I've Got the Blues...

I feel like I should be walking along the sidewalk of a big city bedecked in a floppy hat that falls over my eyes giving me a look of mystery. Then I stumble into a smoky bar where I feel a magical sense of kinship with careworn but brilliant musicians there and, after telling my story, I discover a hidden talent for singing the blues and serenade the smoky bar with my woes for the rest of the night.

*sigh*

I feel blue. I have that awfully disgustingly clenched feeling in my stomach. My mouth, despite my best efforts, keeps forming itself into a sad droop. Interestingly enough, I know exactly why I feel this way and what it will take to kill this bout of blues. Unfortunately, in this case, knowing does little to change the situation. Dreams, for all their splendour, have a terribly sad twinge to them sometimes …

I am usually a big believer in the idea of choosing one’s destiny. Must be the agnostic in me. Sometimes however, it seems like destiny deals us a rather annoying hand that is quite difficult to manipulate. Ahhh well, they always say lots of clever things like “the darkness comes before the dawn”. Grrr, why does dawn feel years away? Because in this painful little conundrum, it is.

Beloved Bridget

alcohol units: 0 (good from a Puritan perspective but means have not had sexy cocktail in chic bar today); number of toasted peanut butter and jam sandwiches: 2 (not bad considering that the bread was wholewheat); number of hours spent watching television: have neither the strength nor inclination to accurately determine; love for Bridget and other ladies like her: boundless!

Battling severe anger, frustration and a desperate need to slaughter one of my fellow humans with a dull instrument, I carefully weighed my options. I could a) burst into loud and angry tears b) scream and throw things randomly c) reach for the words of my beloved Bridget and comfort myself by nodding vigorously along with her paranoid neuroses. Fear of curious intervention from my neighbours and the sneaking suspicion that my parents would be displeased if I demolished the house simply because I was “cranky and miserable” lead me to option c). I grabbed my copy of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason from its place on my alphabetized shelf and began to read. As expected, even though I did not magically float softly onto a fluffy cloud nine (the sky and all things in it are highly overrated anyway) I did feel somewhat better…

I was introduced to the wonder that is Bridget Jones and the entire genre of “Chick Lit” by Professor Donna Freitas in my Women’s Spirituality class. The topic at hand was the veritable paucity of stories with female protagonists that outline the struggles that everyday women face. We spoke of the value of reading stories with which we could easily identify and cited this feeling of comfort and relation as the reason for the overwhelming response to Bridget and similar characters.

As I relaxed on my couch, trying to ignore the boiling furnace that is Barbados and focus on the words of Bridget, I started to ponder the wisdom of Prof. Freitas (or Donna as she prefers to be called while flipping her hair and addressing the class from a lotus-like position atop her desk). I realised over and over the truth in Donna’s words and in those of other Bridget fans.

Bridget is accessible, highly accessible. The author Helen Fielding did a brilliant job, in my view, of delivering Bridget raw and unedited, which adds to her incontrovertible charm. Fielding did what few dare to do. She outlined Bridget’s paranoid thoughts, nervous actions, man troubles, fumbling responses, struggles with several vices, thigh thickening habits and delightfully tortured existence in embarrassing detail, regardless of the stigma attached by traditional feminists to portraying the vulnerable side of womanhood.

I smiled at Bridget’s determined vows to “stop doing [insert bad habit here] tomorrow” and silent pep talks to herself “Am going to be positive about this. Am going to be marvellous: elegant, vivacious, beautifully dressed”. I laughed at the conversations with her friends: their indignant responses on her behalf regarding the offending Mr. Darcy and “jellyfish” Rebecca along with their comforting faxes of dildos with tongues attached.

I do not idolise Bridget. I am also (thankfully) not identical to her, but I see enough of myself in her sometimes to feel comforted. Moreover, I smile at the knowledge that millions of women the world over can say the same.

Fielding beautifully documents things that are so often done, but rarely openly admitted. Reading about Bridget’s paranoid message checking re: Mr. Darcy makes me laugh and feel a little less silly at my own forays into (secretly) irrational behaviour where the opposite sex is concerned. Sigh, can we say the patented msn add-delete-add-delete, not to mention the hi5 profile checks? *shakes head*

Bridget’s “happening to drive past his house” after they argue and “willing the phone to ring” while silently berating herself for caring so much are not only amusing but annoyingly close to situations that many of us have been in at some time or the other, sometimes more often than we wish to admit. Bridget may not always be the most sensible, logical or rational she is REAL and when it comes down to it, that really is all that anyone can ask for – pure honesty of emotion and logic, regardless of how terribly warped on occasion.

I dedicate this blog my improved versions of Jude, Shazzer and Magda: the future neo-natologist, Gingerbush and Madame Jeffries, our trips to the café near midnight to buy fruit smoothies after swearing to a) stop eating junk food b) stop spending unnecessary money and c) stay in our townhouse and study instead of going to the café and buying smoothies. Here’s to never forgetting about “cupcakes with feelings” and our heartfelt wishes for ACME anvils falling to fall on the heads of E, Moe/Mu/Moooo and the chica that should vacate the block…

May we always be willing to laugh at ourselves and admit that we, like Bridget, spend an awful lot of time on “the edge of reason.”

Miscellaneous Musings

Alrighty then, now for someting light and fluffy after that foray into the morbid and macabre…

I forgot how funny Bring it On was, lol! “This is a cheertatorship!” Leh dem know Torrance. *shakes booty*
Isis, “‘Brr, it's cold in here, there must be some Toros in the atmosphere’? I know you don't think a white girl made that shit up.”

Ya know, I really don’t think that Gabrielle Union is all that good-looking. I mean, the overall package is sexy and all, but narrowing it down to just her face, I’ve seen much prettier faces walking down Broadstreet, thanks.

Legally Blonde had me deading too. “Now, bend and snap! Come on girls, bend and snap! Yes! That’s it!” Doan play wid my girl Elle Woods and dog Bruiser Woods, both Gemini vegetarians, lol! How my girl seriously had a fuzzy pink phone? I near dead. Funny ting is that dem had some girls at college wid me that wasn’t too far from Elle yeah. Sigh.

Deeply contemplating a Brazilian wax. Hmmm, will remind best friend that she wanted to get one and we shall get them together when she reaches Bim. Yaay for bald coochies! Or not. Hmmm, that area is not usually one where one wants to induce voluntary pain. Will rethink idea.

I want some more “chick lit” in manner of Bridget, Devil Wears Prada or Shopaholic. Damn Cave Shepherd would sell dem $10 books for a calm $30. Dem want a slap, das wha. Well in absence of actual new book on Bridget, can always speak in manner of Bridget to make self feel better…

Could I pull off a short hairstyle? Seriously pondering the wisdom of cutting my hair low and dyeing it a red wine colour. Life would be so odd without my hair though, had LONG hair for all my life. Mother and aunt get all nostalgic at the idea, lol. Can’t imagine their “baby girl” cutting her hair. Who knows? Might be a welcome change … or one of those life events that I file in way in the folder labelled “Moderately/Very Bad Ideas”.

I need glasses. There really is no denying it. Everything is decidedly fuzzy. Maybe, just maybe, spending hours and hours gazing at a computer screen had something to do with that. Will get myself some contacts along with my sexy/sophisticated frames though…

Am currently accepting gifts of:
a replacement pair of black reefs
a large, black, casual bag
a small, blue, formal bag
a large, white, casual bag
miscellaneous belts.

The best sex scene that I ever see on TV is the one in Set if Off between Blair Underwood and Jada Pinkett. Dat sooo tiiite! Perfect mix of romantic and sexy. Chaaa. When my boy pour de wine, and start trailing de pearls down she back *swoon*. Doan talk bout de background music, “Hold me tight and don’t let gooooo!” I mean, Blair Underwood did want straddling from de time he was on L.A Law though, but to put him in a scene like dah? De look pun de man face when he did gine in, oh lord. My boy had me feeling glad I was watching de movie home alone…

*mischievous giggle*

Des Cendres Aux Cendres...

Even at our birth, death does but stand aside a little. And every day he looks towards us and muses somewhat to himself whether that day or the next he will draw nigh. - Robert Bolt

Today I’m feeling curiously torn between meditations on my own mortality and outbursts of laughter at the giggle-inducing shows I have been watching, namely Bring It On and Legally Blonde. Let’s compromise shall we? Contemplation for the sake of catharsis, followed by a patented Elle Woods 'bend and snap' to clear my mind.

During the senior week celebrations leading up to my college graduation, one of our number passed away on Mothers’ Day. There we were, bedecked in our formal wear (black and silver for yours truly) and waiting on the ship that was to take us along Lake Champlain for the senior week ‘booze cruise’ when most of the senior class received the devastating news. Laughter turned to silent sobs and hysterical tears as we held hands and prayed for his safety. All we were told was that his body was missing in the Winooski River, a luckless consequence of a capsized canoe. Just the night before we received this gut-wrenching news, he was playing in the band at one of our senior week parties. We held a prayer service for him in the chapel that night. The next day his body was pulled from the Winooski River. He was 21 years old.

A young Barbadian male lived a year with one foot in the grave: having refused to drive with his friends who met their deaths last year, he was snatched away from us by the maws of the sea.

Today I wept for another friend that passed away a few years ago. At the tender age of 18, ovarian cancer claimed her life. Just recently in the news, a 17 year old boy was shot, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A 29 year old male of my mother’s acquaintance died tragically about a month ago, and a 26 year old son of a coworker is currently battling cancer.

When did the proverbial lifespan drop from 3 score and 10? When did funeral masses become commonplace for people barely old enough to walk into a bar? It saddens, distresses and above all scares me. I am quite sure that these people saw long, full lives ahead of them. Just like us, they were drunk on the wine of youth and basking in the giddy delirium of perceived immortality. I doubt that they rose from their dreams and seriously entertained the thought, 'I could die today.' The mocking hand of irony proved them horribly wrong.

The unkind paradox however is the sense of security we reasonably have, coupled with a plausible sense of uncertainty. That is to say that, death at this age actually is rather unlikely. So although we glibly repeat maxims like ‘Live each day like it’s your last!’ we rarely do, since it is statistically unlikely to be. Young, seemingly healthy people do not usually die; hence young deaths stand out as particularly dreadful. On the other hand though, we cannot help but think that those who fell victim to the Grim Reaper probably embraced that same argument … until their eyes were forever closed.

If we were made to know our last day among the living, what would we do? Which bridges would we mend? Whose forehead would we kiss? Who would we contact and beg for forgiveness? Who would we remember fondly, bitterly or not at all? Who would we thank simply for being there? Would we wish that we had more often thrown caution to the wind, dismissed practicality and grabbed happiness in this life where it presented itself?

So what now? We could resolve to live each day like it really is our last, or we could quite logically conclude that the statistics are on our side and that we are unlikely to drop dead in our sleep or be mowed down by a masked gun(wo)man. Funny thing is though, the statistics were on their side too…

Like Sands through the Hourglass…

It truly is amazing that one can sweat profusely from so simple an activity as flossing one’s teeth. My pores have become home to miniature streams and I’m on the verge of setting up a small cabin in the back of the freezer. Needless to say, it is taking my body some time to become readjusted to the sweltering heat after spending my days swathed in sweatshirts and puffy coats while navigating waist-high snow banks. The perpetual shine on my forehead does make it easier to imagine myself as a celestial being though, so I do suppose that roasting like a basted turkey in foil does have its perks…

I am tempted to walk around completed naked. However, my nudity, coupled with the necessity of having my windows staring open to let in the barely moving air masquerading as wind, would give my 22 year old male neighbour a gift he scarcely deserves.

So far, being at home has not been too bad. I am becoming used to the feel of the couch against my butt, my bed against my back, and sometimes for a radical change of pace, my carpet against my stomach. This, as my mother calls it, is the hibernation period – the time where I barricade myself in my house and ensure that my most strenuous task of the day is popping some veggie nuggets into the toaster-oven for lunch. I am also rediscovering the pleasures of msn mischief making…

It has been a while since I have experienced such marathon TV sessions, and I must admit to thoroughly enjoying reruns of Frasier, Scrubs and Charmed. Plus, who would have thought that they mentioned Barbados in a 1986 episode of Designing Women? Good looking out on my part! Moreover, I contend that one of the best female bodies on TV belonged to Fran in her days on The Nanny and that these emaciated little creatures on TV today would do well to model her. Before Carrie was styling down Manhattan boulevards in her Jimmy Choos, Fran was pulling off some outfits with style and flair that made the fashion-faint-hearted quake in awe.

I have not turned my brain completely off though. Since graduating about three weeks ago, I have examined graduate schools, contemplated in passing whether I want to continue studying Psychology and done some reading:
The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho
This Mystic Masseur – V.S. Naipaul
Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
The Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
The Picture of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde
They Poured Fire on Us from the Sky: The True Story of Three Lost Boys from Sudan – Benson Deng, Alephonsion Deng, Benjamin Ajak

Post-hibernation will have its perks as well. I already have several offers to take me out to dinner *giggle*. If only … hmmm *furrows brow and vehemently banishes that particular thought*. Dem shoes lined up and ready too. Ya done know Leelee, dem gine caan hold we when we step out and bad. Traffic blocking nuh? Men gine be stuttering, dazed and confused!

For now it’s just nice not to have to deal with … people. Veggie nuggets are a lot less irritating, mean-spirited and judgemental. Plus, they taste better in ketchup. Though, there was that one time…

The Butterfly Effect

I was pondering recently the impact of one individual. I am not quite sure why these thoughts came to me; maybe it was because I was sitting in a psychology class. Who knows? Either way, I was not paying attention to Prof. C. chatting merrily about children and the impact of media, I was instead thinking about my impact on the world, on the human chain.

By impact, I do not necessarily mean making grandiose and wonderful changes such as ensuring everlasting peace in the Middle East. I mean the simple fact that as part of the human web, I impact the lives of those around me. If I stop someone to tell them something, I delay them for a few minutes and change the rest of their day in some small but significant way. I could stir up vast amounts of mischief and negatively impact lives. I actively form connections, purposefully make and break relationships, share ideas and thoughts and affect people’s moods and feelings.

I find that interesting to think about - the fact that teeny actions on each of our parts in some way change the course of the lives of the people around us. We compose emails that people stop in order to respond to; we can determine whether people start their days with a smile or a frown and then how they subsequently interact with people around them. We make dates, invite people to events, stop people to ask for gum, call a friend mid-assignment with a juicy gossipy tidbit, add and subtract from lives daily.

It’s curious to imagine how different the world would be if we had done certain things differently, not necessarily big things, just little things. Taking lunch at 12:05 instead of 12:00, we meet different people in the cafeteria, make different small talk, bump into different folks around different corners, share different ideas, change the content of somebody’s day and the maybe direction of their lives. The ability to actively choose, deliberately act, and in so doing create a ripple effect, is powerful indeed.

Regardless of how small or imperceptible, change matters and just by living daily we determine life’s flow. I like to think of it as large piece of glass with a giant, complex web carved into the glass. In the centre of the web is a pool of coloured liquid. In the beginning, the liquid was still, undisturbed. But each day, with our macro and micro decisions we determine how it flows, which cracks and crevices it fills, until we collectively determine the pattern of life.