive the fight against Burgundy-Black, 32 Dark Mahogany-Brown and Red 6. The Gods of L’Oreal are too powerful for you, this time.
Return in another lifetime, 20 years perhaps. You can then be queen (maybe).
Go now, in peace, let me play in the fountain of youth, once more.
What now? That was just a stray blonde strand?
My eyes are failing me (I am too young for Glaucoma). I see only wrinkles and grey.
Has old age come knocking again? She has addled my young, vain mind.
Oh Simone what have I done?
PS: Beautiful lager, you remain my one true friend.
It made me question my life, my achievements (or lack thereof) and the moments preceding the said experience...
...when I found my first grey/white strand of hair amidst an otherwise young, carefree and multi-coloured bunch.
Life as I know it is over.
This was not supposed to happen yet (ever). I am twenty-something.
There is so much for me to do still, experience, mull over, stress about; come on- I still have bills to worry about, body issues, the future, and being an angst-ridden writer is one thing, but looking like one doesn’t get your picture on the jacket cover. And when I was just about beginning to love my hair for what it really was, for this to happen, is nothing short of a tragedy.
Was this follicle-karma for the follies of my youth, for all the straightening, and colourings and smoothenings and ironings? Isn’t karma supposed to bite me in the ass in my next birth?
My first thought was to yank it out. Nobody was around; no one would know...it would be the perfect crime.
But I couldn’t do it. In those terribly traumatic seconds, post-discovery, I had grown fond of Simone (I had to give her a name) and not just because white strands had demon parentage, the 'one give rise to two' theory, but because some cosmic force stayed my murdering hand, pushing it away from fair Simone.
A great calm washed over me, the world appeared clearer, my destiny awaited. Is this what wisdom feels like? With grey strand comes great wisdom?
Or is it just my old companion talking, comforting me in my hour of need? The fortifying brew, my fountain of happiness.
Ah Simone. I am a changed woman already.
She will be the testament to my struggle against...higher powers, the establishment, bureaucracy, government, the shackles that bind me, society, sobriety.
She and I will stand alone (please let it be only the two of us, more than one strand of wisdom will result in genocide) as we face life head on with courage and honesty and integrity.
But not yet.
Fair Simone, you that shine so brightly (tauntingly so, you *#@%!), you came too soon, much ahead of your time. It’s been pre-ordained that you will succumb, you will not survive the fight against Burgundy-Black, 32 Dark Mahogany-Brown and Red 6. The Gods of L’Oreal are too powerful for you, this time.
Return in another lifetime, 20 years perhaps. You can then be queen (maybe).
Go now, in peace, let me play in the fountain of youth, once more.
What now? That was just a stray blonde strand?
My eyes are failing me (I am too young for Glaucoma). I see only wrinkles and grey.
Has old age come knocking again? She has addled my young, vain mind.
Oh Simone what have I done?
PS: Beautiful lager, you remain my one true friend.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Down the rabbit hole
The day grows insidious.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Hello beer, it’s me Nandhini
This is not the life I ordered.
By this time I am supposed to have figured stuff out (at least most of it).
I should be lounging in my Manhattan loft, sipping on Cristal and making witty conversation with famous(ish) people.
I should not be bent over a computer, wiping the sweat off my face, waiting for my cup-o-noodles to be ready, all the while churning out mindless drivel for the most parts, chasing 2-bit companies for long overdue payments, so that I can pay some random bill, which would probably provide me with less-than average service.
Oh bleaaaaaaagh!!
Sitting at home, sick, when the TV is not working, and with no good book, to help tide over the malaise is not recommended.
Especially when there are 120 things to be done, plus work to finish.
I just always assumed, probably naively, that life would work itself out. Apparently there is some witticism about the best laid plans of mice and men...
And also apparently there is some cosmic miscommunication, because Universe, this is not what I asked for.
It’s a good thing I am not too convinced of the great presence out there, because then I would be forced to admit that somebody up there doesn’t like me, and there is no need to add to that list.
But let me clarify that I am an optimistic, sunshiny person.
Well maybe not today, but usually.
I don’t usually whinge so much, a tad high-maintenance perhaps, but am one of those complacent people, happy with the illusion that this is as good as it gets...but always hoping for better.
But then you have this damned epiphany one day! You wake up to another day of possibly unfulfilling work, meetings with unremarkable people, a long day of tiring conversations and meaningless obligations and you realise that the dream has passed and you have woken up to a mediocre reality. Even bad would be better, at least there’s drama, but mediocrity is the death of creativity, scratch that...mediocrity is the death of life, ideas, possibly the soul (philosophy class anyone?) because mediocrity is when you settle!
When you get by, when you cut off the dust ruffles to accommodate a yellowing quilt.
So while my train of thought gets disturbed by Vodafone-induced spam, I realise that there is never a point of no return.
Obamaesque shouts of hope aside, yes we can make the change we want.
I could (should) happily quit my job(s) that’s filling me with such vitriol, cut off the people sapping me of my will to live (off with their heads et al), move to Paris (because apparently in this hare-brained scheme money and bureaucracy and apparently reality play no part) or New York with my husband and enjoy the fine weather and finer company in by vintage Dior cocktail dress and wardrobe full of designer duds and runway makeup. I can almost see Parthib’s eyes roll at what he calls my ‘blonde ambitions’. He has loftier aspirations...of a sack of cash, never-ending supply of Old Monk (or the fancier Malibu) and a pet alligator.
Or I could just take a holiday (yesssssssssssss please), regroup, rewire, whatever.
But if life gets good, what ever will I bitch and moan about?
Damn the Cristal...where’s the Carlsberg when you need it?
By this time I am supposed to have figured stuff out (at least most of it).
I should be lounging in my Manhattan loft, sipping on Cristal and making witty conversation with famous(ish) people.
I should not be bent over a computer, wiping the sweat off my face, waiting for my cup-o-noodles to be ready, all the while churning out mindless drivel for the most parts, chasing 2-bit companies for long overdue payments, so that I can pay some random bill, which would probably provide me with less-than average service.
Oh bleaaaaaaagh!!
Sitting at home, sick, when the TV is not working, and with no good book, to help tide over the malaise is not recommended.
Especially when there are 120 things to be done, plus work to finish.
I just always assumed, probably naively, that life would work itself out. Apparently there is some witticism about the best laid plans of mice and men...
And also apparently there is some cosmic miscommunication, because Universe, this is not what I asked for.
It’s a good thing I am not too convinced of the great presence out there, because then I would be forced to admit that somebody up there doesn’t like me, and there is no need to add to that list.
But let me clarify that I am an optimistic, sunshiny person.
Well maybe not today, but usually.
I don’t usually whinge so much, a tad high-maintenance perhaps, but am one of those complacent people, happy with the illusion that this is as good as it gets...but always hoping for better.
But then you have this damned epiphany one day! You wake up to another day of possibly unfulfilling work, meetings with unremarkable people, a long day of tiring conversations and meaningless obligations and you realise that the dream has passed and you have woken up to a mediocre reality. Even bad would be better, at least there’s drama, but mediocrity is the death of creativity, scratch that...mediocrity is the death of life, ideas, possibly the soul (philosophy class anyone?) because mediocrity is when you settle!
When you get by, when you cut off the dust ruffles to accommodate a yellowing quilt.
So while my train of thought gets disturbed by Vodafone-induced spam, I realise that there is never a point of no return.
Obamaesque shouts of hope aside, yes we can make the change we want.
I could (should) happily quit my job(s) that’s filling me with such vitriol, cut off the people sapping me of my will to live (off with their heads et al), move to Paris (because apparently in this hare-brained scheme money and bureaucracy and apparently reality play no part) or New York with my husband and enjoy the fine weather and finer company in by vintage Dior cocktail dress and wardrobe full of designer duds and runway makeup. I can almost see Parthib’s eyes roll at what he calls my ‘blonde ambitions’. He has loftier aspirations...of a sack of cash, never-ending supply of Old Monk (or the fancier Malibu) and a pet alligator.
Or I could just take a holiday (yesssssssssssss please), regroup, rewire, whatever.
But if life gets good, what ever will I bitch and moan about?
Damn the Cristal...where’s the Carlsberg when you need it?
Friday, May 14, 2010
To be(er) or not to be(er)
I have issues.
No not children.
Not magazine subscriptions either.
Mental problems if you will. I need to fill my days with a plan (which I probably will not see through).
Today was a very random day and I needed a plan.
No not for the day, for life (remember I have issues and also things to do before I turn 30).
So on my uncomfortable chair I sat, contemplating life- what to do with it, about it etc.
This whole spending-the-day-working-for-money is just not for me (I am a freelancer so work is what I decide to do and of late I have been deciding not to).
I hate waking up to unfinished articles, looming deadlines and long meetings. And I get so busy focussing all my energies on said work I don’t have the time to do what I really want to do.
Win the Booker for one. Although a friend suggested I should probably settle for getting a book published. But what’s the point of writing a book if you’re not gonna win a prize?
So my new thing is to try and find my Zen place.
No it’s not a potted plant.
It’s just a happier state of mind. Where the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, there’s a champagne fountain at hand and all is right with the world. It’s a place of peace and sanguinity.
Right now I am resting in a happy place. Sure, it often comes out of a little green bottle, but I’ll take what I can get.
So in my attempt to achieve Buddha-esque peace and goodness I have come up with an eight-fold path (it’s a euphemism for ‘I got another long list’).
Okay so the language is a little bit 10 Commandments meet Shakespeare, so bear with me.
1. Thou shall not be judgmental (no matter how badly she is dressed, how incorrectly he pronounces meringue and how slowly that arthritic old lady is hobbling in front of you)
2. Thou will not spend hard-earned money on cosmetics (detachment, getting rid of ego etc. unless Sephora comes to Madras...then all bets are off. PS: also it’s alright if there’s a sale)
3. Thou shall not envy others (unless he/she is a writer who lives in a castle in Europe *curses*)
4. Thou shall not curse (unless the *&#@! has a friggin’ summer house in the South of France and travels around the world...business effing class)
5. Thou shall be kind to children and not judge them...even snotty-nosed brats
6. Thou will not procrastinate (err...I’ll come back to this later)
7. Thou shall donate to charity/less fortunate/underprivileged (I am all of those, somebody who wants to reach their Zen place, please contribute)
8. Thou shall learn patience ... well since I made through the eight points, I guess I am already there.
If this divine, much thought over path is not for you, there is a one-step path to the Zen wonderland:
1. Down a crate of beer
The one-step path will also work with other intoxicating beverages that get you spiritual. Prozac might also work.
Okay so am going to start working on reaching my Zen place.
Which path to take though?
Cheers!
No not children.
Not magazine subscriptions either.
Mental problems if you will. I need to fill my days with a plan (which I probably will not see through).
Today was a very random day and I needed a plan.
No not for the day, for life (remember I have issues and also things to do before I turn 30).
So on my uncomfortable chair I sat, contemplating life- what to do with it, about it etc.
This whole spending-the-day-working-for-money is just not for me (I am a freelancer so work is what I decide to do and of late I have been deciding not to).
I hate waking up to unfinished articles, looming deadlines and long meetings. And I get so busy focussing all my energies on said work I don’t have the time to do what I really want to do.
Win the Booker for one. Although a friend suggested I should probably settle for getting a book published. But what’s the point of writing a book if you’re not gonna win a prize?
So my new thing is to try and find my Zen place.
No it’s not a potted plant.
It’s just a happier state of mind. Where the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, there’s a champagne fountain at hand and all is right with the world. It’s a place of peace and sanguinity.
Right now I am resting in a happy place. Sure, it often comes out of a little green bottle, but I’ll take what I can get.
So in my attempt to achieve Buddha-esque peace and goodness I have come up with an eight-fold path (it’s a euphemism for ‘I got another long list’).
Okay so the language is a little bit 10 Commandments meet Shakespeare, so bear with me.
1. Thou shall not be judgmental (no matter how badly she is dressed, how incorrectly he pronounces meringue and how slowly that arthritic old lady is hobbling in front of you)
2. Thou will not spend hard-earned money on cosmetics (detachment, getting rid of ego etc. unless Sephora comes to Madras...then all bets are off. PS: also it’s alright if there’s a sale)
3. Thou shall not envy others (unless he/she is a writer who lives in a castle in Europe *curses*)
4. Thou shall not curse (unless the *&#@! has a friggin’ summer house in the South of France and travels around the world...business effing class)
5. Thou shall be kind to children and not judge them...even snotty-nosed brats
6. Thou will not procrastinate (err...I’ll come back to this later)
7. Thou shall donate to charity/less fortunate/underprivileged (I am all of those, somebody who wants to reach their Zen place, please contribute)
8. Thou shall learn patience ... well since I made through the eight points, I guess I am already there.
If this divine, much thought over path is not for you, there is a one-step path to the Zen wonderland:
1. Down a crate of beer
The one-step path will also work with other intoxicating beverages that get you spiritual. Prozac might also work.
Okay so am going to start working on reaching my Zen place.
Which path to take though?
Cheers!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Of lists and listlessness
I like making lists. It gives me a sense of being in charge. That there is a plan and I am on the right track. With all the lists that I make, you would think I am superbly organised, conscientious, meticulous...I am not.
That’s because I always lose the list. So I try and wing it.
Like packing for a holiday, for instance. I make a list (and check it twice) and then lose it so I then just throw in stuff. It explains why I always forget to pack emergency tooth floss (in case I lose the first one in flight turbulence)...kidding. The emergency floss is always hidden in the pink sock.
But the point I’m trying to make is lists help me, especially since therapists charge by the hour.
Whenever I go through the “what-am-I-doing-with –my-life” phase, I make a list of all the things I should do; all the places I should visit in my lifetime; ways to rob a bank and fund my travels; books to read; books to write and all is right again. Maybe the lists distract me from the real issues (what am I doing with my life?) and by the time I’m done the momentary melancholy has passed. So recently when I was faced with life’s problems yet again, I decided to make a list that I would actually do something about.
My life of late seems to be a series of bad days trying to outdo themselves.
Seriously.
So while I’m drowning in misery and drama, life seems to have gone by, jauntily at that (please get all analogies and metaphors, otherwise my feeble attempts at being a writer would die in a glorious blaze of shame and leave me feebler still). And I’m still trying to dust off from my last fall when I suddenly realised that I am nearing 30 and not happy to die.
Okay let me clarify, I am not actually dying, but it is death...in principle, that I’m turning a ripe old age. Now before you start making judgments on me and my reluctance (read vain insecurities) at entering the dreaded thirties, that I am a superficial, almost middle-aged woman relying on looks to give meaning to life, yes you would be right! But behind the anti-aging creams and crow-feet hiding concealer, there is a sudden, almost-frenzied (read crazy) need to have something to show for before I hit that speed bump.
So I made a bucket list. Things I need to cross off before I die or hit 30 (whichever happens first).
My philosophy in life (I have a couple so brace yourselves, I know it’s presumptuous of me to address my readers in plural, when it’s probably just one loyalist, (hi Ma), but my blog, so my grammatical assumptions) is to die happy; sounds simple enough but, in actuality, quite a mean feat to achieve. How many of us, if we die today/tomorrow, will go content, having achieved all that we had set out to, or at least part of it?
I don’t even know all that I want to achieve, so here’s my list of things I need to do (I will most certainly be adding to the list):
1. Go to Paris
2. Learn a language or more accurately finish learning a language
3. Drive (go beyond first gear)
4. Live abroad
5. Swim in the deep end
6. Learn patience
7. Finish all the books I’ve been meaning to read (a separate list)
8. Get fit
9. Learn to have faith (in people/beliefs/universe) something
10. Own something valuable (land/house/car/puppy/Macbook Pro/iPad)
11. Start a blog (Yay I can cross one thing off; one step closer to dying happy! )
12. Win the Booker (this probably means I have to get serious about the whole writing thing)
So apparently I have 575 days, which is one year, six months and twenty-six days to achieve all that I have set out to achieve.
Good luck to me!
That’s because I always lose the list. So I try and wing it.
Like packing for a holiday, for instance. I make a list (and check it twice) and then lose it so I then just throw in stuff. It explains why I always forget to pack emergency tooth floss (in case I lose the first one in flight turbulence)...kidding. The emergency floss is always hidden in the pink sock.
But the point I’m trying to make is lists help me, especially since therapists charge by the hour.
Whenever I go through the “what-am-I-doing-with –my-life” phase, I make a list of all the things I should do; all the places I should visit in my lifetime; ways to rob a bank and fund my travels; books to read; books to write and all is right again. Maybe the lists distract me from the real issues (what am I doing with my life?) and by the time I’m done the momentary melancholy has passed. So recently when I was faced with life’s problems yet again, I decided to make a list that I would actually do something about.
My life of late seems to be a series of bad days trying to outdo themselves.
Seriously.
So while I’m drowning in misery and drama, life seems to have gone by, jauntily at that (please get all analogies and metaphors, otherwise my feeble attempts at being a writer would die in a glorious blaze of shame and leave me feebler still). And I’m still trying to dust off from my last fall when I suddenly realised that I am nearing 30 and not happy to die.
Okay let me clarify, I am not actually dying, but it is death...in principle, that I’m turning a ripe old age. Now before you start making judgments on me and my reluctance (read vain insecurities) at entering the dreaded thirties, that I am a superficial, almost middle-aged woman relying on looks to give meaning to life, yes you would be right! But behind the anti-aging creams and crow-feet hiding concealer, there is a sudden, almost-frenzied (read crazy) need to have something to show for before I hit that speed bump.
So I made a bucket list. Things I need to cross off before I die or hit 30 (whichever happens first).
My philosophy in life (I have a couple so brace yourselves, I know it’s presumptuous of me to address my readers in plural, when it’s probably just one loyalist, (hi Ma), but my blog, so my grammatical assumptions) is to die happy; sounds simple enough but, in actuality, quite a mean feat to achieve. How many of us, if we die today/tomorrow, will go content, having achieved all that we had set out to, or at least part of it?
I don’t even know all that I want to achieve, so here’s my list of things I need to do (I will most certainly be adding to the list):
1. Go to Paris
2. Learn a language or more accurately finish learning a language
3. Drive (go beyond first gear)
4. Live abroad
5. Swim in the deep end
6. Learn patience
7. Finish all the books I’ve been meaning to read (a separate list)
8. Get fit
9. Learn to have faith (in people/beliefs/universe) something
10. Own something valuable (land/house/car/puppy/Macbook Pro/iPad)
11. Start a blog (Yay I can cross one thing off; one step closer to dying happy! )
12. Win the Booker (this probably means I have to get serious about the whole writing thing)
So apparently I have 575 days, which is one year, six months and twenty-six days to achieve all that I have set out to achieve.
Good luck to me!
This round’s on me
Finally I’m blogging. After years of thinking about it, I decided to finally let the world read what’s on my mind...don’t say I didn’t warn you. So before you get all Freud on me and try to figure out all the deep-seated issues that resulted in Make that a Largefinding way into the blog’s URL, let me explain it’s a metaphor for well ...nothing, except that if you want to do something, supersize it, and also if you’re ordering a drink, make it a large!
So salud!
Other names included On the Couch (you know the whole shrink-couch cliché, but someone had already taken it...boo),Bleaaagh, but since that’s going to be the opening sentiment in most of the entries, I figured the point would come across.
So if you really don’t want to know what I did, ate, drank, saw, read, wrote, felt like, then you might want to skip this blog and have yourself a nice day.
Those of you who also don’t want to know what I did, ate, drank, saw, read, wrote, felt like, but don’t have anything else to do...read on. Cheers!
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