The old man and the sea

There’s a book with that title isn’t there?! I haven’t read it, but the title stuck with me because all I think of is an old man, losing a battle with a big body of water. My friend and I were out for coffee yesterday, sitting at our local, with our feet and bags resting on adjacent stools, leaning in and gossiping in a clear ‘don’t approach’ manner. Apparently signals are very poorly read in this our lovely city, so of course a considerably older gentleman saw two girls, one wearing a dress that was far too short, and decided he had arrived! He said hello to my friend, probably seen her there before, and then casually asked ‘You don’t mind if I stand with you, do you?’ as he ordered his Tusker Malt. I looked at her and pulled out my phone, twitter time. She didn’t so much as smile as grimace, but he took it as an affirmative. He walked off, probably to call his boys to say he needed a wingman, he’d found young girls here.

His boys, clearly a tad more serious than he, of course ignored his many phone calls, so a lonely old man eventually came back to join 20-something year olds. Then the bad chat began. This is the point at which even I sat up. Surely, because you’re pushing 60/70 and you have the balls to interrupt two young girls (younger than your daughters) having a private chat, one would think you are the fucking bee’s knees of conversation. Well, here were a few gems from that deathly half hour...

‘Do you drink at X as well?’ No. No we don’t. You know why?! No? Well, I’ll tell you. We are not freaking alcoholics, that’s why. And anyway, when a bar no longer has a door, it’s time it ceased to exist.

‘I took some young girls to this place and we got there and they ditched me. They were straight on the floor...’ Eeeeem.... even the crickets will be silent for this one. Therefore? Does that prove your virility? You might have wanted to dye your hair black before you started with that conversation; I STILL don’t think you’re young, even at heart. Also, I don’t how to break it down for you, but the girls had your arse for your money, and found younger boys to dance with.

‘You should come back so you can be my doctor’ WTF?! I’m not even talking to you. I’m on my phone. See??? Ignoring you.

‘I hear it’s Ladies’ Night in Nairobi’. Yes, because that would be the only reason I would ever go out, to avoid paying entrance fees into a club. Is this you saying you can make a good sugar daddy?!

‘So what are you talking about now?’ You, and how you are completely incapable of reading signals. Go awaaaaaaaaaaaay.

‘Do you watch football? Kenyans like football. I like football.’ Ay caramba!!

And finally...as we downed our drinks and threatened to sprint out of the bar....

‘We’ll see you on Friday night. I hear it gets hectic, and that day my wife doesn’t mind what time I come home’.

I think I gave him a piteous look and for his sake wished he would realise how much of a fail he was. Unfortunately he didn’t. The very next day he returned, but we’d sat in an inaccessible area, so he did the next best thing and sent a waiter to ask us to join him. Yeah fucking right.

Hairless solutions.

The sun is slowly inching out, and as such, I was doing a little personal research this weekend re: bikini waxes. First of all, in case you didn’t know, the world of wax is as tricky as they come. You must choose the right style. You know, like when you go to the barber and ask for a ‘short back and sides’ or a ‘fade’ or ‘kipara shine’ (i.e. take it all off...everything- aim for baby bottom smoothness). The options range from a regular wax, which may be large, medium or small (i.e. the standard one). Then there’s a French wax, which is a modified regular wax, where they remove a little more hair from the top (of your imaginary Y fronts). We all know about the Brazilian, though few of us from personal experience, where they take off everything and head a little (actually a lot) further back. Then there’s a landing strip, which I imagine is just that.

So is there any etiquette for bikini waxes? A quick Google search didn’t so much as prescribe etiquette as suggest a few helpful tips. For example, shave 3 weeks before so the hair is exactly the right length, because apparently, there is a wrong length for these things, including too short (the mind boggles). Another website suggested one should exfoliate the area before and after. I initially disagreed with this on account of the cost of my exfoliant, but it’s supposed to help with in-grown hairs, which I imagine are far more painful. These suggestions were helpful, but I didn’t feel they answered the right questions. So here’s my very brief list of tips before you go for a wax, some of which should be natural, but nothing wrong with a gentle reminder. Add yours down below...:-D

• Shower before your wax. No explanation needed. If you have thrush, cancel the appointment. A sick imaginery pet will do for excuses.
• When is the right time to wax? I would suggest not doing it the morning of an important meeting, especially if you’re a waxing newbie, because it IS painful, numbing cream or not, and you will walk like someone forget their stick up your arse. Weekends are ideal as you can take your bruised nether regions straight into a relieving bath. Avoid times of the month where you cry because someone left a wet towel on the floor. The wax is extra-painful, and may drive you to jump off a roof. #justsaying #PMS
• What underwear depends on your desired style: if you favour le Brazilian, or landing strips, wear a thong. For all else, wear sensible panties that you can grab and pull across. Don’t borrow your younger, slimmer sister’s pair (which doesn’t quite fit) because it’s a nicer colour. You will end up butt naked wearing a faux nappy. You can also leave the lace in its drawer because you are not trying to ‘pull’ your beautician, and the wax gets very sticky.
• Take up yoga. The wax position mimics tree pose, and if you’re good at that, your beautician will appreciate the easy access.
• When you have planted the roots and branches of your tree (i.e. spread your legs), feel free to ask about the depilating practices of your beautician. After all, you’re in a position where that topic is no longer off limits, and they often have useful tips.
• Always say you’re getting a wax because of your upcoming beach holiday. You may be lying but if you haven’t waxed for 10 years, it is a plausible reason. And anyway, the art of small talk is littered with little white lies like ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine, great, awesome. You?’
• If you would like a message such as ‘I love you my puppy sweetheart sweet pea’ written in your nether regions, don’t get a wax. Pay for a shrink instead. That goes for people wanting wands, stars and butterflies too.
• It usually takes 5-7 minutes unless you’re positively agrarian down below, or your waxist (yes, I made that up) is rubbish, so that’s how much conversation you need to plan for!

Off on holiday for a couple of weeks, Easter, repentance, people...all that jazz.

Happy holidays! x

I want it all.

My friend once told me that ‘It was strange that I always have a love interest on the go’. I denied this vehemently at the time, but a thorough examination of the last 3 years has revealed that she was in fact, stating facts. So I decided that I would cease looking for men in between my trysts and work on ‘being healthy alone’. I made a startling discovery today though. It is safer for the gene pool when I am not an active participant in it, because I am a pathological flirt. It is, in fact (yes, another one), a disease. I have flirted to get better seats on planes, served faster at restaurants, lifts home from friends, store discounts at shops I don't work at, and free coffees from Costa.

I don’t know where or how I learnt to flirt, and I must now take a moment to apologise to all those characters that were my guinea pigs in my experiential days. It does appear however, that I can now unwittingly flirt, even when I am trying not to, for the sake of a lust love interest. I was a patient model today on a course where doctors learn how to not kill people who have survived a traumatic experience. You might chuckle at that line, but it’s true. Your body is amazing at allowing you to survive things like road traffic accidents, even when your leg has been cut off- something or other to do with adrenaline. You then get to hospital where you relax (sometimes anyway), and everything in your body quietens down. Your sphincters loosen themselves, adrenaline seeps less quickly out of your body and you begin to fall apart. This is the moment where doctors should step in and save the day, but alas, it’s never that easy. Hence the course...

I was made up to look blue, which given I am black, was an interesting undertaking. I looked ashen. It was slightly scary, as I imagine that’s what I would look like when embalmed. I was wearing ‘model’ clothes, in the form of a child’s purple checked shirt (*gasp*), and a green, yes...green, linen skirt that was 55 sizes too big. I knotted it as much as I could, then eventually pinned it to my underwear. If anything came down, it was ALL coming down. So there I was, lying in fake blood, looking blue and ashen, having ‘broken’ ribs, my pelvis, and left leg. The door opened and... *cue suspense music*...the most beautiful specimen of a man walked in. He smiled then approached my neck and immobilised it, you know, to make sure I didn’t ‘fake-paralyse’ myself. If only he knew...

I smiled. I then winked. According to the instructions for the moulage, I was neither meant to smile nor wink. The fake nurse in the scenario began to laugh as well, because she could clearly see what I was doing. He carried on ‘examining’ me and I sagely nodded- the model patient helping him along. I wiggled my toes as I could not wiggle my bottom, hoping it was just as seductive. Not so much. So I arched my back a bit, because let’s face it, I don’t exactly have the largest breasts in the world so spreading of tissue while lying down did me no favours. All he said was ‘don’t move your neck, you might get paralysed’. So I froze, in a half arched position, which I can reliably report is very uncomfortable. It quickly got to the point where he was supposed to assess my pelvis fracture. He placed two hands on either side of my pelvis...and it all escaped me, in the form of a squeal and a giggle and a raising, ever so slightly, of my broken left leg (the collar prevented me from throwing my arms around him). It appears he had not only diagnosed and miraculously fixed my fractured pelvis, but he had also completely re-inflated my previously collapsed lung, and blunted my ‘pain’ enough to allow me to squeal and giggle. Even the facilitators laughed at this point. Yes, this was observed by 3 independent parties.

I quickly composed myself and re-assessed (which is what he was supposed to be doing) the situation, er..man. He was indeed beautiful. He had a beautifully square, but non-geometric jaw. Beautiful blue eyes were encased like almonds in lightly tanned sockets, held up by androgynously dimpled cheeks on either side. He had broad shoulders, good for picking up girls, and was wearing a blue sweater (which, with blue eyes, is #winning). I looked down. Unfortunately he was wearing khakis that were too large, and he appeared to have a similar knot in his trousers as I did in my skirt. A match made in heaven?! Definitely not. More like ‘BLEUUUGH’. The open akala-like slippers (Birkenstocks) topped it all off. We can’t have it all, after all. Oh, I’m also going to stop actively flirting, just in case you thought I had learnt little else. I can’t not smile though, 2 years of braces (railroad tracks) made sure of that. So...

Addendum: We might just be able to have it all. Apparently my friend said he dresses badly because maybe he doesn’t have a girlfriend. *thumbing through contacts to find this man*... JK.

Nothingness

Does anyone on this earth truly know who he/she is, in the philosophical sense of the term? Specifically, anyone under half a century old (my parents were never afflicted with this kind of angst, given their generation lived through world wars, coups, famine, and hardship)? This whole search of an identity feels a bit like a lost cause. There are few people, none of whom I know, that say ‘I know who I am, and I am content in that knowledge’. Most of us are searching for something that resonates within us as ‘our inner persons’, but the problem is we often find it just in time for it or us to change. Even Paulo Coehlo (#t) seems to be searching.

But surely that must be ok? I mean, not really knowing who you are- it can’t be that bad, can it?! It often feels like an exercise in futility; all about the chase but the destination doesn’t really happen, what on earth is the point?! I don’t know, but boys swear by this strategy when pursuing girls, so perhaps there is something to be said for being in pursuit. Hell, they made a movie about it. So we are all searching for who we think we are, a forever moving goal post, but we all revel in the chase, and it appears that that is ok. What’s the alternative? Well, I suppose it would be not knowing who you are, and not giving a flying chicken’s arse. You know those people, the ones that stand for nothing and therefore fall for everything. Even when nothing moves, they chase it and fall for it.

Case in point: BMX. BMX and I have been acquainted for many years. She spent her time not trying to be anyone in particular, so each time a boy told her to breathe differently, she would immediately cease her usual one breath every five seconds, and genuinely attempt to hold her breath for the stipulated amount of time. Of course she would never be able to, and so this would force her to go out and cry like the world was about to end, pour gin down her throat, and then spend the rest of the time on the toilet, throwing up and peeing in equal measure, while sobbing down the phone to me. I often fell asleep on the other end, but I doubt she ever noticed. Oh well. We lost contact when BMX became a stripper because a friend told her to; it would be a good way to make money that she didn’t need. She may be told to kill me and would think ‘hell yeah’ so... *DELETE*

The worst kind though, is the group that hurts others while falling for ‘nothingness’. My friend asked me to share her story, and today seems like an apt day to do so. She was dating a nice boy, you know, the kind that fitted the ideal oh so well for 9 years, the rest of us were more than a little jealous. Apparently, he was simply doing what he thought she wanted him to do. He then found someone else that wanted a wild party boy who would turn up to any and every occasion drunk; work, family gatherings, social events, hospital appointments etc. He went and paid for a seat at all the bars he could find to ensure he was ‘drunk to the max’. She wanted him to disappear from his mother’s house (while still a tenant there) without a thought to her emotional well being and so he did, for a week. When she eventually demanded he disown his unborn child that my friend was carrying, he fell for nothingness. Such people.

So I’ve now decided what I want from the people in my life. I don’t want people who fall for nothingness. I want people who desire to ‘know themselves’ (not in a FB status kinda way though, because thou shalt be deleted/blocked/unfriended), who make decisions based on what they believe, not on what every Tom, Dick and Fuckery tells them. I would rather you upset me because you disagree with me, but the fact that you are trying to stand for something, reassures me that you won’t be falling for anything and everything. #Msimamo