New Day

I am a firm believer in the arbitrariness of New Year’s celebrations but I will not say No to a public holiday.

There are so many clichés floating in the air around the Holiday Season that it’s difficult not to end up reflecting on sentimentality, cynicism or hipster indifference. For my part I’m always there for the food and or beverages but I have never been emotionally invested in it.

The way Christmas is celebrated annoys the dickens out of me but I play nice especially because family is involved. Everyone makes such big deal about traditions that I have never connected to. So I help with the Christmas tree and I help entertain comments from visitors to my family’s house (while I’m there) because … Christmas.

New Year’s on the other hand I’ve had a weird relationship with mainly because in my adulthood it has always been wrapped up with my boyfriend now husband. Our first New Year’s he rode a bicycle to meet me at my home at midnight and fell down in the process. Midnight was filled with kissing cuts and promising never to part. That was ten years ago and every Old Year’s Night thereafter we together.

At my family’s home music is played loudly and all the neighbours stand in each other yards drinking, liming, watching the fireworks, and celebrating surviving to the next year. Basically the same at my in laws. When on our own we spend it in bed, with cognac and snacks. I have fabulous friends who travel to see fireworks or to be somewhere new or spend the night at a party with fabulous people in fancy clothes. Maybe one year I will like people enough to do that.

I like New Year’s for that reason. I have never felt the social pressure of Christmas to celebrate in one way or another. I have options that include small groups and less noise. Also my affinity to New Year’s isn’t rooted in the changing of the date and the feelings related to its commemoration.  I actually celebrate me New Year’s on my Birthday.

That’s my new year.

I’ve learnt and profoundly experienced, every day is a new year. Resolutions can begin on the whatever of May or November or June.

So this New Year’s I’m celebrating tomorrow and my resolution is to celebrate tomorrow daily with personal fireworks and the enthusiasm of a sexy size 6 (with a 12 booty) 24 year old at an open bar on December 31.  

Happy New Day

Finding time to write (type)

I don’t like to type. I wish I were a good typist but I love to write.

It seems that in this century writing is typing are synonymous. To me there is something cold and distant about typing. I seriously considered getting one of those speech to text software setups for my computer because like most introverts I can have an amazing conversation with myself and the minute I begin trying to type it I freeze up, forget or second guess myself.

A page with lines, the movement of my hand bouncing up and down as I form my thoughts, even the scribbling of mistakes and doodling in margins is far more comforting that the blank white rectangle of a computer programme and the ribbon of font and text options above it.

Partially my preference is nostalgic. Penmanship was mandatory subject for me when I was 5 – 9 years. I had excellent penmanship and I had one particular teacher at age 7 year that inspired me to write beautifully. Post-colonial countries love to teach their children cursive and my family did not fail to prioritize this style of writing. My grandfather maintained a set of fountain pens that he regularly wrote with until his death at 81. A calligrapher in his spare time he often volunteered to do certificates for schools and training programmes. He would pay me 25 cents for every full name I could write well.

Somewhere between making money off of my grandfather and my first computer my mother bought an electronic typewriter. I was fascinated. There was digital display that allowed you to type each line and review it before printing. With one touch of the enter key it would print the enter line in one continuous motion. It was no fountain pen but the movement of the platen was mesmerizing. For a dyslexic, being able to see what I typed before it was committed to the paper gave me sense of the control that other digital displays to date have never been able to.

Typing is now a part of my daily life and career aspirations. I write before I type, especially for work important to me. I hand wrote my master’s thesis.

I have personal stationery, but I don’t use it any more.  Much of what I type now is someone else’s product. If it’s one thing I must acknowledge, 2016 was very much the year of someone else’s words. Lots of typing but very little personal writing. Very little thoughtfully written reflections, ideas and stories that, very little of what’s important to me.

I want to write more, type more and find permanent places to all my words, because what’s sense of constantly using words you don’t take time to make yours visible too.

This is why I rarely go out

3.17pm – “Oh Crap”!

While sitting at my desk dreaming of getting more than 8 hours of sleep I remember I have to go out with my mother that night. “Sigh”. Resigned to another night of mediocre sleep I return to my capitalist servitude.

4. 10pm

The drive home is scene. Gentle rain, tall trees, lulling traffic. And then I break out into a cold sweat. “Do I have clothes?” For girls with big boobs, wide hips and thick thighs getting dressed has its challenges. More often than not, it’s the bra that the problem. And no big boobs ARE NOT Double or even Triple D’s. Talk to me when you jumped at least 2 cup sizes and your back is under 36.

I’m grown now. I know how and where to shop for my breasts and I love my retailers and the custom care I get.

That’s not the problem tonight. I have my long line bra.

“But what am I wearing? Ok. I have I wore to that work thing in August. Different crowd? Yeah.? It should be.”

I smile to the nice lady looking at me talking to myself in the car.

And then the question every woman who works out infrequently, loves pastries and goes out even less always has to answer when planning an outfit.

“But will it fit?”

 I stop smiling at the woman.

4.20pm

I’m plotting. Get home. Take a nap. The event is at 7. I calculate how long I can sleep before I have to getting and then deduct another 25 mins for makeup and indecisiveness about makeup. “Once I am home by 4.45 I can nap till 5.45pm. And then I will pick up mummy on the way by 6.35pm and the venue is 15 minutes away.

4.21pm

My gas light pops up at the same time my husband messages to remind me that he has to pick up our nephew from the day-care because he’s babysitting tonight and I have the car.

5.20pm

Mr. Cuteness is jumping out the back seat of the car with his uncle and the car tank is full. No, I wasn’t going to fight this battle by myself. My priority is finding the dress and making sure it fits. Yes, finding because while playing peak-a-boo I remembered I am not sure where the dress is.

5.35pm

Dress found, I set an alarm for 5.50pm. I can nap, sprint to get everything done and be on time. My internal voice is naively positive. I call my mother to make sure we are still on for tonight because you never know, the event could be tomorrow and I end up staying home. She was napping.

“Mummy!” I shout into the phone.

“Uh”

“What time is the event?” always confirm with mummy

“7” she says in the most envious sleepy voice.

“What time you wanna leave by you?” always ask her what time she wants to leave the house. This is called ‘mummy management’, because retired people are enigmatic.

“Umm, 6.45” Her voice is stronger. It’s clear and it sounds like she’s awake enough to be mindful. I hang up and drift off to nap land, where I am attending to file for permanent residence.

6.30pm

The phone is vibrating under my cheek.

Someone is calling me?                               Someone is calling me.

It’s mummy, asking what time to expect me. “I’m almost ready”, I say in the most dismissive tone I could muster without alerting her to the fact that I have stumbled off the bed. She sounds rested.

6.50pm

After enduring the condensing snickering of my husband I make it out the house clothed. There is a pep in my step though. The dress, it’s a slack! Not a whole size too big but visibly not quite my size.

Nude shoes, black lace dress, minimalist gold jewellery. YAS!

I’m at my mother’s door. She is still dressing but I don’t care. I am just her date and it makes me less tardy looking.

6.55pm – and she want to take pictures.

“Mummy it’s almost 7”

“We have time” I raise an eyebrow

“What! It starting 7.30”! I concentrate on the fact that she is my mother, she is over 60 and I love her… dearly. But you know what who cares in this outfit, I got that look from my husband like I’m cooked food and for a woman with an ass that only fits into size 16, my waist is looking size 10.

7.50pm – We walked in and I saw the eyes.

I am feeling myself and my mummy is cute too. I really do love going out with her. My mother is obese and unashamed of that label. My mother is also the best dressed woman I know. This is a woman with 2 seamstresses, a walk in closet and a separate 8 foot tall wardrobe. Momma don’t play with quality or quantity. She never steps out at less than an 8. And tonight its her night so…

There’s a lady some ways off. She smiles at me. If you have ever been your parents date at one of their events you know you smile at everyone politely because they may know your baby stories.

7.52pm - I’m at the bar getting a drink for my date. The nice lady who was smiling at me is now next to me trying to get into the bar. She is a little bigger than my mother and I smile and make room for her.

She compliments me and enquires about my dress “off the rack or made?” I assure her it is off the rack and I boast that it’s from one of my favourite stores. She’s familiar with the store.

“Oh really!  I didn’t know THAT STORE has SUCH LOVELY for you BIG GIRLS.”

***BLINK, BLINK, BLINK***

I turned 30

I wasn’t that long ago but frankly ... Meh!.

When you haven’t seen someone for some time and they release you have crossed an age milestone there are the obligatory questions on your state of mind and life status, now that you are so and so age. My most frequent responses have been glib.

“You know how it is, getting older and all. More responsibility, life passing by. I’m so happy to be this age at this time in history. Life has so much opportunity for change and growth. It’s wonderful.”

I can read the looks on faces when I respond. Giving no information, particularly to persons simply maccoing is not what many want to hear, but I have no great insight to give. 

I turned 30. It was a good year but nothing resonated in my soul. No special revelations, not grown breaking findings even though I actively engaged with the world.

During my 31^st year alive, I took the time to really think about the concept of the importance of turning 30. I used my work trip (to a beautiful island) to do some soul searching. My needs were attended to, I had a driver and my presence was only ceremonial so I disengaged my brain and tried to reconnect with me. I planned to reflect, meditate/pray and journal about being 30. I ended up with lots of doodles of the flowers in my room and lots of rest from getting into a comfortable position to think and then falling asleep.

“Maybe I’m too close to it to be reasonably capable of reflection”

I remember attempting to make that 30 special. I christened the year 'Hustle and Thrive' and that I did. Also one of my closest friends got married and I spent most of the year happy that she was happy and stressed because I could not find the right colour feathers for her bouquet. I watched as persons I know celebrated in big ways. Major trips and major lifestyle changes and all the Facebook posts about balance and improvement to boot.

I cut off my hair again. 

But in sharing my reflection with my partner, he said cutting off my hair doesn't count cause I do that ever 2 years.

30 was supposed to be a big deal and perhaps I'm the exception.  I wanted to feel grown up in my soul the way I did when I turn 25 and 26. I remember having dinner with a friend after we turned 25 and feeling older: not out of touch, just not as young and I felt 26 in my body but I didn’t feel adult.

30 came as a gentle breeze when I was expecting a gale force winds. I keep wondering if I maybe on some level I haven’t come to terms with being older. Or maybe my old soul distorts my sense of time and I’m experiencing my mid 30’s malaise early.

Another birthday is months away and I am making a commitment to being mindful and continuing on this journey to and through adulthood.

Hopefully I will feel adult enough today to stop procrastinating and do the laundry.