Hullo. My name is Shaahima Fahim, and I've been clean for 30 days.
What started out as a spiritual sacrifice, turned out to be a social experiment of sorts, when I decided to quit the biggest banes of the cyber world for a good, fat, month. Namely Facebook, Twitter, YouTube (or YouTwitFace as a friend once cleverly pointed out), MSN, and any other URL I deemed a waste of time.
So, armed with only the luxury of email (one must not be too harsh on oneself) I braced myself for the month ahead.
You gasp? I say it's possible folks; I've lived to tell the tale.
Day 1- Day 3 was the most arduous of my 1 month stint. Not that I was ever an 'addict' in the first place; but a user is a user all the same.
So, as with anyone who goes cold turkey, withdrawal symptoms began to manifest. My fingers twitched longingly, to type in what could have been the perfect Tweet. My wrist would instinctively direct the mouse towards bookmarked pages, and I'd wistfully 'mark as read' emails titled 'Soooo funny...must watch!!'
But once you've conquered that one insurmountable-seeming week of rehab, you finally come around to the realization that there's actually lot to do outside the cyber kingdom. Now unfettered by the shackles of your computer chair, you're free to read more, take a drive or two, or just take out time so often wasted to smell those metaphorical roses.
It was quite the humbling experience, I must say. I texted instead of Tweeted, I'd pop a call instead of a wall post, and I'd leaf through actual pages instead of their digital counterpart.
But what probably really brought me to terms with this so-called experiment was when I came across a stack of forgotten photos I had once stuffed into a drawer (on deciding to take advantage of the lack of distraction to de-clutter). Photos as in the sort we used to need to get developed. The sort we couldn't delete because 'my eyes were closed in that one.' The sort that brings back more memories than the perfected shots we've got on Facebook / MySpace / Flickr.
Whoever it was that predicted the day humans would be governed by machines, couldn't have made a more accurate prophecy. We've unknowingly licensed a cunning exchange of dominions; our 'real' existence for one behind cyber-bars.
I never did comprehend it before, but maybe my daily Reuters RSS feeds will one day negate the need for me to actually read the newspaper. Maybe I'll reach a stage where I'd much rather hook up with friends through a webcam than in actuality.
It's a scary thought, but the fact that I've already replaced my calendar, thesaurus and journal to online versions is proof enough. Most lists I make are on an Excel spreadsheet, and whatever articles / blogposts I do pen-down (note irony) are via keyboard, while my dejected little collection of stationery slowly wanes away at my desk.
We use the excuse of convenience, and while that might be a valid argument, we're losing out on what we love(d?) most about communication; the human touch.
So yeah, I might be back in 'civilisation,' but I've decided to not conform this time around. Here on out, I will make an attempt to reduce to a minimum my online time. I'm going to start a snail-mail correspondence with a willing friend, and I'm going try my very best to 'just call to say I love you.' ;)
Laziness and convenience are hardly discernible anymore, and more often than not we choose to give the latter the benefit of the doubt. I say 'choose,' because if ever we reach that stage where we're under the mercy of an automaton that we ourselves have created, we've no one to blame but ourselves.
Cheers.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
MoonWalk - The Final Step
I've never written a eulogy before. Never been asked to, and never been inspired enough. And i've sure as hell never once considered taking time off to express onto paper (or website) emotion for the loss of a man i've never met.
A man I can never say i've met, but a man I grew up with all the same. As a 6-year-old I owned tapes of all his music videos, knew the lyrics to all his scores, had managed to attain VIP tickets to his 'Dangerous' World Tour...and even forgave him when he cancelled.
Michael Jackson, The King of Pop; and even Wacko Jacko some called him, attaching a title to his many eccentricities. As with every star who's made it big, controversy hounded him like a boxer to his shadow.
But at a time like this, all his peculiarities seem insignificant. We forget that he was once tied with sexual allegations. We turn a blind eye to rumours revolving around his obsession with surgery. And we don't give a hoot anymore how deep in debt he was.
What we do remember, is what he was always meant to be remembered for. For his magnanimous contribution to the music industry, as a phenomenal performer with an irrepalceable sense of artistry and style.
We loved him for his infamous red blazer, that outrageous crotch-thrust, and of course...the moonwalk; the walk more popular than Armstrong's itself.
We remember the man who took entertainment to a whole other level, his music serving as a portal to bring out in the open, issues of race, war and love.
The reason his passing has come as quite the shock to most of us, is probably because like him, we thought Michael would live forever. It's hard to conceive that a legend is mortal after all.
But unlike other mere mortals, MJ leaves behind a massive fan-following, music that's bridged the gap of generations, and a legacy of dance; earning his place in The Hall of Fame...our Hall of Fame.
Maybe now he'll finally get the peace he deserves.
A man I can never say i've met, but a man I grew up with all the same. As a 6-year-old I owned tapes of all his music videos, knew the lyrics to all his scores, had managed to attain VIP tickets to his 'Dangerous' World Tour...and even forgave him when he cancelled.
Michael Jackson, The King of Pop; and even Wacko Jacko some called him, attaching a title to his many eccentricities. As with every star who's made it big, controversy hounded him like a boxer to his shadow.
But at a time like this, all his peculiarities seem insignificant. We forget that he was once tied with sexual allegations. We turn a blind eye to rumours revolving around his obsession with surgery. And we don't give a hoot anymore how deep in debt he was.
What we do remember, is what he was always meant to be remembered for. For his magnanimous contribution to the music industry, as a phenomenal performer with an irrepalceable sense of artistry and style.
We loved him for his infamous red blazer, that outrageous crotch-thrust, and of course...the moonwalk; the walk more popular than Armstrong's itself.
We remember the man who took entertainment to a whole other level, his music serving as a portal to bring out in the open, issues of race, war and love.
The reason his passing has come as quite the shock to most of us, is probably because like him, we thought Michael would live forever. It's hard to conceive that a legend is mortal after all.
But unlike other mere mortals, MJ leaves behind a massive fan-following, music that's bridged the gap of generations, and a legacy of dance; earning his place in The Hall of Fame...our Hall of Fame.
Maybe now he'll finally get the peace he deserves.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sunny Side Up
Hurrah! It's Summer folks! Summer has landed!!
Don't look at me like that. Like i'm mad. Like the heat's finally got to me.
Pardon me if this happens to be my season of choice. And in this part of the world i'm not exactly handed a smorgasbord of seasons to choose from; the best of the 4(spring and autumn) are non-existent.
Yes, I do realize I live in the Middle East, where a 'low' of 45 degrees centigrade is an auspicious double-digit. Where it's probably cooler in that oven with the rotating, roasting chickens than it is outside smack in the middle of August.
But again..pardon me. Pardon me for preferring sun burn over frostbite (blue is not my colour). Pardon me for not loving days where I set off to work in pitch black, and head back home way after Monsieur Sunshine has called it a day. Pardon me if i'd rather not layer myself with clothing like a sugar-addict icing a cake.
Sweating is healthy. Freezing is just a reflex response.
In winter you're lazy.
You're too comfy under your duvet to get yourself out of bed each morning. Your teeth are too busy chattering to yourself to have conversation with anyone else.
Your lips crack until it hurts to smile. Your fingernnails turn an unclassified shade of blue, and you forget you have a nose at all until you realize that you are in fact still breathing.
You envy fat people for their deposits of warmth, and the concept of burning yourself with the lone flame of a cigaretter lighter is so appealing, that you actually consider living with a 3rd degree burn-scar for life if it means just a few seconds of heat.
You pretend you like someone just so you can hold their hand, and run around in an an un-called for hugging-spree not because you're overtly friendly, but purely for the sake of mustering whatever warmth you can scavenge.
You walk around the house in socks and a hoodie looking around for scraps of wood with which to build a fire in your living room, your demeanor and gait resembling one of the many corpses from MJ's 'Thriller' video.
It's no wonder Ebeneezer Scrooge was grumpy during Christmas time. It's no wonder Big Foot has an agenda. They're freezing.
But summer. Oh summer! With it's beautiful beaches, and the permission slip it hands you to start wearing open-toed sandals again. Those ugly dull-coloured fuzzies are replaced with a wardrobe of bright, thinner attire.
A little too much sun? Just slap on your shades and a blob of sunscreen. It's nothing a cold shower and big fat glass of chilled watermelon juice can't cure.
You don't have to fear for your digits from May through September. You can go for a drive with the AC cranked up. You can finish a whole tub of ice cream, quashing the guilt with the theory that you'll sweat off the calories.
You can grab a natural tan just by popping over to the community grocery store. You can hit the rink. You can hit the stores (summer sales)! You can hit your brother and blame it on heatstroke!!
Now this...this is the season to be jolly.
Don't look at me like that. Like i'm mad. Like the heat's finally got to me.
Pardon me if this happens to be my season of choice. And in this part of the world i'm not exactly handed a smorgasbord of seasons to choose from; the best of the 4(spring and autumn) are non-existent.
Yes, I do realize I live in the Middle East, where a 'low' of 45 degrees centigrade is an auspicious double-digit. Where it's probably cooler in that oven with the rotating, roasting chickens than it is outside smack in the middle of August.
But again..pardon me. Pardon me for preferring sun burn over frostbite (blue is not my colour). Pardon me for not loving days where I set off to work in pitch black, and head back home way after Monsieur Sunshine has called it a day. Pardon me if i'd rather not layer myself with clothing like a sugar-addict icing a cake.
Sweating is healthy. Freezing is just a reflex response.
In winter you're lazy.
You're too comfy under your duvet to get yourself out of bed each morning. Your teeth are too busy chattering to yourself to have conversation with anyone else.
Your lips crack until it hurts to smile. Your fingernnails turn an unclassified shade of blue, and you forget you have a nose at all until you realize that you are in fact still breathing.
You envy fat people for their deposits of warmth, and the concept of burning yourself with the lone flame of a cigaretter lighter is so appealing, that you actually consider living with a 3rd degree burn-scar for life if it means just a few seconds of heat.
You pretend you like someone just so you can hold their hand, and run around in an an un-called for hugging-spree not because you're overtly friendly, but purely for the sake of mustering whatever warmth you can scavenge.
You walk around the house in socks and a hoodie looking around for scraps of wood with which to build a fire in your living room, your demeanor and gait resembling one of the many corpses from MJ's 'Thriller' video.
It's no wonder Ebeneezer Scrooge was grumpy during Christmas time. It's no wonder Big Foot has an agenda. They're freezing.
But summer. Oh summer! With it's beautiful beaches, and the permission slip it hands you to start wearing open-toed sandals again. Those ugly dull-coloured fuzzies are replaced with a wardrobe of bright, thinner attire.
A little too much sun? Just slap on your shades and a blob of sunscreen. It's nothing a cold shower and big fat glass of chilled watermelon juice can't cure.
You don't have to fear for your digits from May through September. You can go for a drive with the AC cranked up. You can finish a whole tub of ice cream, quashing the guilt with the theory that you'll sweat off the calories.
You can grab a natural tan just by popping over to the community grocery store. You can hit the rink. You can hit the stores (summer sales)! You can hit your brother and blame it on heatstroke!!
Now this...this is the season to be jolly.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Baby-lon
Babies are an evil lot, they are. They're all connivingly round, soft and sqooshable; a vicious ploy, a clever disguise, to have all grown-ups running circles around their chubby little digits.
They exploit that 'adorable card' handed out to them at birth, and send out telepathic messages to all adult-kind that suppresses their ability to talk straight.
It's true. Just pop out a baby in the middle of a boxing ring and Evander Hollyfield will be on his knees in a second, coochie-cooing mindlessly as though in a trance. Presidential-hopefuls kiss babies not to appear more human to the public, but rather to earn the afore-mentioned babies' favour (refer The Godfather).
And what lies beneath that deceitful veneer?
A little monster that pukes, poops and bawls. Not necessarily in that order, at no definite place, and most certainly not restricted to Godly hours. When they wake you up for that 2am feeding/diaper-change, that mournful weeping you hear is actually code for 'I am your master!'
They kick up a fuss at dinner-time because they can, and they magically 'unload' the very minute you've strapped on a fresh diaper; knowing all along that a well-timed, one-toothed giggle will serve to erase any memory of that puree-splattered wall, or those now-shredded documents.
I'm not a mother (in case you're wondering worriedly at the passion with which I indulge)...but I have been exposed to a period of nanny'ing for a couple of months two years ago. Yes...two years ago. And yet I haven't forgotten..
All hail those mummies who manage to walk out of this daily battle with the smile of a martyr, and all limbs intact. Sleepless nights and months of accumulated fatigue are selflessly pushed aside for the little creatures they call their own.
And this bit's just the beginning!
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY EVERYONE! :)
Cheers.
They exploit that 'adorable card' handed out to them at birth, and send out telepathic messages to all adult-kind that suppresses their ability to talk straight.
It's true. Just pop out a baby in the middle of a boxing ring and Evander Hollyfield will be on his knees in a second, coochie-cooing mindlessly as though in a trance. Presidential-hopefuls kiss babies not to appear more human to the public, but rather to earn the afore-mentioned babies' favour (refer The Godfather).
And what lies beneath that deceitful veneer?
A little monster that pukes, poops and bawls. Not necessarily in that order, at no definite place, and most certainly not restricted to Godly hours. When they wake you up for that 2am feeding/diaper-change, that mournful weeping you hear is actually code for 'I am your master!'
They kick up a fuss at dinner-time because they can, and they magically 'unload' the very minute you've strapped on a fresh diaper; knowing all along that a well-timed, one-toothed giggle will serve to erase any memory of that puree-splattered wall, or those now-shredded documents.
I'm not a mother (in case you're wondering worriedly at the passion with which I indulge)...but I have been exposed to a period of nanny'ing for a couple of months two years ago. Yes...two years ago. And yet I haven't forgotten..
All hail those mummies who manage to walk out of this daily battle with the smile of a martyr, and all limbs intact. Sleepless nights and months of accumulated fatigue are selflessly pushed aside for the little creatures they call their own.
And this bit's just the beginning!
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY EVERYONE! :)
Cheers.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Reunion of a Different Kind
To say that I was a 'bookworm', would be the understatement of the decade. At one point (i'm almost afraid to profess), I was one of those uber-geeky kids who'd always have a book in hand, having the 'audacity' to read even when on a social call.
I couldn't help it. It's been engraved in me for as long as I can remember. I couldn't give a damn about how I could make my pinafore-uniform seem cooler, just as long as Anne (of Green Gables)would beat Gilbert to the Avery Prize. Enid Blyton was my Beyonce, and a visit to the bookstore was too magical for my little dweeby-self to express. The school day revolved around my English class; racing to the end of the reading list, and having the freedom to express my opinion onto a piece of paper was the greatest high of all.
Then along came high school, university, a social life, and the internet. Not necessarily in that order but each carrying equal damage.
I found that I had less time to read, and more time to check-on my face book page. I'd drop a decent novel in deference to a last-minute shopping expedition. Kareoke night trumped Ayn Rand,and embarrassingly on more than one occassion I stood up Tolstoy for Hugh Jackman.
Even when I was at a stage when I really didn't have much to do, my pile of unread books would pile higher. I'd still visit the book fair like I have done religiously ever since it's inception...and I'd still sneak in a secret whiff of each new title I buy before I read it. But somehow I'd only really find time when I didn't want to think of a particular something that was bothering me, or on a Thursday night when I had no plans, or when the internet at home went bust. But deep down I knew I still wanted that floor-to-ceiling library more than than that Chanel tribute bag.
But of late...I had got hold of a novel. One of those your eyes just couldn't peel away from, and your fingers had a will of their own. I carried it in my handbag, and would sneak in a page / chapter or two during lunch breaks, at hospital waiting rooms, even in a moving vehicle.
And it all came back to me, in that comforting heady rush that only fond memories can conjure.
It's true what they say about old habits dying hard. They might be in a coma for a few years, but you'll be at their bedside everyday until they wake up..speaking to them, re-assuring them that all hope is not lost. Yes, it's rather creepy of me to personify a hobby as a dying person, but i'm hoping my poetic license will save me from being strait-jacketed straight (get it?) to the loony bin.
It's like your best girlfriend y'know? The moment some new, buff man comes into your life, aformentioned bestie is chucked aside. But as soon as you're the one chucked, bestie's shoulder is right there waiting for you...no matter how hurt she was all along.
Now when i'm off for a mall-trawl, my Magrudy's (book store) points-card sits comfy in it's little niche inside my wallet, along with my Grazia discount card. I've re-kindled the habit of exchanging titles with other avid readers, and have accumulated quite a collection of cosmopolitan bookmarks (Hello nerdville!). Don't quite know if i'll put off a good dosh-session with the girls, for a pick at the pages just yet though!
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to show, that's how you know eh?
Cheers.
I couldn't help it. It's been engraved in me for as long as I can remember. I couldn't give a damn about how I could make my pinafore-uniform seem cooler, just as long as Anne (of Green Gables)would beat Gilbert to the Avery Prize. Enid Blyton was my Beyonce, and a visit to the bookstore was too magical for my little dweeby-self to express. The school day revolved around my English class; racing to the end of the reading list, and having the freedom to express my opinion onto a piece of paper was the greatest high of all.
Then along came high school, university, a social life, and the internet. Not necessarily in that order but each carrying equal damage.
I found that I had less time to read, and more time to check-on my face book page. I'd drop a decent novel in deference to a last-minute shopping expedition. Kareoke night trumped Ayn Rand,and embarrassingly on more than one occassion I stood up Tolstoy for Hugh Jackman.
Even when I was at a stage when I really didn't have much to do, my pile of unread books would pile higher. I'd still visit the book fair like I have done religiously ever since it's inception...and I'd still sneak in a secret whiff of each new title I buy before I read it. But somehow I'd only really find time when I didn't want to think of a particular something that was bothering me, or on a Thursday night when I had no plans, or when the internet at home went bust. But deep down I knew I still wanted that floor-to-ceiling library more than than that Chanel tribute bag.
But of late...I had got hold of a novel. One of those your eyes just couldn't peel away from, and your fingers had a will of their own. I carried it in my handbag, and would sneak in a page / chapter or two during lunch breaks, at hospital waiting rooms, even in a moving vehicle.
And it all came back to me, in that comforting heady rush that only fond memories can conjure.
It's true what they say about old habits dying hard. They might be in a coma for a few years, but you'll be at their bedside everyday until they wake up..speaking to them, re-assuring them that all hope is not lost. Yes, it's rather creepy of me to personify a hobby as a dying person, but i'm hoping my poetic license will save me from being strait-jacketed straight (get it?) to the loony bin.
It's like your best girlfriend y'know? The moment some new, buff man comes into your life, aformentioned bestie is chucked aside. But as soon as you're the one chucked, bestie's shoulder is right there waiting for you...no matter how hurt she was all along.
Now when i'm off for a mall-trawl, my Magrudy's (book store) points-card sits comfy in it's little niche inside my wallet, along with my Grazia discount card. I've re-kindled the habit of exchanging titles with other avid readers, and have accumulated quite a collection of cosmopolitan bookmarks (Hello nerdville!). Don't quite know if i'll put off a good dosh-session with the girls, for a pick at the pages just yet though!
If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to show, that's how you know eh?
Cheers.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Of Pocketed Passions and Silent Sufferings
One of the many attributes that make us human beings highest in the hierarchy, is probably the ability and variance with which we express emotion.
Identical twins can have the exact tendencies in every aspect of their lives, but in the way they handle pain, for example. One might choose to mourn out loud, expelling heartbreaking sobs that melt the heartstrings of just about anyone made to listen. The other might decide to withhold on vocalization, preferring instead to suffer alone. Silently, and drawing as little attention to herself as is possible; hoping that noone else will suspect and interfere.
We walk down the same streets everyday; meet new people, meet old people. Cuss at a swerving taxi-driver, and indifferently order our regular cuppa from the local cafe. For all you know, that cabbie was fervently rushing home on hearing the news of a new addition to his family. For all you know, the barrista that just handed you your skim-latte had just ended his 10-year marriage the night before. For all you know, your colleague in the adjacent cubicle is suppressing a victory dance deserving of his team's victory.
The pensive chap to your right at the bus-stop probably just got laid-off, and the guy smoking profusely on your left probably just got laid.
The woman you're kneeling / sitting next to at mosque / church, is praying as hard as you are. Is she a mother begging for her son's safe return? A battered wife beseeching for guidance? Or a daughter, hoping against all hope that her father recovers?
Everyone's got a cloud above their head, hovering and following them every single minute of every day; some with a silver lining, and some without. We grieve, we rejoice. We mourn the loss of a loved one, or replay the freshness of a new relationship. Our friends and family, our closest confidantes might know...but those strangers you happen to bump into on your way out of the elevator, or those familiar-but-can't-quite-place faces you smile a polite acknowledgement; they have no idea. Just like you have no clue.
Indifference is welcoming sometimes; it's non-claustrophobic, non-judgemental, and non-pitying.
Beacuse your burden is burden enough. And because you just can't pretend with yet another person that you feel their pain, when in truth you're just glad you're not them. We're gluttons in times of glory, and selfish in times of anguish.
Not because we're terrible people. But just because we're human.
Identical twins can have the exact tendencies in every aspect of their lives, but in the way they handle pain, for example. One might choose to mourn out loud, expelling heartbreaking sobs that melt the heartstrings of just about anyone made to listen. The other might decide to withhold on vocalization, preferring instead to suffer alone. Silently, and drawing as little attention to herself as is possible; hoping that noone else will suspect and interfere.
We walk down the same streets everyday; meet new people, meet old people. Cuss at a swerving taxi-driver, and indifferently order our regular cuppa from the local cafe. For all you know, that cabbie was fervently rushing home on hearing the news of a new addition to his family. For all you know, the barrista that just handed you your skim-latte had just ended his 10-year marriage the night before. For all you know, your colleague in the adjacent cubicle is suppressing a victory dance deserving of his team's victory.
The pensive chap to your right at the bus-stop probably just got laid-off, and the guy smoking profusely on your left probably just got laid.
The woman you're kneeling / sitting next to at mosque / church, is praying as hard as you are. Is she a mother begging for her son's safe return? A battered wife beseeching for guidance? Or a daughter, hoping against all hope that her father recovers?
Everyone's got a cloud above their head, hovering and following them every single minute of every day; some with a silver lining, and some without. We grieve, we rejoice. We mourn the loss of a loved one, or replay the freshness of a new relationship. Our friends and family, our closest confidantes might know...but those strangers you happen to bump into on your way out of the elevator, or those familiar-but-can't-quite-place faces you smile a polite acknowledgement; they have no idea. Just like you have no clue.
Indifference is welcoming sometimes; it's non-claustrophobic, non-judgemental, and non-pitying.
Beacuse your burden is burden enough. And because you just can't pretend with yet another person that you feel their pain, when in truth you're just glad you're not them. We're gluttons in times of glory, and selfish in times of anguish.
Not because we're terrible people. But just because we're human.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Talk of Troubled Times
The one thing we owe to all this recession schmesession is the potential it has for conversation.
We all love to complain. And once the signal turns green, we can launch into a series of anecdotes, 'tsk tsk' at the downfall of the dollar, and list out the names of close friends / relatives affected by the splurge of job cuts.
An awkward date can turn into a conversation smooth enough to rival one of 007's chat-up lines. Over coffee, the men attempt to predict when the economy will finally revive, the Stepford's fret over whether or not their husbands will be able to gift them this Spring's Gucci, and mother's exchange figures of their children's friends who've had to drop out of school.
It's a food fight of buzzwords like 'slump' and 'lay-offs.' It's a horror movie with villanous bonus-dispensing CEO's and victimized Merril Lynch'ers. Everyone's heard of the 'R' word, and even a 5-year-old could point out that the Credit Crunch is not a new Nestle' product.
Frankly i'm tired. Tired of every new subject I bring up stubbornly retracting back to the 'current economic situation.'
I'd like to be able to talk about the weather, without having someone point out that the recent rainfall is a reflection of the gloom of the markets. Convocation ceremonies are clouded over with whispers of 'It's a shame. What a terrible time to graduate.' The joy of a new addition to the family is quashed by the worry of up-keep. Even the secure individuals live a wary existence, just waiting for the metaphorical axe to fall.
Sometimes I find myself actually believing that we have a soft spot for all this gloom and doom. We love the drama it brings, the stories we have to tell, and for some perverse reason we're kinda fond of the fear of the unknown. Maybe we're just tired of the monotony of routine, the safety net of a secure existence.
And I just dedicated an entire post to the subject I claim to be whinging about. Proof enough.
The human psyche..go figure.
Cheers (?)
We all love to complain. And once the signal turns green, we can launch into a series of anecdotes, 'tsk tsk' at the downfall of the dollar, and list out the names of close friends / relatives affected by the splurge of job cuts.
An awkward date can turn into a conversation smooth enough to rival one of 007's chat-up lines. Over coffee, the men attempt to predict when the economy will finally revive, the Stepford's fret over whether or not their husbands will be able to gift them this Spring's Gucci, and mother's exchange figures of their children's friends who've had to drop out of school.
It's a food fight of buzzwords like 'slump' and 'lay-offs.' It's a horror movie with villanous bonus-dispensing CEO's and victimized Merril Lynch'ers. Everyone's heard of the 'R' word, and even a 5-year-old could point out that the Credit Crunch is not a new Nestle' product.
Frankly i'm tired. Tired of every new subject I bring up stubbornly retracting back to the 'current economic situation.'
I'd like to be able to talk about the weather, without having someone point out that the recent rainfall is a reflection of the gloom of the markets. Convocation ceremonies are clouded over with whispers of 'It's a shame. What a terrible time to graduate.' The joy of a new addition to the family is quashed by the worry of up-keep. Even the secure individuals live a wary existence, just waiting for the metaphorical axe to fall.
Sometimes I find myself actually believing that we have a soft spot for all this gloom and doom. We love the drama it brings, the stories we have to tell, and for some perverse reason we're kinda fond of the fear of the unknown. Maybe we're just tired of the monotony of routine, the safety net of a secure existence.
And I just dedicated an entire post to the subject I claim to be whinging about. Proof enough.
The human psyche..go figure.
Cheers (?)
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