Life or Something Like It

Dear girls who wear your classy business suits with sneakers and backpacks, then change into sexy heels as the tube reaches your stop.

I am one of you now.

I don’t know how it happened, really. I used to laugh at you, my fashionable superior laugh, as your feet were resting in ugly worn out sport shoes, and mine were looking their sexiest in fabulous leather court pumps. I used to feel sorry for you, dragging along those horribly stuffed laptop backpacks of yours, like you were on a run from some deadly natural disaster, and not just on your way to your windowless, air conditioned, perfectly comfortable offices. Poor girlies, I thought, they’re not cut out for a 21st century career woman’s life. But I was. Oh, if only you’d seen me then. I was the career woman you see in movies. Not a speck of dust, not a blister. Everything in its perfectly defined, tasteful place.

I am now so far from this 24/7 fashion aware version of myself, that I often doubt it’s ever been part of me to begin with.

This weekend I bought a new backpack. Since I’ve had to accept that I was not the image-of-perfection career woman, but more like the backpack-sneakers-no-hairstyle-to-speak-of career woman, I decided I’d at least do it in style. So I am now the proud owner of color coordinated backpack and sneakers. Stuffed in my super duper backpack, I’ve got the day’s pair of fabulous shoes, which I change into before the bus reaches my stop in the morning. There’s a bunch of us on the bus who do it, and we share kind, understanding smiles with each other, delicately forcing our blister prone feet into their blister causing sexy shoes. It’s a sad life.

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I would have posted a photo of my soon to be famous backpack and sneakers combo, but they’re not the sexiest of things and I’d rather have you think of me as the super duper image of seduction I’m working oh so very hard to portray on this blog.

January This and That: Hom/pelessness, Death of Girly and Orgies, Orgies Everywhere!!!

OK, so January started off kind of yucky (food poisoning on New Year’s may sound like fun and games, but it’s really not), then it also turned out to be one of the more depressing months (spent most of it glued to my laptop, choosing Domino’s pizza toppings, Tori Amos heartbreaking tunes on repeat in the background), and it definitely had its “wait…what?” moments which make (my) life so ridiculously thrilling.

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To begin with, for reasons we have absolutely no control over (and which I won’t go into for now, as I’d have to order half a dozen pizzas just to cheer myself up), it doesn’t look like we’ll be buying a home any time in the near future.

Of course, after having pretty much turned our life into this non stop, soul destroying house hunting madness, the realization that we’re not actually getting a new place hit us like Miley’s damn wrecking ball. (See? I know Miley! I’m hip and cool and not at all old.) The thing is though, after about half an hour of pure, hysterical madness at the futility of it all, I was suddenly zen. And for some reason, I still am. There’s no pressure. I am no longer counting every pound.  I am no longer wasting away what’s left of my, well, let’s say youth, blindly digging for the best averagely-shitty-house/indecently-humongous-price combo. I am not worried, frustrated, hopeless every single waking moment of every single waking hour and even in my sleep. I am free.

It’s true, there may come a time when I’m back to my maniac house hunting self, but that time, my friends, is not today. Today, I am a homeless gal at rest.

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I was getting ready for work a couple of days back, and as I was running back and forth around the flat like a headless chicken, I caught my mirrored reflection out of the corner of my eye and realized I looked very much like a certain type of girl. I stopped and checked again, just to make sure. And there it was, this strange girl staring back. You know her kind, I’m sure. The kind who brushes her hair. And properly, with a brush, not just her fingers. The kind who wears a skirt every once in a while. Who carries a handbag, a wondrous, bottomless handbag stuffed with a million incredible things without which the world would be a much sadder, uglier place. Lip balm. Hand cream. Eyelash curler. Even just saying the words is miraculous to this kind of girl. Eyelash curler… Magic.

I used to be that girl and completely forgot about it. It took seeing myself in a dress, for the first time in months, to remind me of this eyelash-curling-nail-polishing-lip-glossing version of myself I’ve so suddenly parted with. Because these days, things are different.

I have to walk to the bus for almost a mile in the morning, and it’s pretty much always raining. Bye bye dresses, high heels and any attempts at hairstyling. Hello jeans, snickers and ponytail. I’ve also got to carry around a laptop all the time, so a backpack really does make more sense than a super duper magical handbag. And then, I’d much rather sleep than curl my eyelashes into perfection every morning.

I haven’t completely given up on my femininity though. I still wear mascara. I still put sunscreen on. The inner, fashion aware girl is not completely gone. In fact, out of what I guess can be called a slightly deranged sense of guilt, I’ve just ordered some face creams online, enough to last me for a couple of lifetimes at least. That should count for something, right? I’m still trying, right? Right?

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So. Remember this guy? He’s the Romanian dude at my office who thinks we should be spending each and every second of our time at work together, out of some strange form of Romanian solidarity. In light of recent events, I feel I really haven’t given you enough details about him, as it seems he’s really a character worth developing in this super duper soap opera style story my life seems to be turning into these days. So here it goes, meet meet my wonderful, ever surprising new colleague, Bogdan:

  • Bogdan is a web developer.
  • Apart from that, and the fact that we are both Romanian expats living in London, we have absolutely nothing in common.
  • He is married.
  • Both him and his wife are very religious, which is something I wouldn’t really mention or care too much about, but I think it gives this wonderful story an extra kick. Patience, my friends.
  • After we became Facebook buddies, he told me that his wife had looked at “all my photos”, and said I was very attractive.
  • That was a bit strange. Not to mention that I’ve got about fourteen hundred photos, because since I’ve moved to London I need to photographically document absolutely everything, every second, or else my mother thinks I’ve died a horrible death and starts calling me six times a minute. But I digress.
  • Also following our Facebook befriending, he said he’d seen a couple of photos of my boyfriend V, and that he was a very muscular, handsome man.
  • This made me laugh. Muscular? Muscular??? My V.? (still makes me giggle) Of course I told V. about it and he took it very seriously, his super duper self esteem reaching infinite heights. As for myself, I concluded Bogdan was a bit weird, and that definitely muscles were in the eye of the beholder. Then I pretty much forgot about it.
  • Bogdan and I sometimes have lunch together in the office canteen.
  • On one such occasions we were having noodles. They were quite tasty.
  • It’s then when he told me that I was oh so sexy, that V. sounded absolutely amazing, and that his wife and himself would really like it if the four of us would get involved in a wonderful lustful adventure.
  • I choked on the noodles.
  • I decided I’d be wearing the pants in my relationship that day, and so I didn’t call V. to ask him whether he thought we should take our relationship further, into a bright future of all Romanian orgies. Instead I took it upon myself to break Bogdan’s heart, and the only way I knew how was to lie.
  • So I told him that, however flattered I was (Me? Sexy? Sure, I’ll take that!), my religion pretty much frowned upon such exciting things. Surely he could relate to that, he was a religious person himself, right?
  • Yes, he said, but his religion was not that strict. ( Note to self: really need to Google up this religion of his, it sounds like fun and games. )
  • It’s not you, it’s me, bla bla. How does just being friends sound? ( I’m apparently quite good at this breaking up with your orgyfriend thing.)
  • So now we are. Friends.
  • It’s a strange friendship, I must admit.
  • We haven’t gone for noodles since.
  • V. was, of course, flattered by the proposal, but hasn’t yet dared to complain that I didn’t ask for his opinion before turning it down.
  • We’re still not religious, not even a bit.

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That’s it for January! Sorry about the humongous post, I just felt like writing, actually writing today, which I guess means I’ve overcome my depressive January episode. A surprise orgy proposal can do wonders for your perspective on life!

I’m posting this a bit early this month, as I’ve got a couple of full days ahead and I probably won’t have a chance to write anything else before the weekend. So I wish you all a happy end of January and an exciting February ahead!

I’m a Dinosaur

These women, they must know something I don’t know. These women with their talk of split ends yet perfect curls, these women with their 10 ways of toning your abs while painting your fingernails pearly pink. I hear them. They exchange tips and tricks on finding tall, successful, husband material men, and compliment each other on the lusciousness of their eyelashes. Their secret, I need it.

It’s no longer pure curiosity as to how their roots are never dark and their cheeks are never freckled. It’s not a small thing anymore. I need, N-E-E-D to know how they do it. So that I can build myself a perfect little life smelling of body scrub and incense candles.

For writing, I have a special program that fills my screen with a vanilla background and shuts down everything else. Emails-facebook-music-youtube-smileys-statuses-relationships-timelines-circles-likes-blogs-news-friends, they magically go away and for once, it’s quiet. The cursor blinks. I seldom write. Instead, I think the day over. The work, the fights, the things I should have said and the moments I wished I’d kept quiet. Laundry. Shopping. Some new bruise in a visible place, and no recollection of the pain. These women. They never have bruises. They never hurt.

It’s not quiet after all, my laptop cooling makes the most annoying noise. On a bad day it sounds like crumpled gift wrapping.

These women never have bags under their eyes. They read books about self confidence and the science of fashion, their skin is always soft and perfectly tanned. They drink cocktails with exotic names and eat whatever they want, yet look like they never eat anything. These women don’t need software programs to keep the world at a safe distance. They love the world. They like it. Poke it. Share it. They’ve evolved.