What Death Feels Like

Mom: Goodnight, AirBear. *kiss* Sweet Dreams.

Air: Night, Mom.

Light off.

Air: Mom?

Mom: Yes?

Air: What does it feel like when you're dead?

Mom: Hm. I don't know. It feels like nothing, I suppose.

Air: Oh.

She thinks.

Air: Is it like when you jump up into the air, and your feet are off the ground? When you are touching nothing, and there is nothing touching you?

Mom: Er, maybe. Good night, Love.

Air: Night.

Mom walks out shaking her head. She is amazed at how her four-year old's mind works.

AirBear~4 years 1 month

Rock Paper Scissors

This post has no political ties. Despite this cute pic. No, really. It's about my daughter. And what she did today. You ever get one of those moments where you want to stop time, go fetch your cam corder and then carry on? But you know if you say "Just hold on one moment, honey, please," the magic of the instant will disappear, never to be recaptured again? So you just have to sit gripping your seat and trying as hard as you can to be completely present. You switch all your reserve neurons on in the hopes that you will remember this moment for ever. Well, it was one of those events. And this is what happened...

"Mom! Come quick!" T-Bird yelled from the lounge.

"What is it, Sweetie?" I yelled back through a mouth full of pegs. "I'm kinda busy right now!"

"I'll wait for you!" she chirruped.

AirBear appeared out of the shadows around the wash line. "T wants you to come," she said.

I sensed the urgency and excitement, did a double-peg (a fancy patented hanging technique I've developed for situations such as these). Picking up the laundry basket I rushed inside to find...

T-bird all aglow, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Two chairs were placed facing her. "Come sit, Mommy!" she pointed at my chair. AirBear had already taken her seat. "I'm going to give you," she paused. For effect. "A ROCK CONCERT!" Beaming.

I was thrilled. "Whoopee!" I shrieked. "Let's get down!"

She frowned a little and motioned me to my chair. I obliged.

Satisfied that everything was just right, she started. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this wonderful rock concert. I'm T and I will be doing the talking." She smiled and waved. I waved back.

"Before we start," she continued, "please tell me what your names are."

"I'm Jessica," said Jessica.

"Air," said AirBear.

"I'm so glad you came here today," T-Bird continued. "Now we will start with our rock concert."

I nudged AirBear with excitement. She giggled.

"Right, " said our hostess, fishing for something in her school bag, "this is the first rock that we will learn about today." She drew out a shard of cement, her eyes twinkling. "This is an amazing rock, because, well, it can shimmer in the sun, and one side is smooth and one side is rough. Here, have a feel." She shoved the triangle of building rubble into my, I'll admit, somewhat surprised hand.

I looked over my shoulder at AirBear who just smiled and shrugged.

"This rock was made just after the dinosaurs were on earth," explained my child as I pulled out a bit of hair that was stuck in a bit of bubblegum clinging to the rock. "It fell out of the sky," she went on, "killed a dinosaur, and this bit landed in my school's playground." She really was chuffed with all of this. "But what makes this rock so very special is," and she quickly flipped it over in her hand and held it out very carefully, "that it's shaped just like a fan that's opening. Or closing. I'm not sure which."

I was still a little gobsmacked. And a bit disappointed that we weren't getting to boogie on down. But, nonetheless, I paid attention. "Do you have any other, er, rocks in that bag of yours?" I inquired.

It was like I had just offered her cotton candy. The little spark in her eyes seemed to be fanned by my question, and she took a deep breath and said, "I was keeping this one for after our interval, but since you asked, and it really is the most special rock of the day, I'm going to show it to you. Have a look at this marvelous octopus rock!" She held out a dark brown lump of petrified something or other.

My first reaction was to tell her to put it down, it's dirty, now go wash you hands, but something in me kept my germ-phobia to myself.

My little geologist turned the rock over in her hand to show the wiggly edges around it's base. She seemed almost mesmerised as she asked me what it looked like.

"Looks like a bit of hard crusty poo," the words slipped out before I could stop them.

She glared at me. "No," she said, stroking her treasure. "It's not poo because it's hard. This rock looks just like an octopus. See?" She shoved the lump under my nose for a better look. I acquiesced, just to gain a bit of distance between myself and the suspicious loam. "In fact," she was almost purring, "this is a very emotional rock." I choked a little. The word was so completely unexpected, but I'm sure she had some fantastic definition for it in this context.

"Wow," I said, nudging my fellow audience member again and giving her a wink. At this point AirBear just giggled and wriggled onto my lap. T-Bird noticed the disruption in her audience, and took her cue. "Right," she said. "We will now have a break while I get the rest of this rock concert ready. You may use this time to walk. Or drive. Or you can rock and roll."

We never saw the second half of the show.

People are Interesting, aren't they?

So I recently went out to a show. Yessirree! a bona fide grown-ups' night out on the town! Ok, Ok, so I won the tickets to the show (cheapskate), and the mother of the year and I were the youngest people at the event (that's what I get for listening to Talk Radio).

But the point of the story is that we took our seats (really good seats, too) after asking the couple who had taken our seats to move up (old fogies who couldn't read the seat numbers on their tickets in the dusky pre-show light. Oh, and this was AFTER the old guy offered me his lap for the duration of the show - Dirty Old Man  - I do mean that in a most affectionate sort of way!).

We had a couple of minutes to spare before the show started and, realising just how ridiculously young we were in comparison, and so, what the heck, I surrendered to the friendly banter that can rise up when seated next to a DOM. His partner turned out to be a vast pit of crazy and another whole double dose of giggles.

She was scratching furiously in her handbag, when she noticed  that I had been eyeing her out quizzically. I couldn't help it, really. It wasn't the discreet scratching of a woman looking for her lip balm. It was the crazed digging of a treasure-obsessed pirate who just found the X.

"I'm having a hot flush!" she said, by way of explanation.

I shook my head. "I heard they're called power surges." She chuckled and went back to her digging.

Suddenly she paused, smiled, and whipped out a tooth-brush. The DOM shook his head.

"You never know when you might not be going home!" she shrugged.

Good point, I thought and made a mental note to get me a toothbrush for my handbag.

She happily chatted away while her arm disappeared into the depths of her handbag. What she removed next, I had not expected. A condom.

"Like I said," she continued, "You do never know!"

She noticed the look on my face. "You want this, Honey?"

I shook my head. I think I did it too quickly. I was trying desperately to get the mother of the year's attention. But instead of his knee, I was squeezing the armrest of my chair.

The lady giggled. "Perhaps we can pass it around and see where it ends up?"

I was still speechless. I think I might have giggled a bit. I was trying to get my mind around the condom in an old lady's bag concept.

I pulled myself together. "You got anything else in that bag?" I inquired.

The DOM and his lady looked at each other and winked. Hovering over her handbag, she slipped her hand in and pulled out a silver pocket knife.

"I wanted to see if I would get through security with this, " she said. "It went through the x-ray and they didn't even say anything!" The two of them seemed rather pleased with their successful smuggle.

At this point, I could have given into an awkward nervousness, but I figured there were enough witnesses to be on the safe side.

I tried to add something valuable to the exchange. "Strangest thing I've got in my handbag is a moldy peppermint and a melted wax crayon." Silence. Polite smiling. She won that competition hands down. The look on her face told me so.

Fortunately for me, it was at that point that the lights went down, and the wonderful evening show started.

Since then though, I have been troubled by two thoughts. The first, obviously, is the condom. I mean come on! The woman's having hot flashes, for crying out loud! Unless, and this is truly troubling for me, she is a multi-partner player. And it troubles me, because she's older than my mom and it just feels funny.

The other little obsession I have brewing, is my interest in what people are carrying in their purses. I catch myself speculating as to what that woman's D&G handbag is holding, or what's lying at the bottom of that guy's backpack. Is this how "NOSY" starts?

Speech Impediment

For the longest time (read: for her whole life), AirBear has been unable to pronounce certain vowel sounds. The 'back-of-the-throat' sounds have particularly had her a little tangled. In particular the 'c', 'k' and 'g' sounds.

She has been very aware of this impediment and has been really inventive in figuring out ways around her flaw. For instance, while playing with her one afternoon, I placed my head on her tummy and pretended to fall asleep. Said she, "Ha, ha, Mommy! I'm your tushion!"

"My tushion?" I asked. "What's a tushion?"

" TUSHION," she repeated slowly, "not tushion!"

I teased her a bit more. "I've never had a tushion before," I said. 

She rolled her eyes at me. "I'm your PILLOW!" solved the need for the use of a 'c' sound.

Recently (read: Last week), my little AirBear suddenly clicked the back of the tongue manipulation required for the sounds of 'ka' and 'ga'. We were so excited! She was a picture too! Completely satisfied with her accomplishment, spending hours just "ka-ka-ka"-ing, she knew that a huge milestone had been reached!

Which is why the next event completely threw me off guard.

Yesterday, while pressing through the throngs of weekend shoppers at Canal Walk, AirBear seated in the trolley, commenting on everything, she let slip this little gem.

It was relatively quiet when she announced at volume that, "I really hate hate hate bastards!"

I tripped, coughed, choked, looked around nervously and hoped in vain that someone else's four-year old had said it.

"Excuse me?" I managed.

"I said," she took a deep breath, "I hate hate hate bastards."

"Er."

Some passers by had slowed down and were trying to appear inconspicuous hovering around my trolley.

"What's a ... a ... what's that?" I inquired, not wanting to reinforce anything that might stick.

"Mom," she looked disappointed. "You know what a bastard is."

A little old lady on my port-side made the sign of the cross.

"I'm not sure I do," I said. "And I don't know why you hate, er, them."

"Because they are so heavy," she looked at me in an I've-made-my-point-and-I'm getting-tired-of-this-conversation kind of way.

"I don't understand," I said. "How are bastards heavy?"

"To carry, Mom," she was clearly getting annoyed at her mother's lack of grasp. "That's why a trolley is much much better."

I got it.

"AirBear," I said after a while of uninterrupted silence, "Do you think you could say 'BAS-KET'?"

This isn't home sweet home. Adjust.

She smirks at me from the glossy pages of the woman's magazine. Her smug countenance proving that she is, indeed, a domestic goddess. In fact, THE Domestic Goddess of the Year. All toffed up in a glammy outfit, perfect hair, perfect make-up, all perfectly posed in front of a perfectly set dining table where a perfectly glamourous meal is to be consumed.

Blergh.

Woman like that make me want to pull out their perfectly crimped eyelashes and accidentally spill Jik (household bleach) on their silly satin saris. All hoity-toity posing next to their (apparently) well-fed husbands. The only thing missing from the photo is the Royal Rosette of Utter Perfection that women like her, no doubt, have pinned to their outfits at all times - just in case you were wondering. Hm, they must have photoshopped it out - probably didn't bring out the bling that she had painstakingly embroidered on the hems of her sleeves.

She obviously doesn't have kids, for a start. She never had acne as a teenager. She was born with a radiant complexion which never needs a touch of sunshine to spruce up. She is naturally tanned. And she obviously has nothing better to do with her time than crochet napkin rings and tissue decoupage dessert bowls.

Her perfectly interior decorated lounge is enough to make me want to spill my drink on her soft white rug. All this feng shui nonsense of minimising clutter to allow energy to flow freely through a room! Blah, blah, blah. Messy houses are happy homes. In which case, mine is delirious. 

My home could never grace the pages of a glossy magazine. (Mainly because the dust would make the pictures blurry). The dust-bunnies under the couches multiply uninterruptedly. Better a life lived to the full and a messy home, than a spotless carpet and no stories to tell, right? And hey! If you feel like leaving messages in the dust, you go right ahead - just please don't leave the date...

Where her door mat says WELCOME, mine says HELP WANTED: EVERYONE QUALIFIES.

Where she wakes up spontaneously in the morning all made up and beautiful, ready to wow the world with her wondrous flair, I succumb to a sense of guilt triggered by setting the SNOOZE button off so many times that it woke the kids. I peel myself out of bed and slog over to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I read the sign I stuck up last night just to be on the safe side. It says, For Instant Human Just Add Coffee. A moment of vague excitement leads me to the kitchen where I search for a spoon (in the sink) and a cup (also) and the coffee (instant) to mix up the magic starter fluid. (Damn! I forgot to boil the kettle. Oh well. Caffeine is caffeine, no matter the temperature, right? *downs cold coffee* Wrong!)

Unimpressed, I flip through the article about this domestic goddess who hosts dinner parties twice a week and bakes health bread for the local old-age home, when it strikes me. Yip. I sure could have a claim to fame too. I could spread my wisdom all over magazines like this. Ok, so maybe not this one in particular, but there's bound to be a magazine that would like to do a story based on the other side of the coin, right?

Just imagine... moms like me competing for the coveted title of Domestic Antichrist! We could compare depth of ice build-up in our freezers, number of weeds per square meter in our lawns, number of mornings per week our kids are late for school and the likes. Anyone up for the challenge?

Wonky Donkey

T-Bird: Mom, is petrol very expensive?

Mom: Yes.

T-Bird: How much does a car cost?

Mom: I dunno. About one hundred and twenty thousand rands, maybe.

T-Bird: Is that more than a thousand?

Mom: Yip. Quite a bit.

T-Bird: How much is a donkey?

Mom: I dunno. Maybe four thousand rands.

T-Bird: I think I'm going to get a donkey instead of a car!

Mom: Really?

T-Bird: Yes.

AirBear: And a donkey is friendly. I'm going to get one too!

Mom: And what if it rains?

T-Bird: I'll take an umbrella with.

AirBear: And a raincoat.

Mom: And where will you keep your donkey?

T-Bird: I'll build a huge huge huge stable.

AirBear: And I'll have a huge huge huge garden. With carrots in it.

Mom: I see. And what about the petrol?

T-Bird: Ha Ha!

Super Pooper

In ten years time my kids are going to hate me for writing about their ablutions so freely. Well, tough luck, Chickpeas, that's what you get for pulling your mom through the proverbial toilet!

I have no idea why, but the moment we are well away from our home, my children's digestion kicks in. At the park, at the shops, on the road. It happens without fail!

If you know me, you'll know I have a particular resistance to public facilities. I refer, of course, to the GERMS!!! Yuck! And, without fail, my children will threaten me with wet or soiled underwear just to 'pop-in' at the local, grimy pitstop. Gag!

Now, a quick leak is one thing, even though I insist on covering the toilet seat with a double layer of toilet paper, and sometimes even suspending the kids over the bowl, hanging on to my neck for dear life while I hook their knees and knickers out of the firing line. I'm a bit paranoid about Hepatitis, ok? But, why oh why do you have to poo in a public loo?

My one daughter is an evening pooper. Like clockwork, her bowels kick into action at 7.45pm every day. No sooner. No later. Without fail. So please can someone explain to me why it is, when the three of us are crammed into a dingy little toilet stall at the neighbourhood Fruit & Veg City, at 2pm in the afternoon, that she needs to go? And this is, of course, after we've had to endure 10 minutes of the other child pinching a long drawn out loaf. Blech!

So there we are, gagging for fresh air, tucking our noses into our t-shirts where the scent is so much better. I'm yelling at everyone not to touch that, don't sit on the floor, leave the sanitary towel bin alone, stop scratching the chewing gum off the tiles, stop licking the door handle, don't put your hands on the toilet seat (etc), when we are detained for a further 10 minute excretion. Why she said she was desperate, heaven alone knows! Desperate = immediate, not a bit, then a song, then a dribble, then a news bulletin, then a bit more. Ew!

By the time we've spent the larger portion of half an hour in the Ladies, I am quite flustered. It's really hard to hold your breath for that long, you know, while yelling out instructions and restrictions.

Since I'm on a bit of a positive curve at the moment though, I won't let it get me down too much. Instead, I will look forward to the time when I can make them pinch until we get home. I foresee marvelous family outings in the future!

Observations of mild to middling Relevance

I attended a very formal, very larney function last night. It was an award ceremony for something-or-other (the wine was free, ok?) But what struck me as weird was that the whole evening was about giving someone an award for something, and the guy didn't even show up - in absentia! I mean really! There were the top brass of Stellies all kitted up, made-up, bejewelled and tied, and the oke sends a buddy to pick up the prezzie. So maybe he is a bigwig with more important commitments, but then couldn't they have just arranged the prize-giving for a time when he would be more, say, available?

Anyway, the food was good. The wine, not so much, but it seemed to improve as the evening progressed. The company at our table, sadly, did not. In fact, quite the opposite. It became rather embarrassing being seated at the table of what had started out to seem like some classy older folks, who turned into a pack of disrespectful, remarkably vulgar troglodytes as the wine and the speeches flowed. It raises the question for me as to why perfect strangers feel it is important to impress others with discussions over the size of their bank accounts? I really don't care about that. And for someone approaching the autumn years of their life, surely you would know better than to brag about your most recent investment. Is it just me, or does it come across as pathetic?

Before we had left home that evening, T-Bird had begged to come with us. "I'll be on my best behaviour," she had promised. Truth is, she would have been far better company and far more civilised than the gaggle we shared the evening with.

But, on the up-side, we had the pleasure of listening to a speech delivered by the Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court, Mr Pius Langa. Getting a chance to learn a little more about the blokes who make headlines and lead lives that feel very distant from our own is always an enlightening experience. They're only human too. Which is a refreshing revelation. And somewhat comforting for the individual on the road to self-discovery.

Am I reading too much into this?

If I invite someone over for a playdate, and they say, "Sure! Would you like to invite so-an-so as well?", what does that mean, actually?

Does she think that I would be happier to have someone else over instead of her? Does she not want to spend an afternoon alone with me? Will she catch my crazy? Would she rather spend the afternoon with so-an-so? Or is she just being polite? Does she want me to withdraw my invitation? Was she caught off-guard by my invitation, that the words just kind of spilt out before she thought about what she was saying? Should I ask so-and-so as well, so that she doesn't feel awkward? Am I just blowing it totally out of proportion? Again. Taking things too personally?

Maybe.

Reinventing myself

At the tender age of 17 I had to decide what it was I was going to do with my life. I had no idea, so I applied for a bunch of things. Not smart enough to be a brain surgeon and too emotional to pull myself through an occupational therapy interview, and not allowed to do nothing, nursing opened it's sterile hospital doors and welcomed me in with gloved and gowned arms.

Off I went to earn a degree. To make something of myself. Out in the big wild world. And I was good. No, seriously. I was awesome. I was amazing on duty and excellent academically. I could have won my degree if it had been a competition for best nurse. It wasn't, but I still got a fancy dictation at my graduation. And so I qualified with my university begging for me to come back the following year. I declined the invitation - I thought it would be a good idea to focus my attention on my newly acquired husband.

I have often wondered what difference all the accolades and accomplishments made. In truth, nothing. I wasn't paid more. I didn't have better job offers. It was all pretty much just a nice little plaque in my memory. And nursing? Well, it just kind of happened to me. And now I am ready to shake off that career and try something a little different.

8 years later I am seriously questioning what it is I really want to do. Even now I'm not quite sure what I want to be when I'm big. But, I'm more likely to make a better think of it than I did at 17, right? This time around I can be sensible and practical. I can make a more intuitive decision regarding capital creation compared to self fulfillment, finding the delicate balance between the two. (There is no way that nursing completely fulfilled either criteria for me, but then, what did I know about that when I was a teenager?)

I am feeling highly positive for me about pursuing new territories and staking a claim of the professional pie, so to speak. And at the same time, I fear so for the young people who have to decide at a very tender age what they are going to be. Life is a tricky affair, and while some kids may be ready to decide what direction they will follow as they leave school, the rest should be told that it's actually ok to do something now, and change it for something else later. Don't you think?

A thought...

While sex leads to children, children, sure as heck, do not lead to sex.

I'm just saying... 's all.

If I had my way

  I am not a chic or sophisticated eleganté (New word. It's a noun. In french ~ because it has an accentuated 'e' at the end ~ It refers to someone who is graceful, debonaire and charming). And it's not to say I wouldn't like to look like I just stepped off a Queenspark photo shoot. But I'm just not that suavish, fancy type. 

I would so love to have a magical hour all to myself every morning where I could consult with my wardrobe assistant and stylist as to the look we were going for for that day (a la Oprah). I mean, duh! what girl doesn't want to look like a million bucks a million percent of the time? I'm talking hair, nails, make-up, shoes - the whole toot! I could be fantashtic (It means super. With attitude.)

Reality stinks a bit, though, doesn't it? (That question was not directed at any woman who sports a french manicure and Jimmy Choos. Oh, and my mother-in-law. No, it was aimed at the girl with the dark rings under her eyes, the nappy-bag indentation over her right shoulder, and the porridge fingerprints on the back of her pants that she's only going to discover when she goes to bed tonight.)

Yip. Reality smells a bit like household detergent and bunny pee, oh, and the occasional unflushed toilet. To me, anyway.

Take make-up as a f' instance. I'm not a make-up diva (as those who know me will attest to), and perhaps, some of that has to do with my upbringing. I wear make-up when I feel make-uppy (new word: means "to do with make-up"). I don't want to spend an extra 15 minutes putting on my make-up in the morning just to drop the kids off at school, when all I'm going to do, when I get back home, is bury myself in the bedcovers. So I won't. If you don't mind. And that's ok, because it lets me be true to myself. I can just be me. No pressure. Sure, there are days when I actually feel like make-up, and, on those days, I will have the energy to get up that half an hour earlier to apply it. But, generally, the inspiration for make-up on a laundry day is lacking.

As far as my clothing goes, well, er, let's see. If I look like crap, I might be pre-menstrual. OR I might just be out of clean clothing (which tends to happen when I'm pre-menstrual, because I just can't face doing another load of washing when I'm all bloated and pimply). OR, sometimes, I look lousy because I have plans to repaint a wall, or repot a tree, or sort out the STUFF in my study (which, by now, is a permanent feature), so I've dressed for the part. And there are sometimes that I turn up in scrubby clothes just because if I could have, I would have been in my pyjamas, and this was my best effort at dressing up while being totally absorbed in PJthink (Another new word. Means that all you can think about is pyjamas. May also include slippers from time to time). At times like these, I feel people can at least appreciate my cladding efforts a bit. It's really hard to co-ordinate an outfit when you have visions of brushed cotton and loose elastic floating around in your head.

Talking about clothing, remind me to tell you about the Pants Curse I have - it's tragic, really, but I think you'd enjoy it.

My gown is calling. Toodles!

The truth will set you free

I've been asked a fair amount of times, recently, why I write about the stuff I do. In fact, in the last 2 days, it's come up in conversation 5 times. So why do I display myself, warts and all, for the whole world to see? Why do I ask for the criticism that comes with being so blatantly honest?

Well, I've thought about this for some time, and the answer is that total honesty gives me room to breathe. When you aren't pressurised to put on a face and insist on just how fine everything is, when really everything isn't, you can actually make a sanctuary for yourself to muddle over the intricacies of your human brain, and find a path out of the entanglement. 

I like being honest - it's not always easy to do, but it's easier than remembering what story I've told what person, and trying to maintain illusions for those around me. No, that is just too much effort. This is me. What you see here is what you get.

And, since I lack a sense of humor, I may exaggerate from time to time just to make a completely banal blog post slightly interesting. But apart from that, I wear my blog on my sleeve.

Friendship Fees

We always joke about friendship fees - you know - when a pal pops in for a cup of tea and brings a nice fresh milk tart with her - Friendship Fees. When you get you buddy a bunch of pink roses, just because you know that they are her favourite kind - friendship fees. When you stumble across a brilliant 2-for-1 special, but know you don't need the second (toilet brush/ tea strainer/ pot scourer) so you pass it on to a friend - Friendship fees. When nothing else is going to improve you buddy's day, and you slip her a Top Deck - Friendship Fees!

Friendship fees are fun to give and fun to receive, simply because they aren't associated with birthdays or Christmas or any other special occasion. They are just for fun. Just a way for a one pal to say to another, "Hey, I'm grateful for you. It's nice knowing you."

If you were to take the "Love Languages" principles into consideration, you can draw a suitable parallel between these expressions of affection and friendship fees too. It's not always about the giving or receiving of a tangible gift. Sometimes it's an affirming word. You pay your friendship fees when you tell you buddy which of two outfits is more flattering. Friendship fees are paid when you babysit so your pal can go to the hairdresser, or if you just sit together, quietly, when you know that she just needs you to be there. Sometimes the fee is in the form of a massage, or painting your way-too-pregnant home-girl's toenails for her, the night before her induction.

In joking about Friendship Fees recently, and taking to heart the mother of the year's all too wise words, I've come to the conclusion that being a friend is a lot like banking. You deposit time and effort. You invest. You make withdrawals. You grow your friendship over time. And hopefully, after years of careful capital control, your investment has grown into a substantial and solid portfolio.

Same with friendships. You wouldn't put your money in an investment that earns no interest, right? So why put your time and energies into a relationship that offers no interest?

I'm just saying... 's all.

Just not that into me

I know someone who is fantastic. She's wonderful. Kind, gentle, admirable in so many ways. From the day I met her, I thought of her as a friend. I felt like we connected. We view so many things in the same way.

Well. Punch me in the gut! Guess what? Having things in common is not what makes people friends. Who would have thunk it!

You see, I have cared for this person. Loved her. Comforted her. Spoilt her when I could. Loved her children. Supported her in the ways that I could. 

Sure, there were times where I thought she let me down. Thought she could have been more caring and supportive of me when things were rough. She wasn't. And sure, it hurt, but I put it down to the fact that she's a busy girl. She has a lot on her plate. A lot of people are expecting a lot from her. So I didn't put pressure on her to show a degree of commitment to me. I just blindly went on assuming that she was my friend.

And now I think I understand what the last few years must have been like for her (especially my down-in-the-dumps-months where I was verging on the edge of insanity). I think that me hanging around all gaga-like and playing "friend-friend" was like have a horny toy-pom trying to shag your leg in polite company. You try to shake them off, discreetly, but everyone tends to notice a tiny mammal bonking a flapping shin, so you stop. You quietly let the mutt get off on your ankle and hope that no-one's gaze drops below knee-height. That's how it has been. This gorgeous individual is the proverbial ankle, and I am the testosterone-driven canine.

It's kind of embarrassing really. She is just not that into me. Ouch. It's been a hard lesson to learn. But I think I've got the message now.

It's made me wonder about being so open about my feelings, my thoughts, my state of mind. Perhaps honesty is not the best policy after all. Perhaps putting my emotions into this blog is just stupid. Perhaps giving people a really clear view into my soul is more detrimental than not. People don't actually want to know about your short-comings. They don't want to know how you're struggling with issues from your past. The fact that you're on anti-depressive medication is shameful and frightening - if they spend too much time with you, they might catch what you've got too. And, if you are going to be honest about things, you had better have a lot of money to throw around to keep your "friends" close.

Guess I can't be friends with every superhero that walks into my life, right? 

Time to move on, Jessica.

Edgy

It feels like I put on someone else's shoes. They look like mine. They're the same size as mine. Same colour. Same design. But my feet do not fit well against the soles. It feels like I am trying to get comfortable around someone else's footprint. And the worst part of it is that it's not just the feet - my whole body is involved in this discomfort.

(Eeek! Right? And by the way, this picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I just wrote - it just looks hectically UNCOMFORTABLE! Just so you know I have absolutely no footwear in my possession that even remotely look like these shoes)

I often have this experience. It's a type of claustrophobia which starts right inside of me. As it grows I start to feel very uncomfortable in my own skin. My body becomes a burden. It's heavy and awkward and it squeezes me. I sometimes imagine that the only way to shed this pinch would be to climb out of my own skin. Yes, then I would be free of this rigid casing.

I get all itchy inside - but it's not a physical itch - just a longing to shed the restraints of this earth suit. My ankles ache, my back curves, my fingers tingle. Even my scalp starts to creep. And just when I think I need to deworm myself or invest in some kind of medicinal remedy, the feeling melts away, and for a while, I am happy to be me again.