Ramadan Stories and Struggles

Blog time and I have no idea what I’m going to write about.  That’s right.  Nothing earth shattering or amazing.  In fact, maybe I’ll go with a string of nonsensical ramblings that will end up making no sense but giving me the joy of knowing I posted something and proving that I’m not in reality the worst blogger IN THE WORLD.

But actually maybe I do have a topic…oh snap!

Y’all, it’s Ramadan.  For those who are a part of my FB clan, you know this already, for those who don’t, now you know.  And it’s been about 12 days and counting.  The end is a long way away so let’s not talk about that.  How is my Ramadan coming along, you may wonder because there are absolutely no other valid thoughts that you could possibly be having other than what Rubi’s Ramadan has been like?  “Well now that you ask…”

Not bad.  I’ve been bitching nonstop about the lethargy and headaches yet I can say it’s really not as awful as it has been in years past when every hour was being counted to the blessed holiday.  Then again being only a week and some change into it, maybe I should shut my trap and not temp the fates, eh?  Just watch, now that I’ve said this, in another week I’ll be in the fetal position groaning and clutching my stomach in agony as if I were going to perish at that very moment (this has happened, I assure you).

I’ve of course connected with lots of mine brethren who are going through the same and I’ve heard a range of emotions starting from, “Allhamdullilah, it’s fine, Allah is great” to “OMGGGGGGGGGGGGG when is this going to be over, I’m DYING!!!”  I totally get all of these and the in-between.  My mom, I think, is the best because she is so very religious and loves this month but is equally human about it. 

For instance, the day before the fast started she called me asking how I was preparing for the big month.  I told her I was having as much coffee as I could suck down and it wasn’t a problem because I would have to be awake late anyhow to start the fast.  She, who would otherwise yell at me for consuming so much caffeine, instead confessed with a half laugh and a bit of guilt laced into her words that after leaving the afternoon prayer at the mosque she had headed straight to the pizza place and got herself not only a pizza but two subs.  I was stunned into silence.  Let me paint a picture for you of my mom so you can appreciate why this was so blazing hilarious. 

She’s about 5 foot next to nothing, the sort of slim I only wish I could be, and she wears a hijab.  She hardly looks anywhere near her age (which I personally am grateful for since most tell me I don’t look my age and can only credit my parents) with youthful features, alert eyes, an angular face, and a fierce style sense when she dresses up, oh and she’s fiercely Muslim.  Now don’t get that confused for extremism or any such nonsense.  She just practices the religion as it should be and studies it extensively as well.  I admire her really for the knowledge she’s garnered.  And on top of all this, she’s kind of a health freak.  Having had been a manager at GNC for ages, she’s pretty hip to the right supplements and how to maintain one’s body.  So when she says she went and scored herself all sorts of unhealthy fattening foods while I was sucking on caffeine (my third big cup of the day), and after the right amount of pause, I burst out laughing in the crowded café I was sitting in, drawing all sorts of questioning looks for the effort.

She continued to tell me that she had consumed half the pizza (really it was something like 3 slices) and had every intention of eating the sub.  Frankly, and knowing her, she didn’t.  I never followed up which I should have.  But this gives you an idea of the pre-Ramadan crazy.  As for the Ramadan crazy?  That’s even better.

Sitting around one day at home feeling as if I was going to die if I couldn’t have a piece of something, seriously contemplating whether it was okay to at least smell a cookie even if I didn’t eat it, my friend texts to ask how the fast was going.  I tell her what I was presently contemplating and she responded with “I get it”.

I asked her what’s up with her and she wrote back “It’s not good.”

This response of course alarmed me a bit, as it should have, and in turn being the dutiful friend I wrote back “omg what happened, sweetie???  Want to talk about it???”  It took me 10 tries to formulate that response and I kept backspacing.  I blame the weakness of the fast for that since normally my fingers are nimble AF. 

I saw the little bubble appear and was anxious until I saw the response:  I had a dream that I was eating but I thought I was awake and that I was fasting and eating at the same time, which you know can’t happen, but what was really weird was that I was eating a whole side of beef by myself, as in a whole side of a cow, even half the skull was attached…and I don’t eat beef!  Then I woke up thinking about beef so I went and got a steak and I don’t know what to do with it.  My life is a mess.

How does one properly respond to this?  I don’t even remember what I did other than sit back and think about steak and get grumpy because the sun was high in the sky even at that moment.  Oh but the struggle is so real, folks, don’t underestimate it even if we make it look so easy!!!!!!

And it continues.  Inspired by her beef story, a few days later I sat around thinking that a steak would be great, and obsessed to no end until I got my butt up and went to the grocery store.  I came back with makings for a lasagna.  WTF?  How did that happen anyhow?  And now I want a steak.  Crap.

Maybe the reason I have no other topic to write about is the fact that I have food on the brain.  The next month I’ll be looking up recipes for the most ridiculous foods imagining breaking fast with it while in reality I’ll end up eating something like whatever was already made from the day before or whatever my mom sends to feed her lazy daughter.  This is truth in the ugliest form.  But the pics of food look so good, a girl can fantasize you know.  Think, Food Porn.

Okay, well now that I’ve told you the low-level silly hilarity that can commence during this month, I’m going to watch the horizon and stalk the sun. 

When You Have Nothing to Say, But Need to Talk

Once again, I’m seeking some sort of calm in this head of mine.  I’m back at my favorite local coffee shop that somehow always manages to inspire me, which I know is strange.  But the music is good, the ambiance chilled, the barista’s friendly and smiling (in fact looking at them now and they are laughing and relaxed) and the other patrons also seem to be at peace although who knows, really.  But I’m okay believing that they are.  I’m turning off the empath side to my nature and focusing on me.  That’s all I can do at this point in my life which even to me sounds selfish.  How can one simply turn off something they are born with?  I’ve never been able to before, and will probably not be able to totally successfully but I am sure going to give this a try.

I’ve been struggling hard, folks.  Everything has in fact turned into some version of struggling (life, job, relationships, etc…) and I’m hating this more than anything.  In the past I’ve faced life with a bit of an attitude.  A shrug, a grimace, a wave of the hand, stubbornness, and a range of other emotions that usually allowed me to tackle whatever I was facing with some sense of aplomb, even the toughest of scenarios, and I’ve had plenty. 

Now though?  Maybe it’s age.  Maybe it’s a lifetime of disappointments that leads me to a space where I feel overwhelmed, a word I loathe to use.  To be quite frank here, I can’t seem to breathe without wondering why I’m allowed to do such a thing with ease but then subsequently a pressure appears to weigh down on me while memories that haunt come back to laugh and jeer reminding me of things I want to forget.  I laugh and instantly wonder what gives me the right to do something that others probably earn while I remain untethered, not adding but taking away?  Am I being hard on myself?  Yea.  I know I am and I’ll be out of this funk soon but not today.  I’m having this moment to just…be.

This morning I woke up with a stone, no, more like a boulder, firmly placed on my chest and it completely suffocated me.  I didn’t know how to be rid of it but I needed to badly.  Praying?  No.  Reading?  No.  Taking myself out to breakfast so I wasn’t alone?  That didn’t work.  And not even writing now is helping.  That rock remains in place.  I can hear my own heartbeat and its discombobulating.  I don’t like this feeling and I can’t make anyone understand this particular sensation because I am not sure if others can/will or want to understand.  Why should they?  After all, we all are struggling, right?

But here’s the question that most haunts me: when is it okay to not think of the world’s struggles and focus on one’s own existence?  I don’t think I know how to do this.  For all my spouting off about being open to your own emotions and treating yourself kindly, I’ve never taken that advice.  I’ve never actually listened to myself.  It’s a hard realization to have, actually.  It’s not a gratifying one at all.   

It’s funny too, because as friend after friend seeks me out for advice or solace, I hear myself giving the right guidance but wonder why I never actually put all that into practice myself.  Is this the ultimate in hypocrisy?   Even today, as a friend spoke to me, guided me, I found myself making the same excuses as to why I couldn’t first take care of me before everyone else.   I find these justifications ineffective.  They make no sense at all and instead it almost sounds as if I’m craving this pain of sadness, loneliness, abject disconnect from everything and everyone around me.

Or that’s maybe what I want?  For a woman who has been far too ‘connected’ maybe disconnecting is the right step?  Maybe stepping fully back, putting up a ‘do not disturb’ sign across my life and proceeding to figure out who I really am is the correct path?  Or maybe doing what I’ve always done, something that always satisfied me, would help such as unselfishly giving of myself?  But that’s what may have led me to this point, possibly.  I wish I knew what the right answers were.  At the end, it doesn’t matter because I believe fate will take me at its will to where I’m supposed to be regardless of the fallout but it’s that very thing, the possibility of disappointing others that keeps me in place, motionless.

“Struggle”…It’s a funny word.  It can mean so many things.  It can bring to mind so many different ideas of what it can be.  I am not special with mine, that I know.  I have a story that’s buried deep beneath the skin, the veins, the blood and the optics, one that’s unique only to me.  I have to embrace this fact, I think.  I have to stop apologizing for being human and breaking down.  I have to stop feeling weak because I give into the tears that are constantly being blinked back only to be replaced with a smile that I do not at all feel.  I am a machine in so many ways because I laugh when I’m expected to as well.  But in reality?  I am a solitary; bizarrely serious person yet most think I am the opposite.  They find me to be open and friendly and warm.  I am.  But I am not.  Above it all, I am not the person who would burden others with my issues, I handle them quietly while I take on the de-burdening of my fellow human.  I want no one to see the real me because I believe her to be scary.  However, isn’t that what all of us do to some extent, hide our true selves?   

Anyhow, I’ll publish this blog unsure of what any of this was about.  Without a true topic.  Maybe the very topic itself is that I do not need to have one?  I’m simply living in this moment, a space devoid of light, even as the sun streams through the window and bathes my fingers and warms my skin.  My friend suggested I live in this moment and I’m taking his advice although he suggested I not write it, not because all this is too personal to share but rather because by writing I’m overthinking it all.  But this blog has been almost devoid of thinking, weirdly enough.  It’s just sort of verbal diarrhea in written form.    I want people to know that behind the biggest smile, there is pain, that behind every laugh there are tears right at the edges of the eyes and behind every person, there is a story.  I want my readers to know that if you’re alone in this dark world, try to find the inner calm and peace, something I’m trying so hard to find myself.    

That’s all for this blog.  I appreciate the readers who stop by to read my nonsense. 

And let me leave you with this silly hashtag:  #thestruggleisreal.

The Journey Begins...Almost

Oh boy, the traveling bug has bit, hard.  And it’s lovely.  (On a side note:  ever wonder what said bug would look like?  I sort of imagine it as a Lady Bug that sits on your shoulder and nibbles and just rides along with you wherever you go.) 

So I think as a brown person born unto another land as opposed to the one I grew up within, I was predestined to be a traveler.  Many moons ago, when asked by a future employer, “do you have a valid passport?” my response had been to laugh softly and say, “I pretty much came out of the womb clutching one” and although this was a risky response to a serious question, my (soon-to-be) boss chuckled in appreciation at the humor.  This is true, sorta kinda, the whole born with a passport thing.  I mean, a month after I was born my father tromped his way to the US Embassy to fill out a visa application form for the family and so the process began.  By the time I was at the ripe old age of 3, I had taken my first intercontinental flight in a big Boeing 747.  That memory is to this day hazy around the edges yet bizarrely clear. 

Now I can assure you that the reminiscences of a 3-year-old aren’t precisely reliable.  But I’ve had this vision enough times throughout my life that when I finally asked my mother about it, she was fairly shocked at how accurately I had recalled the memory.  It went something like this:

A bumpy van ride in the middle of the night to somewhere that my young mind didn’t care to acknowledge, me sleepy, half curled, half leaned into my aunt’s arms dozing upon her breast, the smell of the starch from her sari as distinct as the coffee that I’m drinking at this very moment.  And then it cuts to a dark tarmac.  The swirl of heated wind engulfing us, blowing the clothes upon us hither and yon. My father in front with my brother, shadowy figures.  My mother holding my hand dragging me forward towards…something, but I was resisting, looking back at the dirty white stucco building where the rest of my beloved family stood on an outside balcony.  Oddly they were ramrod straight in one singular line.  And though they were far away, they had seemed within arm’s reach and I wanted to go back, the wetness on my cheeks attested to that deep longing along with the low moaning wail that had come from somewhere within me.  The next frame was of me on the metal stairs headed into the aircraft, although I never saw it clearly in any of my dreams but some dim part of subconscious recognition knew what it was.  There was a pause on those stairs, me a step below my mother who stood as still as her own beloved family, staring back at them as her own sari blew hauntingly in slow motion (to me) and I noted the stark face of pain and sadness and loss.  I was simply confused at this.  Why was she so sad?  Why did she look like that?  Why were we leaving because I knew we were going away?  That child didn’t have any answers but was so sure that some part of the life she had known was being ripped away, brutally.  Here are a few more things that comes to me whenever I see these visions: the smell of tar, gas fuel, the deafening song of the engines, and my mother’s soft voice with a slight catch of emotions as she whispered, ‘cholo’ (let’s go) which blew away with the wind before entering the plane. 

That was it.  That’s all there is although I wonder why my mind refuses to register what happened next, or next, or next.  Not a long drawn out memory but that was apparently my first flight.  I later laughed when I told my parents, they don’t fool around when they decide to take us somewhere, it’s pretty much ‘go large or go home’.  And flying from a young age isn’t really all that unique, not for those who are immigrants to this country, not born here.  Most brown folks like myself (for I can fairly attest to my own kind) are well versed in traveling and for the longest time I was foolish enough to assume that everyone in the universe was also.  I did it surely everyone else did also, right?  Wrong.  It was quite interesting when I finally understood that sometimes people chose willingly not to leave even their states, much less the country and this is a concept to this day that confounds me.  I mean, my intellectual side gets it just fine, but adventurous spirit fights it.  I’m not judging, I swear it.  I respect everyone for their individual selves.  It’s just that I can’t identify with it.

So what brings me to write this blog other than sharing a random childhood memory?  Well, I’ve always loved to travel and that’s no surprise to anyone who has read my past blogs about vacations here and there.  But lately I’ve stagnated in life thus putting all thoughts of going anywhere anytime soon into the back recesses of my mind.  Basically, funding is low and I had to choose spending money on vacations or mortgage payments.  I still have a roof over my head so you can figure out for yourself which one I went with.  My last trip was to Costa Rica.  Man, I miss Costa Rica.  *sigh*

Lately though, I’ve had this flowering in my belly, a feeling I haven’t had in a Koon’s age (once again, how long is a Koon’s age anyhow?).  No, it’s not indigestion, screw you for even thinking it.  Rather it’s knowing that life is going to change…soon.  Recently, I must admit, I’ve given up on anything good happening to me.  I try to keep faith alive, know that nothing stays status quo but it’s hard to convince oneself of all that when days slip into months into a year and the same mental hell you’ve been languishing in doesn’t in the least dissipate.  That’s been me.  Oh, I interact with the world, smile, laugh, talk, debate, whatever, but I’m oddly disconnected in my head as I see the universe and wonder how it is that everyone else has a purpose but not myself?  And regardless of all the techniques I’ve employed to break out of this mental cage, nothing has worked.  Nothing at all.  I know me well enough though to recognize that until I’m ready for it, things will continue to remain the same until one day some internal flip switches based on an intuition or a feeling or whatever other such nonsense and then?  I’ll stride forward, not just step.

Folks, change, it has arrived in my life and about damn time too.  And while I feel like I do not need to identify these changes to y’all (yet) one thing I can definitely say is that the traveling bug has decided to take a chunk out of mah bootay, and it hurts sooooo good.  The only real ouchy part?  That I can’t book the very next flight out of Dulles International Airport to some far away destination at this very moment, like right now!  Waiting is torture and while being patient has never been a characteristic that I was inherently born with, through the years I’ve been able to master the art and this has definitely come in handy for most of my life, most particularly recently.  Right now I have to remind myself that if I can hold my shiz together this long, what’s a few more months, right? 

“While you wait, what’s wrong with a little fantasizing,” is what I say to myself in soothing, almost placating tones to the inner brat that’s itching to swipe a credit card. I have to do this all the time.  I have an outstanding sense of self-destruction and if I didn’t talk myself out of doing half the things I want to do…phew, I can’t imagine what would have happened to me by now.  I’m sure I would have lost a limb or an eye or something.  So yea, fantasies…

The first place I plan to hop the pond for is Germany and straight into the awaiting arms of my bestie.  The week that I had visited her two years ago had been the most relaxing, chill, fun time I’ve had on vacation in…well in about forever.  I plan to make that happen again ASAP.  After that, who knows because the options are limitless, aren’t they?  The world is my oyster, as cliché as that sounds (stop rolling your eyes) and I’m about to consume all of it (way weird visual, I know).

I was speaking of my need/want to travel, bust out of my self-imposed prison, cut loose and run free to a dear friend yesterday who in turn had been curious as to where I wanted to go and I realized that true to form, my spirit was essentially all over the place.  And here are snippets of the places I mentioned to him and why I wanted to go there (and a few more that I’ve thrown in for good measure for the purposes of this blog entry):

Morocco: Because I want to wander through the winding roads of the souk.  To smell the air heavily laced with spices, the haunting music of the night as I sit and drink tea laced with mint while having hookah at a café and talking about philosophy. 

Turkey: For the same reasons but also to pray at the Blue Mosque, and hear the call for prayers.  To gaze at the jewel colored lanterns and capture the pictures of the native folks as they walk by with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, laughing, chattering in a language I cannot identify.

Egypt:  To gaze at the wonder of the pyramid and stroll through the museums to gape at ancient artifacts.  Maybe ride a camel, find some archeological wonder (or not), take a cruise down the Nile at night.  Feel the heat of the sun toasting my skin darker than it is as I lounge under a palm tree and bite on plump dates (the fruit).

New Zealand: To gape at the mountains and rolling greens, imagining what Middle Earth would be like.

Brussels:  Just to taste chocolate.

Belgium:  To consume waffles.

English country side: To wander through old decrepit castles.

Bora Bora: To lay on a hammock in a hut on stilts over a blue ocean.

Dubai: To zip to the top of the tallest hotel in the world.

HK: To go back to the night markets so that I can once again haggle with the women there and taste foods that seem sketchy at best but smell heavenly.

Iceland: To swim in the Blue Lagoon for someone told me it’s heavenly.

Australia: To cuddle a Koala and never ever try vegemite.

India: A country that I have yet to discover even if my roots grow from there as much as Bangladesh.  Goa, Mumbai, Rajasthan, Dehradun, the Taj, Red Fort, endless beaches, Hyderabadi Biriyani and fresh coconut juice sipped out of the hull.  These things all await.

Any Island: To laze in the sun, sipping a cocktail while listening to the surf break against the sand and ignore all of humanity.

Switzerland:  To tumble down the side of mountain as I try to ski again (subsequently being thoroughly unsuccessful), maybe pick up a clock while I’m at it (of course not while I’m snowballing down the slopes).

Ireland: To gaze at the beautiful swaying heather and hope that Brigadoon will appear amongst the mist.

Germany:  To pick Edelweiss while pretending I’m Maria von Trapp and sing at the top of my lungs “the hillsssssssssssssssss are aliveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….”

Peru:  To hike the Inca Trail and take selfies at Machu Picchu because everyone needs at least one selfie there.

And the list goes on and on and on.  The possibilities endless, and the need to travel like a sirens call.  For a second I remembered the movie “Eat, Pray, Love” and thought, I want to do something like that.  But then discarded that idea fairly quickly.  First, I’ll never have that much disposable cash to indulge in such a trip and second, but most importantly, while I love to travel, it makes the adventure so much sweeter when one can come home eventually.  I aspire to be that aunt (since I have no kids of my own) who is traveling around the world and comes home to them loaded down with gifts, stories and the smell of adventure hanging around her.  I want to make their eyes go large and round with wonder as I paint pictures in the blank canvases of their minds eye so that they practically can see what I’ve seen, smell what I’ve smelled, taste what I’ve tasted.  More than anything I want to be the person to inspire the next generation to also seek out escapades of their own, to create their own diaries, online or otherwise, that is chalk full of memories to carry into old age and to be able to smile and say, “I was there…”.

So yea, hopefully before long I’ll not just have this blog, but also one dedicated to all future journeys full of places and sounds and people that I’ve chanced upon.  I can’t wait!

First step though?  Get employed.  Right.

Rube's Musings: Just Add Water and Stir...but Don't

I’ve been asked a question (a few times) through my life in various social/online settings that always confounds me and today I’ve taken the time to really think about it as well as address it. 

Here’s the question:  What do you like to do/What be your hobbies?

I’m lumping these together although I understand the nuanced differences between the two questions.  Laziness is a total disease and should be diagnosed and treated.  I’m willing to be the test dummy for this particular study.  And I’m sure there are other folks about me who would be relieved as well because they too are affected by it, thanks to me.  But moving on to the question…

This is why I become all befuddled when someone asks these particular types of questions.  Sure, as a young’un I could have answered that with some bit of alacrity, such as, “um….I love to bike *pause*…and to read *pause*…and play the flute *pause*…” (wow, seriously though how much of a geek was I?!).  But as an adult, nyet.

I just don’t think life is so interesting, wait, scratch that, I’m not that interesting (life is just fine) anymore.  I’m still a geek and boring as hell.  I like to read…still, and I like to write…more than ever, and while I don’t play the flute anymore…I like listening to it.  But this sorta boring stuff isn’t what makes me interesting to other adults, I don’t think.  It makes me, as I said, boring.  Most are looking for “well I like to go hiking and then kayaking and then maybe run 610 miles in an hour and then maybe wrangle some sort of wild animal and then…etc, etc, etc….” 

Good gracious.  Really?

And how does one staple all this down to just a few interests anyhow?  For instance, if I was truly forced (as in someone holding a gun to my head) to answer this sorta question, it would be more on the lines of something like this:

I like to go on long drives, alone, where I blast my music and ignore the world and indulge in my guilty pleasures of song choices (like Mylie Cyrus).
I like to sit and blog on a sunny patio somewhere listening to my ipod and sipping a cool glass of something.
I like to read a good book, curled up on a piece of comfy furniture and get lost.
I went horseback riding, and liked it.  Does this count?
I once went ATV’ing and was a speed demon.  Does this mean I ‘do’ this?
I like to laze on the beach and feel the wind on my skin.
I love long hikes during the fall when the colors of the world is in the midst of changing and I capture it on my camera.
I love cooking all sorts of foods, when I’m not feeling lazy (really, that study needs to be done already before this becomes an epidemic).
I like to color, paint (which I do badly), doodle, sketch, try anything artsy for the first time.
I like to debate…that’s it…I like to debate.
I like to research random crap so that I feel more enlightened and can hold a conversation.
I like to try on different make up techniques which I use once and then never employ again because I forget them at the time or because of…yes, laziness. 
I like to put on crimson red lipstick when I’m feeling down because it gives me a personal ego boost.
I like to post nonsense on FB that makes others laugh.
I like to go to the Asian grocery store to wander the aisles and discover all sorts of new things.
I like to watch documentaries and cry, alone. 
I love to talk philosophy with just about anyone.
I like to sit and watch people because isn’t that the best thing in the world?
I like to be sarcastic and I’ve honed the art form hence I use it, with relish (and mustard and ketchup).
I like to be in the kitchen with my mom as she cooks and the house is filled with familiar scents of childhood.
I like to go to Dunkin Donuts with my bro and the cousins so we can gossip.
I love to sit with my dad and learn the music of my forefathers.
I like to text/chat with my besties and then when I see them, act as if we haven’t texted/talked in forever. 
I like decorating Christmas trees, putting out Halloween decorations, watching clouds float across the sky, listening to morning birds chirp, laugh while watching kids playing (in a completely non-creepy way), listen to the rain against the roof, gaze at snow falling and blanketing the earth…

You see what I’m getting at here?  I like all sorts of random (and not so random) things and sometimes nothing at all.  All these things and so many other things makes me…me.  I am a complex person who has yet to discover so many “possibilities” I may love to do and won’t know until I try.  So how can I tell you?  Life presents a vast array of options that to pigeonhole myself and say ‘this is what I like and don’t like’ is foolish to me and not giving myself credit.

For instance, I may not ever entertain the idea to go flinging myself off great heights but if someone binds me up and throws me off a plane with a parachute, who knows…(okay but this isn’t an invitation of any sort to do this because I will exact revenge shortly thereafter even if I loved the experience.  Just sayin’).

Here’s my suggestion (because I’m positive that absolutely everyone is waiting for it breathlessly): if you feel so inclined to know someone and ask them what they like to do?  Don’t.  Just don’t.  Make conversation.  Take the time to discover them.  Ask them about life and experiences because through that you will easily find out the rest of it all and it’s not a forced subject where they have to shove everything into a few generic sentences.  Half the fun of meeting anyone new is to discover who/what they are and it’s not in one swift ‘go’.  Watch as their eyes light up, as their posture change, as they lick their lips in anticipation because there is something they’re dying to reveal about themselves and someone who seems legitimately interested and (miraculously) listening.  Treat them like they are a fascinating package, a wonderful surprise, which you slowly open and with great anticipation. 

Stop living in a ‘just add water and stir’ world, basically.  We crave instant gratification and that in the end, isn’t gratifying at all although we’ve convinced ourselves it’s what we want/need. 

Slow the hell down, Folks, it’s as simple as that.

Blog Challenge: Wrestling/MMA

I’m up late all the time, as most know, and often take to watching any sort of documentary which zings my interest that’s available either on Netflix or TV.  These rots the brain much less than “Real Housewives of…” or anything of the same ilk.  Admittedly once in a while I’ll become absolutely captivated by an infomercial where my hand itches to purchase whatever nonsense is being offered but those are few and far in-between.  Otherwise I’ll opt to read or write.  I’m so evolved and mature, aren’t I?  Yea, right. 

And the best thing about watching documentaries?  You learn so bloody much!  Like for instance, last night on CNN, I watched a new show called “This is Life” with Lisa Ling.  She explores and delves into what one would call unconventional lifestyles and explores the inner workings, uncovers dark secrets and gets to the core of the life itself.  The one I caught sometime around 2am was about MMA (Mixed Martial Arts).  Let me preface the rest of this blog with this:  I’m not badass enough to say that I know anything about this sport or even follow it.  I watch it on occasion because I recognize pure skill as opposed to it’s predecessor, Wrestling Mania or the Wide World of Wrestling, which is a joke as we all know now.

Side bar:  I remember when I told P how wrestling was all acting and staged.  He staunchly refused to believe me until I showed him a documentary (see how that works) which basically busted the whole darn thing open and exposed wrestling for the fraud it really was.  That basically shut him up.  I admit I felt bad for like, a second, because the devastation ran so deep and then I thought, ‘suck it up, Buttercup’ and moved it along. 

But back to what I was saying…as I laid there stretched out on the sofa steadfastly ignoring my body screaming for beddy-bye in the wee hours of the morning, my epic laziness won over the need to change channels as I settled into watching the show referenced above.  Surprisingly enough, and hours later as I pretty much dragged myself to bed, I was thoughtfully pondering about what I had watched since initially I hadn’t found the topic all that appealing yet it had me wondering how myopic my world truly was in so many ways. 

This particular show was not simply highlighting the inside world of MMA fighters but specifically female fighters and a part of the segment was dedicated to girl fighters, as in children.  So apparently there are junior female MMA fighters (just to be redundant).  Color me shocked.  Yes, and there is blood and pain and in fact just watching the fight on the tube made me flinch something mad and as Lisa pondered, I too did the same speculating, as to who these parents were that allowed their child to get pummeled in such a brutal fashion.  And really I’m not exaggerating when I say brutal.  With every kick and jab my stomach clenched thinking, “I would never, ever allow my kid…”  First, don’t have a kid so that’s that but if I did…just saying.

But this is where I speak so freely of my myopic vision of the world even though I think I’m broadminded.  I was being so dang judge-y of these parents yet as I watched I realized that I didn’t and don’t know squat. 

There was a little girl who was being interviewed, she was…I don’t remember her age, but young, maybe 12?  She had bushy brown hair and thick glasses with a face full of pimples, awkward and soft spoken with a pretty yet unsure smile.  She reminded me of me when I was that age.  She elaborated about being bullied, about her insecurities and then about her world after it was exposed to MMA.  The transformation of this child was, well…gratifying.  No, this wasn’t some Molly Ringwald sorta moment because she still looked the same but without a doubt she was clearly empowered and confident, finding a passion and love for something that although far outside the norm of a girl her age, probably was teaching her focus and discipline.  Her parents, who stood on the sidelines indeed watching their daughter get thrashed (she lost the match that she was preparing for), spoke bravely of supporting her, worrying for her, fearing for her but still, supporting her regardless of what others thought and sometimes even what they thought.  I found them to be brave, to be honest, unable to imagine the demons they battled within themselves every time she got into the ring.

My take on this was that I have a long way to go in truly being non-judgmental.  And I mean a long way.  There I was, in a snap thinking how horrible these people were, what could possibly possess this kid to do that to herself and yada, yada but in reality, I was so hugely wrong.  If I have to be honest (and I try that every now and then) I was rather enveloped with a sense of awe at the parents’ unflagging support of their kid who was finding her own individual and unique self.  Ironically, I posted a blog earlier about finding just this, one’s true self even against the odds and others opinions but I didn’t make the connection (which shows you yet again how limited my vision can be) and glad that I did via this blog.  Oh, and I have to thank my girl S, once again, because I asked her for a blog topic and she immediately spat out “wrestling” and although this isn’t precisely what I’m writing about (hey, I mentioned it above) it made me recall the documentary from yesterday and started to piece my thoughts together.

And about that young little girl…she’s amazing.  Like I mentioned, she lost the fight but I feel like this little one is going to definitely win the battle in life. 

If you haven’t caught the show, I recommend that you do.  I can only say that it opened my eyes.  Now, I’m onto more enlightenment.  I believe this is gonna be a difficult road. 

*Sigh*

You ARE Beautiful...No Matter What

To the sisters of my heart, to those I know and don’t know, to all the women out there…this is for you…

Embrace your…

Supple flesh, round and abundant or diminutive slim and wispy bodies, for the flesh is a gift to you;
Wrinkles because they bespeak wisdom and experiences;
Blemishes which add character and depth;
Pock marks that tell of stories and struggles;
Big or small ears from which to dangle baubles and bling (or not);
Bulbous or pug nose to smell wonderful smells from which memories are created;
Eyes in all shapes and sizes that observes all the wonders of the world;
Height, Tall or short or in-between because at the end of the day, it’s the one you’re supposed to be;
Bow-legs or knobby knees;
Thick ankles or muscular calves;
Long hair with split ends or short pixie cut or the beautiful bald;
Lips that seem too thin, or equally too thick but which smile either way;
Complexion, so light that one can see the veins running beneath the alabaster of the surface or as dark as the velvety midnight sky or any glorious shade that creates a rainbow of humanity;  
Boobs that are perky or ones that have nurtured and given sustenance;
Shaved to perfection or all natural because either you’re all about your natural self or attentive;
Feminine by instinct or masculine by attitude (and sometimes disposition);
Fashionista side, tomboy unaffectedness or even the non-descripts who prefer to stay under the radar;
Gregariously extroverted self, quietly introverted being or even hanging somewhere halfway;
Bookworm side, social divaocity, closed-off walls-up ways, opened up to every adventure-ness, traveler/nomadic spirit or home is the only hearth kinda human being…
Or everything and anything else in-between…

Embrace yourself.  And believe it or not all these differences, every single last blessed one of them, is what makes YOU beautiful, whoever you are and whatever you look like and wherever you’re from.

Ladies, I’ve gone through a lifetime of self-doubt and self-loathing, comparing myself endlessly to her, or her, or even her.  I’ve been force fed to believe in order to be attractive I had to look a certain way, behave a certain way, speak a certain way and I failed.  The consistency of these failures repulsed me, made me feel weak and worthless.  I deserved to be ignored, overlooked, to be treated as if I were invisible.  I trained myself to look down at the ground, not making eye contact, never engaging because I was afraid of the disgust I would see in the gaze of others as they beheld the embodiment of what a loser truly was and that…sucked. 

I used to stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself, wishing, plotting…I would change everything!  A complete overhaul and it was all focused and centered on everything external.  Maybe liposuction, a jaw lift (if there was such a thing), or could they put in some sort of stilts under my skin to be taller?  I scoured every news outlet and pursued every avenue of information that would lead me to the best way to go about doing this and it never really worked.  I still failed.  And once again a cycle of self-loathing began.

However, and to my credit, aside from my closest friends no one really knew how deep this dislike for myself coursed through my very blood.  I avoided pictures like the plague, as I mentioned before in a previous blog, and would beg people to tear up or cut me out of ones they wanted to display to the world. 

I was exhausted.

So when did things change then?  When did I learn to embrace me?

Funny how one tragedy can lead us out of another and that in essence is what caused me to take a good long hard look at myself. 

I’ve spoken at length about a lot of personal tragedies and pains in my blogs.  It has never been in order to garner pity or sympathy but rather to help anyone else who may be feeling alone and struggling.  So to that degree, I wrote at length about my childlessness.  Those blogs where I’ve referenced it were never ones that I wrote with a bounce to my step.  Rather the opposite, I often found myself in tears as I put thought to paper.  The return though, private messages and emails thanking me for sharing, was worth the price of the tears. 

Just to recap though, after a lot of medical procedures and multiple forays into the world of reproductive therapy, I came out at the end childless and heartbroken, being told in essence that becoming a mother would be unlikely.  I retreated into myself for a long time trying to grapple with this news, blaming myself squarely for the biggest failure of my existence while at the same time knowing intellectually that it wasn’t my fault, it was simple biology.  That didn’t matter.  None of it mattered. 

Through the course of those nightmarish years (and yes, I mean years, not days or months), while I smiled through every bit of that excruciating pain, receiving news of my own friends getting pregnant, watching bouncy babies being born and cuddling them close while wishing for my own, trying to be there for those who needed me, be the person I had been, never thinking my pain was more epic than anyone else’s…I was dying a little inside, manically searching for something that would put balm on my wounded spirit and fill the void in my heart.

I’ll tell you now that never happened, not really.  The void will always be there and I will always, always yearn.   To-date I never willingly speak of this particular topic.  Yea, sure I will reference it when it’s important, to help someone else through it but I personally do not need to discuss it in reference to myself or my own emotions.  It’s terribly closed off of me but that’s okay, this is my coping mechanism.  That’s not to say I’m in denial, it’s simply that I’ve dealt with it and have moved along (somewhat). 

But this comes right back to why I’m even writing this blog.  With the advent of this ultimate failure of my very reason for existing (for some would argue that’s why we, women, exist, on a biological level and that’s for procreation) I had to fall back on something to help me live on and I assure you that was the trick, how to continue to breathe. 

Thus with little other option, I started to begin the journey of self-realization.  Oh god, that sounds so cheesy but it was precisely that.  Now, Folks, everything I’m about to say is no real big secret, nothing you do not know or haven’t heard many times over but it helps to sometimes read it in context as opposed to random inspirational quotes, memes, wooden block etchings…I needed to answer these questions:

What was good about me?
Would I want to know me, if I weren’t me?
Were there any redeeming factors in me even when I did wrong?
Did I have some sense of morals?
Was I selfish or self-centered (beyond what is human and normal)?
Was everything that I saw in the mirror really that bad if I broke it down piece by piece?
Did it truly matter what others thought of my body, looks and what did that say about themselves if they did?
Who was I trying to impress beyond God?
What purpose did outer perfection serve if the inside was ugly?
What was beauty really worth?
Did I need to learn to love myself despite all these flaws?

And there were way more questions but I systematically started to go about seeking out the truths about my own psyche and it was wondrous because I began to shed all these notions about beauty that I had so adamantly clung to throughout my life.  Now that I reflect on it, maybe it was because there was still hope that if I changed enough, improved, beautified myself to the extent where it was socially acceptable, I had something to look forward to and that this…me…wasn’t it.  I would be admired and adored and fawned over and somehow I would attain nirvana, the Holy Grail in a way. 

But because I hadn’t been able to attain that ultimate body that I wanted, or everything else that was supposed to be on the outside, it reflected in my attitude both on the inside and out.  I didn’t like me so there was no way that others would want to get through the barriers/walls I had erected around myself.  I hid my true self away from the world.  Yet, as these questions, one at a time, were being answered I let go.  I laughed a little more freely, I wore what I wished instead of fretting that I was being judged.  I went without make up and let my hair be and stay greasy because I was just too lazy to do anything about it.  More importantly, I started to speak my mind, share my knowledge, wit, smartassary without caring one wit.  In essence, I was slowly releasing myself.  And it was glorious.

Do I still fight these demons?  Yea, of course I do.  I still avoid the mirrors and when someone wants to take a full length picture, I hide.  I post pics of myself on FB and wonder if one day a person won’t meet me in person and say I totally misrepresented myself.  And I can tell you that I often feel like the step-child from fairy tales who is ignored, even at the age of 43.  But here’s the thing, it’s okay to feel this way.  I’m okay with it.  Because I can only be who I am and anyone who wants me in their lives will have to accept me as I am.  That maybe the biggest lesson learned here: self-acceptance.  I can’t, in fact, be her, or her, or even her.  I can be me and that, to you my dearest sisters, is the message here.  Be your authentic self.  Let go of these ideals in which we bind ourselves.  Free the mind first and everything else will follow.  Slay some of your demons, don’t let them control you.  Fix which you can, embrace that which you can’t.  Accept you will have your good, and bad days because you have the right to having them but do not allow anyone else to make them good or bad days.  Take that power away from them and keep it for yourself.  And know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this journey of self-loving is a long and complicated one full of barbs and walls and scary monsters that try to push you off course and have you doubting yourself.  Don’t let anyone/anything win.

I hope this blog helps anyone who is struggling.  Again, you are beautiful, however and whoever you are.

Lots of love going out to all my ladies.   

Naps and a Bagel (or 3)

Last night, I think most of the world tuned in to watch the clusterfuck that was the first Presidential debate between Hillary and Trump.  I could write something pretty scathing in description of Trump and his idiocy, but I shall refrain…for now.  Suffice it to say that this, in my humble opinion, was no contest and no surprise at all as to who would trounce whom.  I’ll leave this topic alone after saying that I do not care how dishonest Hillary has been, I still refuse to vote for the orange-faced buffoon, period.  Don’t bother to argue with me on this point, I have other reasons I support her as well but again, I don’t need to justify my decision and nothing on earth will convince me to throw away this particular vote, that to in a swing state, just to make a point that neither are good choices and I wish there was someone else (who I would legitimately want to vote for because the other two options?  Just no).  And as I explained to someone recently, I wish I was thinner and richer right at this moment but that’s not the case so I have to deal with reality as it is for me right now.

Because the debate wasn’t enough, I stayed up till 5am watching the pundits and “experts” expound and dissect the hell out of the 90 minutes till I finally decided, or rather my body demanded it was time to sleep otherwise it would stage a mutiny of sorts.  Alas even though I listened to it immediately, I believe it still wanted to exact revenge as my eyes popped open at the repulsive hour of 7am.  7 am.  SEVEN AM!!!!!  In case you’re not good at math that’s pretty much 2 hours of sleep.  And trust me, I am not, and I repeat not, a morning person. 

Many of you who know me may be thinking, “okay so what’s the big deal, you’re an insomniac anyhow” but even we insomniacs make up the sleep somewhere, like while driving, under the desk at work or even behind a potted plant…but I assure you we definitely need some significant amount of it, not necessarily 8 hours (because that’s just insane) but more than 2 is all I’m saying.  Truthfully though, and knowing my body, I never ever make up sleep.  As in if I get two hours, that’s all I’m gonna get and will have to suffer through the rest of the blasted day exhausted out of my mind, closely resembling a zombie.  This has sadly become my normal.

This morning I lay in bed praying I would doze back to sleep but the grey cells were firing at all cylinders as I pulled myself out to get on with the rest of the day.  I don’t want to or need to bore anyone with the mindlessly boring crap that I did but at one point I stretched out onto the sofa to read some information sent to me by a friend and apparently I feel asleep.

Remember how I mentioned I don’t nap?  Well, I really don’t.  And if you hear that I’ve napped know that I’ve managed to hit a wall of exhaustion pretty hard and my body gave me the mental middle finger and decided to shut the hell down.  This was precisely what happened today. 

15 minutes later I woke up with a jerk, my heart beating out of control, body shaking, and the overwhelming urge to puke.  And this, my friends, is precisely why I loathe napping.  I have never, ever, EVER felt rested after resting.  It sucks big ol’ hairy….um…yea this is a pretty PG blog so I won’t finish that thought.  You know what I mean though.  This is also the reason my mom and I would get into epic showdowns when I was a child as she insisted I take an afternoon nap (probably because she needed ‘me’ time and I was a lunatic kid who followed her around like a shadow and ask her such questions as “why is the sky blue?” and “why can’t I color my hair pink?”).  Now that I think of it, I was a really annoying child.  Thank God I’ve shed that, eh?  Shut up. 

Anyhoooo…the reason for my resistance was, and I know this now although not then, that my mind rarely rested.  But my mother wasn’t having any of my demands to make brownies or going to the mall and would command me into bed and force my eyes closed (she would gently put her fingers over my eyes in desperation at times).  My eyelids would eventually start to hurt not from her fingers but from keeping them closed on my own because I would start to feel bad that she even needed to force my eyes shut.  And yea, every once in a while I would fall asleep only to wake up with a start and all those horrible feelings I described above zinging through me.  This is the sole reason I hate napping and now at the age of 43, nothing has changed.  I like to fantasize about it though.

Knowing that my stupid body has never been down with the whole napping concept, I decided today to shake the lethargy and leave the house to run errands after quickly sending off a few emails and checking job boards.  Best to be as far away from the bed or sofa as possible in sheer fear.

If you bothered to read yesterday’s blog, you will recall that I spoke about how cool the weather had turned but also mentioned that Mother Nature had been terribly fickle as well of late.  Well, today she decided to turn up the dial.  As soon as I stepped foot outdoors I knew once again that MN (That’s short for Mother Nature because we’re pretty close and I can be all casual when referring to her) had betrayed me.  Did anyone notice how unseasonably warm it was?  Off came the scarf and sweater in an instant as I sat in the leather interior of my sweltering car jacking up the AC.  I would love, love, LOVE it if for once the weather would reflect the actual month it was.  Thanks, Global Warming.   Oh wait, that’s right, there’s no such thing as Global Warming [insert major eye roll here]. 

At Trader Joe’s (for those who have no clue as to what this is, it’s basically a fancy grocery store where you can’t get generic toothpaste but has the most kickass frozen meals and a plethora of chocolaty treats not to be found anywhere else), I was thrilled to find a spot under the one tree in the blasted parking lot.  Industrialization really does suck, doesn’t it?  I headed into the store and as I weaved down the side walk a gentleman in front of me craned his neck in the most exaggerated way to gaze at a woman who was at that point striding past me.  I figured she must be beautiful or something like that and decided to peak.  He hadn’t looked at her because of her looks but rather because…wait for it………….she was wearing a Kevlar vest, above her clothes, and muttering rather loudly to herself.  She was not sporting a uniform either.  Um…

*Pause…crickets…scratch head…shrug shoulders* 

This was basically my reaction.

Amazing the ridiculous shit you get used to seeing when you live in a pretty overpopulated area.   Nothing seems to faze me anymore.  Not even Kevlar worn over the clothes.  I wondered though why she felt as if she had to and then realized I was, yet again, overthinking stuff and needed teriyaki chicken instead.  That’s what I did.

Now, I’ve written entries before about my obsession with Panera’s cinnamon crunch bagels.  I would post the original blogs for reference but I kinda don’t want to scroll through to locate them so either you can do the honors or just take me at my word.  But I’ve put this (the famous bagel obsession) on the backburner for many months now.  It doesn’t help with the waistline in the least and I got pretty sick of it after having at least 3 in the span of 3 weeks (which is a lot for me).   But then…

Alright, I’m either really easily influenced or my mind is weak.  Now that I think of it, the two probably is linked.  This is a sad realization for me, I have to admit because I’ve always thought I’m pretty safe from too much external influences.  Oh how wrong I was today because earlier as I sat on the sofa scrolling through Facebook, I had stumbled upon a video of a bunch of people being asked how they liked their bagels.  It was an advertisement for cream cheese hence they were expounding upon how much cream cheese to bagel ratio these consumers preferred then had the audacity to actually have them show the audience what they liked and then...consumed it...slowly, happily, blissfully...oh god...  I was riveted, my mind screeching to a stop and my mouth flooding with saliva.    

I really should find the marketing genius who created that video and smack him upside the head and then tell his boss to give him a raise because oh wow was I Jonesing for a bagel and schmear (I don’t think I spelled that correctly but then again why should I start now, right?), right then.  

Subliminal foodie messages works on me like a charm, apparently.  This is something I know but love to deny.

Anyhow today was also Tuesday which meant music classes and the realization that I was yet again woefully unprepared and that I needed to practice…a lot more…like a lot, lot more, as in I should be busting out the harmonium on a daily basis and going at it for 4 hours at a time kinda practice more instead of the zero practice I actually do.  Thank my lucky stars that I have musical genes within me otherwise I’d be screwed.  I’m still astounded that my wonderful father, ustad, music teacher doesn’t throw his hands up in frustration and simply fire me as his student.  I wouldn’t even be mad at him. 

Now it’s nearly 3 am.  Yea, still working on 2 hours and 15 minutes of sleep.  I'm surprisingly awake...darn it but on the bright side I’m finishing up this blog.  You know what, it’s not all that exciting, sorta boring, just a silly entry of my silly life in this silly platform.  And yet, I’m smiling because my fingers are flying across the keyboard, something that hasn’t happened in so long and you know what else?  It really, really feels good.  Even if there isn’t much substance to this blog, it doesn’t alarm me.  It’s a simple testament to the fact that a few blocks have been removed mentally from my cranium.

I have some weighty topics in mind that I may end up posting soon.  Let’s see what tomorrow brings other than coloring out the white in my hair and eyeing my treadmill as the enemy.    

Till we meet again…