Hiatus.

Hey, Internet.

Um.

So.

This is awkward.

I’m going to need you to wander over to A Bookish Spinster and just hang out there for a little while, assuming you’re still sort of interested in anything I have to say (especially if it’s about books). That’s where I’ve been hanging out these days while I attempt to get back on track with all the fun plans I had for this blog. Oh, yeah, did I mention that? I had fun plans for this blog, except late February / all of March happened, and I got all introspective and shit and spent all my time writing in my journal and sorting Serious Shit out.

The good news is that I put all my old ghosts to bed. Finally. The girl who believed that nobody could ever possibly love her because her own parents couldn’t, because she walked away from a seemingly great relationship – she’s gone now. I realised this last week when British Boss and I got to talking – we occasionally have these big and serious conversations about Life, The Universe, and Everything – and I found myself explaining that my father was the only person I’d ever known who was seriously out to get me. “But, to be fair,” I said, “he was clearly suffering from some form of brain damage after the first stroke in 1993. The man I remember from before the stroke clearly loved me. He called me his little princess once; I remember that.”

Internet, I said that. And I believed every single word.

My point is that I’m in a much better place in life right now. I am happy, I am smitten, and I am okay with letting some things go and just trusting that things will work themselves out one way or the other, and that we’ll all turn out alright.

Which means that I can now get back to working on my fun little plans for this blog. Things will be quiet here for a little while, I’m afraid, but I’ve rediscovered how addictive Tumblr can be, so … let’s hang out there for now, okay? Okay.

In the meantime: I am putting the big girl panties on, and I am going to try to figure out web hosting, databases, WordPress installations, and custom themes, and I am going to try very hard not to break anything in the process.

No, seriously, I do not want to break anything.

HALP.

I am flailing so hard here, you guys.

But it’s fun, I guess.

See you on the other side!

On the deafening silence of my biological clock.

“It’s hard to imagine that there will ever come a time when a missed period and a positive pregnancy test would be a cause for celebration as opposed to being a complete and utter catastrophe of epic proportions.” This is the thought that has been bubbling away inside my decidedly weird head in recent days. I have been surrounded by expectant couples lately. My best guy friend Fandy’s first child is due in June. My online-turned-IRL friend Aya is having twins – TWINS! – in September. British Boss’ first child is due any day now – all signs point to the impending daughter arriving much earlier than her mid-May due date – and my co-worker B, who works closely with me and British Boss on Big Client Project, is expecting his first child in July.

So yeah, guess who gets to hold the fort while the two of them go off to do the daddy thing? THIS GIRL, YAY!

It would appear that I have managed to skip the ‘All my friends are getting married and I have all these damn weddings to go to” stage of life and zoomed straight ahead to the “All my friends are having babies and I have a pile of baby gifts to buy” stage. See: Perks of living overseas and not being expected to turn up to weddings back in the motherland. But my point (and believe it or not, I do have one) is that there are all these babies forthcoming, and while I am so incredibly thrilled for all of my expectant friends, I cannot also help being reminded of the fact that I am nowhere near where they are in life. Not even close. Not even a little bit.

And for the most part – at least 98.99% of the time – I am fine with that. I can barely take care of myself. I’m not even sure I could handle a pet cat, let alone a human child who cannot wipe her own bum. And the truth is that I really like my life the way it is right now. I’m so selfish these days and goddamn, it feels good. My priorities these days are wrapped up entirely in what I want to do and achieve. I can almost unthinkingly drop a pile of cash to take an online course in design and copywriting. I can book a weekend trip to Sydney on a whim simply because my favourite writer is only doing events at the Sydney Writers Festival and won’t be coming to Melbourne, and besides, it’s been a few years since I last visited Sydney. I can let a blue-eyed boy with the best smirky smile in the world talk me off the ledge to dive feet first into my crazy, no longer hypothetical plan to travel through the States to meet up (and drink) with all the friends I made on the Internet (and him, of course). I can spend whole weekend mornings in bed with a book or two. I can skip meals and work late if I want to.

My point is that I can say yes to a lot of things – and I do. There really isn’t any room in my life right now for a child. Oh, I’m willing to make room in my life for a man – the right man – and more importantly, I want to make room in my life for a man, obviously. I’m just not entirely willing to do that for a child, not just yet anyway. That’s too much commitment for me to handle right now. You can’t leave a child if it’s not working out.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t want a child one day. I do. But notice the key words “one day”. One day soon-ish, I guess: my own mother had me at age 30 and I suspect that the year leading up to that milestone birthday will be fraught with anxiety around the question of a child. I can’t wait to meet someone wonderful and have a child with him, but I also know that I’m prepared to have a child alone if it ever comes down to it. But these are concerns for another day. For now, I’m happy to simply be the cool auntie. For now, I like being able to give the babies in my life back to their parents at the end of the day or at the first whiff of a dirty diaper. I mean, have you ever seen or smelled a dirty diaper? Those things are not pleasant; take it from the girl who spent a number of her teenage years surrounded by baby cousins. How something so tiny and adorable can produce something so foul is beyond me. It’s a wonder that we still keep producing babies.

(Oh, right, sex is awesome)

 

Beginners.

Does anyone else have a complete nerd/OCD boner over the fact that the first day of the month happens to fall on a Monday this time around? And is anyone else freaking the eff out over the fact that it’s April already? APRIL, YOU GUYS. Where did the time go?

It’s funny: I usually hate it when people exclaim about these things, about how quickly time seems to pass, but I am not impervious to the same sentiments. Far from it, in fact. Because seriously, wasn’t it January just a few minutes ago? HOW IS IT APRIL ALREADY?

If it’s April right now, then I have spent almost an entire month folded up inside myself, cracking parts of me open, hiding others away. If it’s April right now, then I have spent almost an entire month unpacking a whole lot of thoughts and a whole lot of feelings about a whole lot of things. Sex and body image. Culture and religion. Identity and home. The books that literally changed the course of my life (and I don’t use the word “literally” lightly). The illusion of self and the fallibility of memory. How to achieve balance. Being a woman in a man’s world.

Sweet Jesus, I really have spent a whole lot of time inside my own head in the past month or so. It’s a wonder I haven’t already gone insane, huh?

(Oh, right, I do a lot of yoga and barre classes. That’s why I’m not insane.)

I suppose I have a few stories to tell about the beginnings – the very beginnings, we’re talking baby steps here, I know nothing still – of my lifelong examination of these matters, these things I seem to like turning over and over in my head. I’d like to share these stories with you. What I’m struggling with, however, is the why. Why should I share these stories?

What do I have to say that’s worth listening to? What do I have to write that’s worth reading?

The truth is that I’m afraid to write about any of this, and by that I mean that I am afraid to write about any of this for the almost faceless Internet. I can be funny and sarcastic on Twitter. I can post photo after photo of the books I’m reading and the street art I come across on Instagram. But I’m afraid now of writing truthfully for the almost faceless Internet. It’s easier to just write about these things for myself, to put pen to paper in my little black notebook, without sharing any of it. I have a stunning knack (or so I am told) for coming across as perennially sad and depressed in my writing, when the reality is that nothing could be farther from the truth. The irony here is that being told that I sound sad and depressed actually has the effect of making me sad and depressed and not a little bit annoyed in real life.

So I’m afraid of being honest and almost totally open now. I’m afraid of the judgment and misperceptions, especially when I start unpacking what I think about sex and religion and culture and the ever elusive concept of home (elusive to me, that is) on the fucking Internet.

But then again, not writing about things on the Internet isn’t an option either, is it?

Life would be simpler if I were a writer of fiction. But for better or worse, it’s the personal essay that’s got my heart. That’s my preferred format. I suppose it’s time to put the big girl panties on and just write.

Dear Winter.

Dear Winter,

At the risk of sounding like a desperately drunk girl dialling her ex-boyfriend in the middle of the night begging him to come back to her, well …

Please come back to me.

Please.

I’ll do anything.

Please, just come back. Come back to me. Please oh please.

It is just way too fucking hot right now.

So here’s the thing: I cannot handle this motherfucking heat. This is the kind of heat that cannot be described without expletives and capital letters, and so: IT IS MOTHERFUCKING HOT, YOU GUYS. The temperatures have been in the high 30s for days now (that’s in Celsius; American friends, I’m talking about the high 90s in Fahrenheit) and there will be no relief until Thursday at least, if you want to believe the folks at the Bureau of Meteorology, and why wouldn’t you, they’ve been relatively accurate so far.

UGH.

I DID NOT APPROVE THIS WEATHER. WHO APPROVED THIS WEATHER?

 

I mean, yes, I grew up in a country that is not only hot but also humid ALL THE TIME, and you would think that I would be used to high temperatures, and you would be dead wrong. You would be so incredibly wrong. I hate the heat. I hate being hot, period. Why do you think I left Malaysia in the first place? Okay, it wasn’t the main reason I left – I left to attend university and then never got around to going back home – but still. The climate was a reason – not an important one, but a reason nonetheless. I’m pretty sure I included it in my university application essay. Something about wanting to experience life in a country with four distinct seasons? Except I had zero concept back then of just how fucking hot an Australian summer can be.

So.

Come back, Winter. Please come back.

I have been cooped up in my apartment almost all day now because it is just too hot to be doing anything outside, and while it was fun initially – I watched Annie Hall for the first time and took a nice little Sunday afternoon nap – I am now completely over it. I want to go outside but it is STILL too hot. I need groceries but it is too hot to be schlepping back and forth between my apartment, the tram stops, and the grocery store, so I’ve just been eating scrambled eggs and Doritos and Twisties and guzzling lots of water in the hopes that it will fill me up and remove the need for actual food. Besides, it’s too hot to cook proper meals anyway.

And I need to get out of the apartment because I am starting to have nonsensical conversations in my head about Magic Mike and how Channing Tatum’s face does nothing for me and how we could only ever have sex from behind as a result and JESUS GOD I HOPE NOBODY EVER THINKS THAT ABOUT ME … but like I said before, it’s too hot to go outside.

And I realise that’s a really mean thing to say about Channing Tatum. Um. Sorry, Channing. I’m sure you’re a really nice guy. You’re an awesome dancer! But … no.

So y’know, nonsensical mental conversations? Still happening.

I mean, this entire rant is a nonsensical conversation, right?

At least I’m not talking out loud to myself.

The sad thing, Winter, is that I know I can’t have you back just yet. You’re going to turn up when it’s time for you to turn up, and that means I am going to have to wait another three months at least. Which, frankly, is breaking my heart. It is also a relief, I suppose, because let’s face it: if you were to show up right this very second, we would all have bigger issues on our hands. If the temperature were to drop drastically to winter levels in the next five minutes, I would be very concerned about the end of the world being upon us. Because you can take the girl out of the religion she was raised in, but you can’t take the superstitions out of her. So, y’know, I’m going to be very concerned about the end of the world.

FINE, I WILL WAIT FOR YOU, WINTER.

If you need me, I am going to be sprawled out on my bed right in front of my fan. Because it’s the coolest spot in my apartment. Because it is too motherfucking hot out there.

My next apartment needs to have central air-conditioning. Just sayin’.

And Winter? I can’t wait for you to FINALLY turn up.

Love,
Rae.

I was not lying about being sprawled out in front of the fan.

When you have no one to answer to.

I find myself having to do this every so often: I have to stop and re-examine my life and the way I have been living it, in an attempt to get a grip on things. This exercise tends to involve a Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen, because I happen to believe that the only way to figure things out is to take pen to paper. Funny how that works, but it does work, for the most part. It does for me, at least.

Anyway. Here’s what happened: I lost my grip on things over the last couple of weeks. I’d been feeling overwhelmed lately, and it showed in my (formerly) overflowing inbox and my (still) messy apartment and my (slowly being remedied) lack of exercise. It was in the fact that I hadn’t cooked or baked in a little while. At least some of the overwhelm and the sense of losing my grip on things can be attributed to my job – actually, most of it can be attributed to my job. There was just a lot of stuff going on and at some point, ‘a lot’ became a tad ‘too much’. I started letting my job spill over into the other parts of my life, including all the fun anxiety that comes along with it.

So not cool, you guys.

I had to stop writing last week. I don’t just mean here on this little blog of mine, but in my journal as well. I just get so sick of words sometimes. Sometimes I need actions, not words. Sometimes I just need to think without necessarily committing any of my thoughts to words.

But if ever there is a sign that something’s wrong, that would be it. Not writing just doesn’t make sense to me, but I had to stop doing it last week. Even writing was too much.

 

My friend Annie pointed out last week that it is so much harder for me to maintain a sense of balance – between doing the things you do to keep a roof over your head and doing the things that make you happy – because I have no one to answer to. Talk about a wake up call; no one has ever explained it to me like that before. I initially thought it was her nice way of saying “Get a damn boyfriend already, you work too much” (who needs an Asian mum when you’ve got an Annie, etc), but it was really a “No, it’s fine to be single, enjoy it. Just don’t let your job fill up the space that should have been taken up by a boyfriend or a family or your own stuff, you know?” Which, I guess, is true. There is space in my life that I was letting my job spill over into, and that’s just not cool. I can’t let that one tiny part of my life take over, but for a little while there, I did. I lost my grip. I lost my sense of balance.

This month is all about reclaiming my balance.

 

All the small things, all the good things.

The trick to surviving the most “interesting” day is to focus on all the good stuff happening around you. Because the thing is, there will ALWAYS be good stuff happening. You just have to choose to look for it.

Happiness is a choice. I just told someone that. My friend Maddy once told me that you end up teaching the thing that you need to learn the most. I guess that was yet another real life example of this.

I am  just coming out of a shambolic mess of a day, feeling dazed and confused because ALL of the things decided to blow up in my face today, and I am breathing my way through it and choosing to fixate on the good things. There are so many good things happening. I’m actually very lucky.

All the Good Things I am choosing to focus on:

1. Spending time with a friend I don’t usually see very often. I’m giving him dating advice, he’s schooling me on how to make it easier for guys to talk to me. Turns out I’m doing it all wrong. Who knew?

2. Getting way too excited when another friend revealed that he’ll probably be proposing to his girlfriend soon. I mean, WAY too excited. I think he started to regret telling me anything about ten seconds into the conversation. SORRY I’M NOT SORRY, BUDDY. I have excite feels!

3. A friend in Malaysia is expecting twins – TWINS! If it turns out she’s having a boy and a girl, I’m just going to go ahead and nickname them Luke and Leia. Just sayin’.

4. Another very dear friend is making very big (and happy) life decisions, and I am just so incredibly happy for her.

5. I’m taking teeny tiny baby steps towards the whole writing thing. So that’s nice. And nerve-wracking. But mostly it’s nice. I’m kinda proud of myself, I guess.

What good things are you choosing to focus on?

Paris Stories, part 1.

Planes and trains and automobiles

It occurs to me as I am transiting through Doha International Airport that for the first time in my adult life, I am going on vacation in a happy and content state of mind. I am nursing a cup of shitty Costa coffee, and I am thinking about how I am not running away from anything this time around. I am not looking for anything this time around, apart from maybe all of the delicious pastries that Paris has to offer.

I have no expectations this time. I just want to see Paris and Copenhagen and London and Amsterdam. I want to see Ruba and Erna and Farah and Bobby. It’s a refreshing change: the last two times I left the country, I was at the end of my rope and desperately needed to put some distance between myself and my life in Melbourne. I needed to heal then, but this time around there is nothing to heal. I am actually happy.

Have passport, will travel (alone)

The worst thing about travelling alone is having to lug all your carry on luggage with you into the inevitably tiny airport bathroom while waiting to board your connecting flight. At least, that was what I thought until I met the poor woman carrying several pieces of bulky carry on luggage and her screaming, over-tired toddler off the plane when we arrived at Doha.

So I’m never complaining about travelling alone with bulky luggage ever again. At least my Longchamp bag doesn’t scream or squirm.

Immigration

The handsome blond immigration officer examines my passport, then looks up at me.

“Malaisie? Vous parlez français?”

“Oui, un peu.”

He stamps my passport, and just like that, I am waved through into Paris. The whole situation feels slightly bizarre; I’m so used to getting the third degree whenever I travel. Why are you here, where are you staying, how long are you staying for – I’m lookin’ at you, America.

Mama Shelter

It is almost midnight. I am sitting in the hotel bar and I have just ordered a glass of red wine in what I am hoping is passable French, and I am trying to quell the biggest grin on earth. I swear, my face feels like it is going to split into two, I am so incredibly giddy right now.

I am in Paris.

And I am so not cool enough to be staying in this hotel. I look around and I think, all of the beautiful French hipsters are here tonight in this hotel in this working class arrondissement. And here I am in my baggy sweater and my slightly damp hair, in all my uncool glory, waiting to turn 27 years old.

I take a sip of my wine. I note with some amusement that the loudest person in the room is an American man with the build of a football player gone to seed. It occurs to me that there is some uncertainty as to whether or not he is really that loud, or if I only think that he is loud because he is the only person here whom I can understand.

Birthday girl

The first thing I learn on my first morning in Paris is that French coffee is terrible. The first thing I learn on my second morning in Paris is the lengths to which I will go for a decent cup of coffee: 45 minutes, 3 different trains, and a 5 minute walk – longer if you count the fact that I accidentally went the wrong way once I’d left the Metro station and had to re-trace my steps.

Let it be known that I asked for directions in French. I always ask for directions in French. And for the most part, I understand what is being said to me.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s my first morning in Paris, and it’s my 27th birthday. Fandy calls the hotel to wish me a happy birthday and we have a lovely little chat. Afterwards, I make my way to Place Saint Michel where I join a free walking tour of Paris. Our tour guide is a Kiwi expat, a French history major who is pleased that I have correctly identified him as being from New Zealand, not Australia. He points out Notre Dame across the water, then takes us to see the Palais de Justice and the bullet holes riddling its facade, which come courtesy of World War 2. He takes us to Pont Neuf and Île de la Cité, he tells us the gruesome story of Henry the 4th’s assassin in front of a majestic statue of that much-adored king. We visit the grounds outside the Musée du Louvre, walk through the Jardin des Tuileries, see the Eiffel Tower from a distance.

All of the sights that Paris has to offer and centuries of history to take in. It’s not a bad way to spend a birthday, even if nobody in this group is aware of what the day means to me.

At the end of the day, I treat myself to two pairs of Repetto ballet flats. The bill makes me cringe a little, but fuck it: it’s my birthday and I am in Paris for the first time. I deserve this.

The roughest of plans.

Scent.

There are two things in this world that are guaranteed to transport me back to a specific time and place in my life. One of these things is music, the other is scent.

Moonflower by The Body Shop

I am sixteen years old again, and I am discovering that I am not the sort of girlfriend who needs her boyfriend’s constant and unflagging attention. I am not the kind of girlfriend who needs her boyfriend, period. I am not built for co-dependency. I do not need hours on the phone every night, I do not need to spend every break between classes together, I do not need constant text messages after school.

What I need is a little bit of space. I am not getting any space in this relationship.

Years later, Ika will note with some amusement and plenty of sympathy that I have managed to go from a boyfriend who gave me no space at all to one who gives me way too much space.

Ralph, by Ralph Lauren

What comes to mind: Farah laughing, the feel of my school uniform on my skin, the heat of a Malaysian sun beating down on me, after-school Oreo McFlurries, Skipped Parts by Tim Sandlin, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells.

What also comes to mind is the fact that my mother paid for the perfume. I had nearly enough money to buy it myself, but she paid for it anyway. I was supposed to pay her back but I never did. I was spoilt like that.

Here’s the thing: nothing is ever simple; everything has a layer of complexity associated with it. I was neglected and I was spoilt. I was ignored, and yet I had my every move controlled and dictated to me. I do not want my family in my life, and yet everything that is good in me came from them. I miss them despite having nothing more to say to them.

This is the sadness I will always carry with me, no matter what. I just choose not to dwell on it.

Very Irresistible Givenchy

Farah gave me a bottle of this perfume for my 18th birthday, and I imagine he will always associate this scent with me, with the two of us falling slowly, imperceptibly, in love with each other in the months after I turned 18.

Years later, we will be walking through the perfume department in Myer on Bourke Street, and I will make him stop to sniff a bottle of that perfume, and he will smile as soon as he breathes the scent in.

Chloe

I bought this perfume because it smelled just like me, which sounds ridiculous, I know, but it makes perfect sense anyway. It really does smell like me. Ika thought so, and so did he. I wore this perfume all through our last year together – our only truly good year together – and when it all fell apart and I had emerged from the rubble that was our life together and the emotional devastation that followed, I was convinced that I needed to render myself unrecognisable to him – to everyone, really – and that I would start with my scent. I was on the other side of the world by then, in a Sephora on Fifth Avenue in New York. It was cold outside, and there was a bottle of Chanel perfume calling my name and my credit card.

Chance, by Chanel

He would have breathed this scent in as he hugged me goodbye under a Californian sky.

Replica (Flower Market), by Maison Martin Margiela

I am newly 27 and I am in Amsterdam. I am staying with a friend whom I hadn’t seen since we were both 18 and I had just scraped the side of my brand new car against a pillar in the parking lot of a shopping mall not far from the neighbourhood we had both grown up in, and we are exploring an impossibly cool boutique whose prices are beyond us and whose aesthetic is almost exactly his. He is trying clothes on, I am being handed a tiny sampler of a Maison Martin Margiela perfume. It is the only thing I could have comfortably afforded in that boutique.

Later that evening, I am getting ready  to go out to dinner in the bedroom he has given up to me for the duration of my stay, and I am spritzing the perfume on my neck just as he is coming out of the bathroom. He walks past me on the way to the living room and as he does so, he tells me that the perfume smells really good on me. I have to agree. A few days later I am back at that boutique and I am handing over nearly the last of my euros to the sales assistant with the American accent in exchange for a full bottle of this beautiful floral scent. She asks if I’d like the perfume gift-wrapped. I hesitate, tell her that it is only for me. She dismisses this statement with a shrug. “I’ll wrap it up for you anyway,” she says. “I wrap shit up for myself all the time.” I smile and thank her, watch her carefully wrap the perfume in white tissue paper, thinking all the while, “There is a lesson in this.”

Happy Valentine’s, my sweets. Love, Rae.

It occurred to me earlier this evening – this Valentine’s Day evening, that is – that if life were a romantic comedy, I would end up meeting my future husband in the supermarket that very evening in all my sweaty, post-yoga class glory. Knowing me, our fateful meeting would occur in the junk food aisle where I would most likely be stocking up on Doritos like they were going out of fashion. In my imagined scenario, that future husband would be Danny Bhoy. Or Andy Samberg, I have a little bit of a crush on him now after having seen Celeste and Jesse Forever.

But, y’know, life isn’t a romantic comedy. I didn’t meet anyone interesting at the supermarket (I never do). Still, I had a very good Valentine’s Day. I spent a chunk of it volunteering at an animal shelter in Woodend, a country town I hadn’t even heard of until the folks in charge of organising community service days at my workplace announced that the next volunteering gig would be at the Pets Haven animal shelter. Woodend is an hour’s drive away. I’m very glad that I have co-workers who a) drive, and b) are willing to give me rides.

On the way to Woodend.

I see what people mean now when they say that Australia can be more brown than green. This really is the sunburnt country. It makes me miss New Zealand.

He looks like a Jasper or a Mikey except I am not entirely sure that he is a he.

I also maybe miss this sweet little ginger kitten. I did not sneak out of the animal shelter with that tiny creature hidden in my handbag and I’m not sure that’s a win. Speaking of tiny creatures, what is it about them that makes women (i.e. me) adopt the most ridiculous voices when talking to them? Suffice to say that I’m glad nobody thought to videotape me talking to the kittens this afternoon. I’d lose all my street cred, you know?

My co-worker was taking that photo of me with the ginger kitten when this fuzzball decided to use him as a jungle gym. “Uh. Am I imagining things or is there a kitten on me?” “There is a kitten on you. Hold still and give me my phone back; I need to take a photo of this.”

We wrapped up at the shelter at around 2 p.m. One cold shower and one short nap later, I was on the yoga mat at Breathe. I had a really good practice today, the best I can remember experiencing so far this year, and I think a lot of it had to do with telling myself – repeatedly – that it was perfectly okay to take it easy in class: I’m not exactly in the best shape now after months of missed classes and sporadic practice (see: trying to set more realistic expectations for myself). It’s okay not to do all the poses, to do easier vinyasas, to drop into child’s pose whenever I needed to. I’ve been telling myself these things all week and I suppose the message has finally sunk in because I ended up feeling stronger and more present in class this evening. I managed to keep up with most of what Natalie, the instructor, was asking us to do. Planks were held, knees were kissed and brought to elbows, hips were opened. I breathed and I breathed and I let go of all the distracting thoughts of dinner and the books I hadn’t read and concentrated instead on my body.

I marvelled at what my body could do despite the Doritos I like to feed it.

Later, while eating a dinner for one (baked chicken and steamed broccoli, but it’s really not as healthy as it sounds), I texted my friend Haddy about my day. He said it sounded wholesome and happy, which it was. It absolutely was.

Rosie.

 

Duality.

I have a confession to make: It’s only February and I’m already feeling tired. I’m tired of living two lives: the life I live during most of the daylight hours, Monday through to Friday, and the one I live in the wee hours of the morning before the sun comes up, late at night when the moon is out, and on Saturdays and Sundays. One of the guys I work with – he is one of a handful of senior execs whose opinion I trust – once told me that there is a visible disconnect between the person I am at the very core of my being, the one he was talking to right then, and the person I am at work. He’s not wrong.

One life feels mostly right but incredible unsafe. The other doesn’t fit all that well but it’ll do; it’s mostly safe.

I’ve learned not to listen to the quiet, sad songs once the sun has gone down and I am alone with my thoughts but I am not where I am happiest, in that life that fits best.

There is a note pinned to my wall that says “If the world is made of narratives, then it [is] time I write my own.” My problem is that I am suffering from a mild case of writer’s block. I’m telling the same old stories. I need to find a new one.