I’m INFJ, which means I like to read people. I’m also opinionated, stubborn, judgemental,  and I think I’m always right. I have all these intuitive ideas and gut feelings that make me like or hate people on sight, and once I’ve made my mind up, it’s really hard to change.

I spend a lot of time online. I’m one of the ‘ancients’ of Twitter, having joined in 2007 (even though I’ve had five different accounts and periodically delete them over beef). I also know a lot of bloggers from 2005 BT – Before Twitter. The thing with online interactions is you (and by you, I mean me) form virtual images of people. You look at their avatars, read their blogs, review their tweets, and decide the kind of person you think they are.

If you’re like me, you build up mental composites based on those ideas. And if you’re like me, the composites lead to imaginary friendships, crushes, and ostracism. There are people I’ve talked to and even dated based on who I thought they were. There are others I have refused to meet on the same criteria.

The thing about instinct is it’s awesome when it’s right. It’s a vindicating feeling when your secret hunch pays off. But it’s painfully disorienting when you’re wrong. In the course of my online life, I’ve met people who sounded awesome in the virtual world, but ended up being something else completely. It screwed me up so badly that I gave up on tweet-ups entirely. (Also, I’m not much good with crowds. Utterly asocial.)

But what really messes my head is when I accidentally meet someone that I had sworn to hate. I’ve bumped into people at work, in the hospital, and even at family gatherings. We got along great and totally hit it off until they said, ‘Oh, you’re on Twitter? I’m @xyz. What’s your handle?’ My general response is ‘Aw fuck’.

I’ve been immensely disappointed to find that the deep, beautiful poet is an ordinary, rather boring guy; the charmingly hot adonis is all looks and no conversational skills; the bubbly socialite is cold, distant and aloof; the resident ice maiden is the sweetest girl in the world; the online bad-mouth is an absolute gentleman; the big-wig is the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met; the irreverent trouble-maker has zero charisma; the #KOT heart-throb is too shy to look me in the eye; the online intellectual is dumb as a brick; and worst of all, the king of stupid, tasteless jokes has a genius-level IQ.

Of course you could claim they were acting when they met you, and that their online persona is the true self they hide from the world. Anything’s possible. But it still leaves me confused and distressed. For me, everything is connected, so if I’m wrong about one thing, what else could I be wrong about? It feels like the entire fabric of my existence has been shaken.

When I end up liking someone I had virtually sworn to hate, it makes me wonder how many more awesome people I’ve missed out on. I end up wondering whether I’m vain and shallow, like some people say I am. But worst of all, I end up doubting every subsequent instinct, including the ones that could save my life.

The other extreme is distaste by association. For example, if I’ve been friends with Jackie all my life, and Jackie tells me she hates George, then I automatically take her side. So when I finally meet George in person and adore him, then I question a whole lot of things.

Am I betraying Jackie by liking someone she hates? Am I too blind or stupid to see George’s nasty habits? And what if Jackie is wrong about George? What else is she wrong about? Maybe she misinformed me on purpose. What else has she lied to me about?

For me, when I decide someone is unlike-able then end up liking them, it disturbs me on lots of different levels. I question the very foundation of my thought process and have headaches for days. Conversely, when someone I thought was a friend ends up being an asshole, I wonder how I could have been so wrong.

When the latter happens, I crawl into a cocoon and just avoid people for months. I’m shit scared of being hurt like that again. But in the end, the fear passes. If I cared about the person enough, I unconsciously pretend it never happened. But every word they speak is laced with unseen grams of doubt, and I never quite treat them – or myself – in the same way.

Maybe growing up is about being open minded and slow to judge. Maybe I should accept that some of the coolest people have flaws, and some of the meanest people like puppies. I know I take myself too seriously, and maybe what I really need to do is let go of that part of me that is so terrified of not being right.

♫ Incomplete ♫ Alanis Morissette ♫

One of my favourite writers once described a horse-riding lesson in Egypt. He says the teacher told him to, ‘ride the horse like you would [ride] a woman.’ So let me just start by saying that riding a horse is nothing like riding a man. Unless of course I’m doing it wrong.

My princess was born on my 21st birthday, and every year, we like to do something special together. So when we found a Rupu Deal for horse-riding lessons, it seemed like the perfect way to spend our born-day. We also had a henna date, some shopping, and some KFC, but that’s another story.

The horse-riding place is somewhere in Karen, near Tangaza College, and there were 10 or 12 of us that session. My horse’s name was Capital City, while princess had a horse named Blaze. I asked the horse-handler if the horses were girls or boys. He said both. So I asked him about mine. He giggled, gave me an odd look, glanced beneath the horse, and said, ‘boy’. Okay then.

As it turns out, Capital (pronounced Kaptoo – I kid you not) is a tad … shall we say … feisty. He was being ridden by a … lighter rider with … longer hair. But she objected, so we switched. Two, no matter what anybody tells you, climbing a horse is not like the movies.

In westerns, the rider either springs up effortlessly, or is lifted in a pseuodo-sexy-hand-on-rump way by some gorgeous cowboy type. In my case, it took three guys to get me onto the horse, and I was so focused on huffing and puffing that I really can’t tell where their hands were.

After four attempts, I finally mounted, and looked over to see my baby girl comfortably astride her own horse and looking anything but fettered. Well, her horse was shorter. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Three, horses are not as they appear on TV. They’re a lot bigger, and not nearly as pretty.

When I finally got on, Kaptoo tried to nudge me off. The horse-handlers asked him to behave. (Actually, they said ‘Kaptoo, acha ujinga!’) When I asked what was wrong, they told me Kaptoo likes to test his riders, to see if they have the … balls … to ride him. Apparently, his first rider didn’t, hence the exchange. Me? I was petrified!

After a short while, Kaptoo’s handlers decided that I had passed the test, and congratulated me for not letting the horse bully me off his back. I smiled but kept my mouth shut, for fear that if I opened it, I might squeal. I did let out a few sounds, eventually, but somehow, all I could think to say was, ‘Whoa’, which everyone assumed was me using horse-speak. Yeah, that wasn’t it.

The first part of the lesson was how to … um … ride. We were asked to keep our backs straight, and to match the rhythm of the horse. Up – down – up – down – up – down. Yeah, okay. I tried to set the pattern, but ended up bouncing like an over-sized ball. Not fun. My baby was giggling like she was born in a saddle, and I was looking at my watch to see how long before they’d let me off the thing.

The horse handler laughed and told me to set my feet straight. ‘Wacha kukanyaga kama brake. It’s a horse, not a sports car.’ Thanks, very helpful. After four circuits, I finally got the up-down right and Kaptoo decided to stop bullying me. The horse handlers let us run a little bit faster, at which point I realized that I should have worn a sports bra. Male riders may be worried about their family jewels, but I clearly had … other problems. The horse handlers didn’t mind much, but I was sore in places no girl should be sore.

After running around the track, we were taken on a nature ride, by streams and trees and whatnot. Kaptoo seemed calm enough, but he kept trying to ride into the bushes when his handler wasn’t looking. I distracted myself by listening to one of my fellow students. He was telling the girl behind him he was every woman’s dream, a man on  shiny white horse. Hehehe. Gotta love the British sense of humour.

I also noted that horses move  their … hair … out of the way whenever they … use the bathroom. Who’da thunk? Anyway, by the time my hour was done, my horse handler was claiming I had ‘a knack’ for horses, and that once I got used to them, I’d never want to get off. Me, I think I prefer my rides to be mechanical. At least cars and bikes don’t have mood swings.

Horse-riding wasn’t what I expected it to be. But I’m glad I got to tick it off my bucket list. And since my little princess liked it so much, I expect I’ll find myself back on Kaptoo sooner than later. Maybe next time, he won’t keep trying to throw me into a bush.

♫ Shut up and drive ♫ Rihanna ♫

Guys don’t do phone calls, generally, or so they say. They’re practical and functional, so they wouldn’t call you just to say hello. Still, they have no problem calling while they’re pursuing you, so if the guy you’re sleeping with never calls or texts you (and you’re not already married to him), it probably means he’s not that into you, yes?

So I was ‘dating’ this guy once. Well, I thought I was dating him. He, on the other hand, was convinced that we were friends with yummy benefits. It’s a classic case of cross-purposes. I assumed that since we hang out every day, get along wonderfully, and talk about everything from money to shoes, we were ‘together’.

When he’d leave after a particularly good night and disappear for days, not taking calls or answering texts, I assumed he was naturally moody as well as shy. And when I asked about it, he said he needed space so he could stay objective. I soon realised that the more awesome the night, the longer he’d stay away, so maybe he was just really, really tired. Plus we were both on the rebound, so we were padding softly-softly around the matter. After all, we were consoling each other when we ended up together in the first place.

One night we’re talking, and he tells me about this girl he met at the club a few nights before. Incidentally, I was waiting for him on said night, and he was pulling the famous ‘tweeting but not replying texts’ move. The tweets suggested he was at a club surrounded by gorgeous babes.

In the end I got the hint, gave up waiting, and went to bed. A few days later, he said: ‘We need to talk,’ so I asked him over for  a cup of tea. He said the girl he met was pretty, smart, and charming. She spent all night buying him drinks, and he accepted, smiled, and played the gentleman. At the end of the night, he drove the girl home, and as he dropped her off, she said:

“She’s a really lucky girl.”

“Huh?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

Of course I was blushing at that point, having jumped to the ridiculous conclusion that he was into me, and that was why he hadn’t hit on the girl. But he goes on with his story, wondering why the girl assumed he had a girlfriend. I told him if a hot girl buys you drinks all night and you don’t respond, she assumes you have a girl.

Or that you might be gay. And yes, I know that’s a double standard. Guys buy drinks for girls all the time, and it’s perfectly acceptable for the girl to take the drinks and ignore the interest. There’s no reason why it should be different when the roles are reversed. And yet … it is.

He remained puzzled, insisting that she hadn’t flirted with him all night, and that he had no idea she was interested. I asked why he wasn’t interested, and he said he had no clue. He said it wasn’t necessarily that he wasn’t interested. He just hadn’t known how to talk to her, or what to do. Oh, then he said our arrangement had to end. He wanted benefits from other people. I’m guessing she was included on the list.

I’ve always assumed that some boys are naturally shy, and that when you meet a boy like that, you need to help him out a little, give him a subtle nudge in the right direction. In my case, the nudge would come a little more overtly – I’d walk up to the guy and ask him out. I always wondered why he’d respond by smiling nervously, backing away, and avoiding me for the foreseeable future.

My friend didn’t articulate his problems in those exact terms, but I think maybe the girl buying him drinks got him intimidated. He wasn’t in control of the situation, and that made him lose interest. It made him self conscious, dented his ego, and messed with his confidence. But then again, he didn’t quite say how that saga ended, so it’s possible he got over it eventually.

It seems a man does need encouragement to actively pursue a girl, but the appropriate signal is to smile when you catch him watching you, or maybe flirt a little, lower your eyes, touch your neck, or toss your … um … hair. In the past I thought such moves were utterly silly. I mean, if you want the boy, just go over there and get him! But it only pushes them away.

I do seem to attract the wrong kind of guy, and it’s enough to make me give up on the male species entirely. Still, if you look at it statistically, there are 7 billion people in the world, and at least 3 billion are men. So If I meet, say 25 guys and they all don’t work out, that still leaves 2,999,975 options, though if you’ve been with 25 guys, they’ll probably have other names for you than just ‘girl’.

Speaking of girls and shy boys, I read an article a while back that made me smile. It’s called Never Date a Writer. It starts out like he’s whining that his ex wrote all the intimate details of their relationship, but ends up being his side of the story, the side she didn’t know, because he didn’t tell her. It made me sad, because a lot of pain comes from misunderstandings, assumptions, and things left unsaid, but it also made me mad because everything would work out if people would just say what they were thinking.

As a writer, a lot of my friends and loved ones get upset with me. They say I expose them to the public through my stories. I never intend to hurt anyone, and I try to protect their privacy, but they don’t always see it that way. I won’t really apologize, because this is who I am, and I guess anyone that wants to be with me has to be willing to take that risk. It’s an unfair thing to ask, but then again, love makes a lot unfair demands.

I suppose it’s all in how you look at it. Take, for example, Taylor Swift. She’s known for writing songs about her love life. In one particular song, Forever and Always, she talks about how her ex broke up with her in 27 seconds. On her phone. My knee-jerk reaction was to call him an asshole. But I know I’ve done break-up texts. Twice. They had both refused to see me, take my calls or spend time with me for weeks. When I asked why, they both said they had a lot going on, (okay, one added that he’s not good at communicating, not even with his mother.) So I figured they were busy and gave them one less thing to do. I think the third break up was via email – I was tired of giving that pretty boy money.

I’ve also told someone that I would always love them, then walked away, and I often ask myself if my words had any merit. My only conclusion is that I meant it when I said it, but that sometimes, meaning what you say is not enough. Plus, in the case of Taylor’s song, the ex was Joe Jonas, who seems to be a really nice guy, and not a jerk at all. Still, I guess even nice guys do dumb things. Some interviews say he was flattered by the song, others say that he was deeply hurt. So maybe it depends on whose side you’re on. Also, is it wrong that I can’t tell Taylor Swift from Carrie Underwood?

Anyway, what’s a girl to do if she likes a shy boy? Be patient. Wait for him to gather his courage. Or let it go and find someone who’s  a little less reticent. Also, my favourite ex has a mantra: ‘The problem with relationship advice about men is that it’s all written by women.” So hey, don’t listen to me. What the hell do I know about the male psyche?

♫ Teardrops on my guitar ♫ Taylor Swift ♫