misunderstood

I'm not lazy; I'm efficient. I delegate and assign tasks to people because I know they will do a better job than I would. See, I know how to utilise my resources.

I'm not obsessive; I'm passionate.

I take shortcuts, as long as the result is the same in the end. This again does not mean that I'm lazy; it means that I'm efficient.

I'm not vain; I take pride in my appearance.

I'm not immature; I'm playful!

manicure

The very idea of me getting a manicure is enough to shock my friends. When I asked if they'd lose respect for me if I got one, their first response was hysterical laughter. The thought of me sitting in a beauty salon getting my nails done is pretty bizarre, considering I’ve never even had my nails painted before.

But today, I laughed my way to the beauty salon. Yes, you heard it right, I got a manicure. Now, typing is a hassle because I’m paranoid my nail polish will chip. I’m turning into such a girlie girl *runs away screaming*. All those years of laughing at my sister for fussing over her nails have come back to bite me. Maybe I should stop making fun of girls like her because I’m becoming one of them. I've been craving change and, since I can't change my personality, I’m changing my attitude.

I’m not exactly known for being gentle; I like to play rough, so adopting these new delicate hand motions is challenging. I feel like a delicate flower. I can’t punch the wall (not that I’ve punched a wall before, but I’d like to have the option) or scratch my itches (which is a good thing because I always make them worse). What if I want to peel an orange and eat it with my fingers? Now I have to cut everything into smaller pieces and use a fork. Having French tips is such high maintenance!

The beautician told me I had nice hands because of my long fingers and that my nails were nicely shaped. Is that part of the ritual? Complimenting the client before you sandblast their nails? If my nails were so nicely shaped, why did she have to file them? I guess it was to get the squared shape; apparently, they’re better than round ones. The filer scared the crap out of me. I jumped when she held it up to my hand.

"Dude, what’s that thing?!"

"Teehehe, relax! It’s a filer for your fingernails."

"That thing looks dangerous, stay away from me!!"

Then I ran out of the beauty salon, screaming like an escaped mental patient. Just kidding.

I've watched my sister do her own manicure plenty of times, and whenever she filed her nails, it freaked me out because it looked so painful. The noise it made was horrifying. My sister is overseas for three months, so she couldn’t give me a manicure. She used to beg me to let her practice on me, and I’d roll my eyes and wonder why she was so obsessed with French tips. Now, I understand.

The beautician filed my nails, clipped my cuticles (which also freaked me out because it looked like she was cutting funny shapes out of a paper pattern), gave me French tips, and finished off with two clear coats of nail polish. It felt nice to be pampered, and I was happy with the results. I don’t think I’ll ever get acrylics; they look too thick and fake (because they are fake).

band aid

At the moment, I think that lust is, in some ways, less exasperating and more satisfying than love. Familiar, mesmerising, and fleeting, it can be set off anytime, anywhere. Most people crave the one they believe to be perfect for them because they're in love with the notion of being in love. In actuality, their naivety and lack of experience make it harder for them to cope with how unpredictable people are and how this unpredictability can taint and destroy relationships.

It has been nine months since we parted. Some say that after the breakup, I've become pessimistic. I can say that I'm not bitter; I'm better. Like a cut, life following a breakup begins to recover after the primary anguish, resulting rage, and final acceptance that it wasn't meant to be. Everything seems to be moving forward on the surface, but beneath it all, memories from the past return, eager to shape themselves into the current puzzle. When history catches up with the present, you can't help but question where we went wrong. Like a scab that could've, should've, would've, but didn't heal because you picked at it, so was the relationship that could've, should've, would've, but didn't survive because you did something deliberately off-beam.

Why is growing up a compulsory thing? I want to stick a band-aid over my problems, but it's more difficult at twenty-two than it was at twelve. I can't ask for a pardon, plead for a second chance, or build a time machine to go back and fix everything. In real life, you can't force someone to love you; you can only try to charm them and hope that they will cave.

the beach ball

Summer is just around the corner, and those sizzling days remind me of that BBQ at Chipping Norton Lake with Van, B. Linh, Kim, and the unforgettable front-yard-water-tap debacle. That day was absurdly hot, far too intense for grilling. We had bought a beach ball from Woolies, only to lose it in the lake.  

Relationships and friendships are a two-way street. Sure, two people may never love each other equally, but they can strive to put in the same effort, though the results often vary. I’ve never been much of a fighter; things usually fall into my lap. I’ve been pretty fortunate, always seeming to get what I want in the end. But my luck has changed since then. Losing what you had is far worse than wanting what you can't have. Just like that beach ball we lost on that scorching summer day. 

The girls and I bought the beach ball to play with, tossed it into the water, and then relied on each other to fetch it. But it was too hot. We preferred the shade to wading into the lake. We yelled at each other to get the ball, expecting someone else to rescue it. Amidst our bickering, the ball floated away. By the time we noticed, it was too far to retrieve. We chased it along the shore, helplessly watching it drift beyond reach, too deep for us to catch. So, we watched our beach ball wash away. I still think about that beach ball, and I’m sure the others do too, because it was part of our memorable day. 

Sometimes, my friendship with him feels like that lost ball. I feel like I’m the one trying to keep it alive, often finding we have nothing to say to each other, while at other times I have so much to share. I’m trying too hard to make it work, not wanting our friendship to drift away like that ball. I occasionally manage to pull it back, only to see it wander again. Maybe I should just let it wash away, as it seems inevitable. So, I’ll let us float away, and see if anyone else will rescue this beach ball. It’s easy to say you want something or tell someone they’re special, but sometimes, actions speak louder than words.