I was reading some old women’s magazine at the salon, i’m pretty sure it was a 2004 South African edition of True Love with Kerabo and Tau on the cover. It has some article about ‘new words’. It had things like
affluenza – stress induced by wanting other people’s money
emo – guitar based rockish music with melodic emotional tunes, meant for listening rather than dancing
permalance – a permanent employee who is put on a freelance contract to avoid giving them benefits
mouse potato – internet-obssessed cousin of the couch potato
I could safely say I am an emo-fanatic permalance mouse potato with chronic afluenza. Except somebody told me emo is considered cliche, and is only slightly less flaky than admitting that I like teenage rock and bubblegum pop. Also, there’s a chance i may be returning to my pre-teen metabolism, so I think there’s a possibility I’m aging backwards. The upside is I can beat wrinkles that way…
I am making no sense at all.
I’m a big fan of west wing, and I recently got all 7 seasons on DVD. I have spent many late nights watching them amarathon, giggling to myself and having ‘aha’ moments when CJ figures something out or Sam says something deliciously witty.
It’s strange though, each time I smile, I get this craving for a wingmate. A westwingmate I mean. I love the show. The theme song just makes my insides dance. It lifts my spirits somehow and moves me. I don’t know why. Yesterday [season 3] I was trying to figure out which instrument that is. Probably an oboe or clarinet, it’s got this reedy sound – I can’t remember my Music Appre very well.
I’m kind of in a slump right now. Totally unmotivated, still. Can’t do anything, no psyche for jack. Usually when I get like this, I want to rent a lone flight to mars and stare into the sky for a few years. Provided I have some milk, some rock, and a good book, or maybe 500.
But when I watch west wing, it’s the opposite. I get the sudden craving for someone to share it with. Somebody who finds Josh funny and CJ cute and Charlie adorable. Somebody who likes to kiss and cuddle and get high on sugar and nesquik.
Somebody who will not be bothered if I want to sit around in a leso and watch 100 hours straight of ER while he goes out and climbs some mountain or throws himself off a cliff with a string on his leg. Someone who’ll take me sailing and diving and snorkelling and will surf while I go to sleep on the beach, who will teach me not to punch like a girl. Somebody who will love to watch me dance [?!] and have the appetite of a…okay, let’s not voice that particular thought just now.
I’m wondering where this craving comes from, what it has to do with Martin Sheen and Aaron Sorkin. And also why I have this compulsion to find a reason for everything. In my world, every word, every thought, every random event has a purpose, there’s always a why, things don’t just happen. And it annoys me no end when I can’t find and answer to that ‘why’.
I like to be different, to stand out, to be ‘eccentric’. So I like the idea of being anti-marriage, of wanting to live my life on my own, of going against the ‘type’. If only to be different.
Flying solo has it’s advantages. I like that I never need to know where my phone is coz I don’t expect any calls. There’s nothing as demenaning as staring at your silent cell, checking for missed calls and texts and wondering if the battery is down or if the vibrator is broke just coz ‘s/he’ hasn’t called. And I like that my scratch card budget is point-something of what it used to be coz i don’t need to make those ‘just saying hi’ and ‘just wanted to hear your voice’ calls.
There’s euphoric freedom in getting your paycheck and spending it how you want and on what you want without consulting your other half. It’s awesome to be able to make your own plans in your own space and time without alerting or checking with anyone except to see if they have transport and a kiddie menu.
I used to say marriage is overrated. I think it was more fear than anything else. I thought I’d get tired of seeing the same person day after day after day ad infinitum, especially since I get bored of the average person [outside of my super ten] after about five seconds. Also, my extra X isn’t as customized as it should be.
Incidentally, I’m thinking of getting a uniform or badge or something to brand the super ten. Mnajijua. Any preferences? I’m leaning towards a gold heart encased in platinum, a monogrammed diamond, a year’s suply of ice cream and a limitless credit card charged to King Muswati the 3rd…
Back to the point. I did want somebody to love, but I wanted him to be over theeeere to be summoned at my convenience and not crowding my space. I’m big on my space, and I don’t mean FB’s big brother.
Of course it works both ways. I’m easy – and not like that. I just mean I’m easily pleased. Give me an income that covers rent money, Herbie and fees and I’m set. Outside of the super 10, i’m not big on visiting or being visited. Beyond that, all I do is read, write, and sleep. So I’m pretty good about being summoned at convenience.
Unless of course there’s a docki I like, in which case your convenience had better include a comfy sofa, BBC and sat-fed TV.
I like to set my own agenda. I don’t like to be controlled. If I want to get up and go for a walk, or drive to madagascar, or draw the curtains and hibernate for weeks at a time, or keep my house in a chronic mess, or skip a shower, or rewind my jeans, I want to do that without asking, explaining, or bugging anyone.
And yet…as I watch my west wing for the tenth straight hour, I crave for the sound an engine purring itself into silence, of keys in the lock, of soft firm footsteps, of a sensual kiss that holds a promise of more to come, of a reason to press pause and ask how his day was; of intelligent banter on the meaning of life, the state of the economy, and the colour of Tom and Jerry’s eyes, and of curling on the sofa to watch the rest of west wing together.
I long for someone who will not make me go to his sister’s party [or to any party], but will kiss me goodbye, go out with his boys, have a good time, flirt himself silly, keep his hands to himself, and when the night is over, come home to me. Someone who will know me well enough to read my mood on that one night in a [blue?] moon when I want to tag along and shake-shake.
Someone who will not insist I humour his mother, or change my wardrobe. Someone who will love what I am and accept my flaws, somebody who can laugh at British comedies and hold me when I cry. Somebody who will always tell me what he thinks, and what he feels. Somebody who is not gay.
I’m annoyed at myself for sounding so cliche. For wanting what every woman wants, – love, and a man based on a shopping list. For not being different.
But then again, the latest sport among people in their prime is marriage-bashing, so maybe by being unconventionally conventional, I am going against the norm after all. 🙂