brighter than sunshine

Bike riding has always been one of my favourite activities. In Kindergarten, I taught myself to ride a bicycle without training wheels. Training wheels were for pansies—I was a daredevil and born to ride.

Flashback to that particular day when RD and I raced around Bicentennial Park on our bikes. After a couple of hours, we took a break and sat under the bridge by the lake to chat and duck-gaze. I remember feeling a sense of calm and tranquility as I watched the water move evenly. The ducks appeared to be napping in a sitting position while still floating leisurely around the pond.

I could hear the pigeons flapping their wings nearby and the scampering of tiny insects. I could smell the fresh grass and the new mud just below us. But mostly, my senses were overwhelmed by the warmth of the sun as it tickled and kissed my skin. It was a memorable afternoon and one of our best dates. I remember how it suddenly rained as we ran hand in hand to his car, laughing like two kids at Disney World. That memory of us still makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. There’s just something innocently sweet about someone holding my hand while I'm running, especially when it's someone I love.

writing about writing

Like the majority, I suffer from a few pet peeves. I don't like bad quality photos. Come on people, welcome to the modern world of digital cameras. I don't like the sound of my alarm. I don't like it when other people touch my hands (except for RD). Tuna is gross, snobby people are just insecure, and bad writing really bothers me.

It could be that I am one of the few people who actually get an unpleasant physical reaction from bad writing, but I have valid reasons to justify this pet peeve. When it comes to writing, especially self-reflective writing, we should invest time and thought into our pieces. Personal blogs are this millennium's online journals. They are more than a means of communication; they are reflections of life, works of art, and can hold sentimental value. Blogs are egocentric and self-centered to the author, and thus it would contradict the whole purpose if we didn't take pride in our blogging.

Maybe I'm too critical.

I can't paint or draw (even my stick people are unrecognisable), nor can I sing or play an instrument. I'm a terrible photographer (with a face like this, I belong in front of the camera, not behind it—just kidding!) and I'm far from crafty. I can't create anything with my bare hands, like sculpting, sewing, or any other needlework. I can't quite pinpoint where my creativity lies. Are creative people likely to express themselves in a variety of methods, or generally latch onto one definitive medium? Maybe everybody has a passion that burns inside of them, causing them to reach out through whatever mode of expression they can find.

For me, it is writing.

results

After weeks of crispy cool, yet sunny weather, it started to rain yesterday and continued pouring today. The temperature suddenly dropped about 15 degrees, like the stock market, and the feelings of winter hit hard. It's cruelly cold and damp, against a heavy blanket of grey sky. The weather was fitting as I waited for my uni results. Before the start of the first semester, I was motivated to get Distinctions and High Distinctions. However, after the mid-semester assessments and how tragically they all went, I lost the drive to aim for anything more than a Pass. Starting my essays a few hours before they were due and cramming for final exams overnight was not a smart move. Naturally, I dreaded my final grades, but I was pleasantly surprised when I saw my transcript today. Praise God! I’m so relieved!

spark

I'm a proponent of human chemistry, deeming it a key ingredient for any healthy relationship. If you've ever experienced that famous feeling we tag as chemistry, you know it's a tingly and powerful emotion. Chemistry is the undeniable current of electricity between two people; it creates a spark that identifies a connection between them. Chemistry can bond people emotionally, intellectually, or romantically. You're incredibly blessed if you can find all three forms in one person.

Sometimes, people can misinterpret friendliness for chemistry. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I'll label myself as friendly to make my next point. On more than one occasion, boys have mistaken my friendship bracelets for commitment rings. My fellow females can relate to this sticky situation and know that it only goes sour if not handled with care. It's always safe to apologise for leading someone on and politely tell them you don't feel that way about them. There's no room for confusion, and you're actually assuming some responsibility for accidentally captivating him with your charming personality.

It annoys me when a person freaks out because someone is interested in them. Girls who cannot handle attention do not deserve it. Take it easy, sister. He is just asking you out to lunch, not proposing marriage. A socially intelligent girl will convert a romance mix-up into a pleasant friendship. If the guy is truly unbearable, she should just file him under the "not my type" category rather than damaging his reputation by sharing the "bad pick-up" story with others. Above all, we should remain civil. Whether or not we have chemistry with someone, they still deserve acknowledgment and respect.

the one that got away

I had another dream about her. These recurring dreams visit sporadically, delivering the same message. It's always about the same girl, the same longing. I tend to wake up before each dream reaches its climax. These dreams always end the same way: with her arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, whispering into my ear... "Everything is going to be alright, we can go back to how we used to be."

LN and I met at St Mary's during the Sixth Grade Orientation Day. Since it was a non-Asian populated all-girls high school, it made sense to the Year Coordinator to introduce the only two Asians to each other. LN and I didn't hit it off; I thought she was too talkative and too cool for me. It's funny how toward the end of our friendship, I became the talkative one, while she remained the cool one. From grades 7 to 9, we were just acquaintances who shared some classes. The only quality time we spent together was the daily 5-minute walks from the bus stop to the school, and that was as far as our friendship went.

We got to know each other better in 10th grade and were inseparable from then on. LN's quirky and unpredictable personality complemented my neurotic and impulsive character. I came up with the crazy ideas; she helped execute them without any hesitation. She was my partner in crime and the co-author of my list of mischiefs. We skipped school together to satisfy our Yum Cha cravings and took naps beside each other at the park. We told each other everything, dissected our relationships to pieces, and overanalysed our personality traits, thoughts, and life aspirations. We shared our secrets and other people's secrets. When we hit 18, we also hit the clubs and bars together—it was just the two of us on the dance floor in a sea of strangers. She was the pearl to my Bubble Tea and I was the beef to her Pho soup.

I spent a portion of my adolescence and early twenties with LN; she was my faithful sidekick. LN was a big part of my life, so without her here now, there's an empty void that I can't ignore. There's no doubt that I have others I hold close to me, and maybe closer, but I've never met anyone as loving, dedicated, and considerate as LN. I didn't want to admit it then, but our friendship was more of my loss than it was hers.

coming out of the shoe closet

It all began when Cinderella lost one of her glass slippers on the steps of the palace, with Prince Charming in hot pursuit. The Prince pocketed the slipper, vowing to find and marry the maiden to whom it belonged. Women from all over town flocked to try on the glass slipper, each hoping it would secure her own Happily Ever After. 

Shoe fanatics claim that shoes bring them joy. I found this amusing because I didn't share or understand their shoe enthusiasm. My older sister had a penchant for outrageously high stilettos and provided me with a vast collection of shoes to wear. I didn't need to shop for shoes because my sister was my generous supplier, trying to convert me to her passion. While I appreciated shoes like any other article of clothing, I didn't love them. I blamed shoes for making women status-conscious, superficial, and fiscally irresponsible. Have you noticed how shoe-crazy women are often portrayed as heroines in Hollywood shows and movies?

For years, I wore my sister's stunning shoes without a care for their brands or origins. My interest was minimal because I had no attachment to what adorned my feet. Luckily, my sister had expensive taste, and I received compliments every time I stepped out in her stilettos. Strangers often stopped me on the streets to inquire about *my* shoes, and I always redirected the credit to my sister. I became the envy of all my friends because I had an endless supply of fabulous shoes. A couple of years ago, my sister moved overseas, but on her visits back home, she'd bring new additions to her shoe family. 

Before her last visit, she sent a warning: her shoes had better be in their correct boxes, not scattered all over my room. Upon her return, she was horrified to find a dozen of her shoes damaged. She took them in for emergency repair, and the cobbler joked if someone had run over her "children" because of their condition. I have no idea how it happened, but I likely damaged the shoes unintentionally. I'm guilty of dragging my feet and taking heavy steps, and perhaps hopping onto park benches on my way to and from work contributed. Shockingly, my shoe supply ceased. My sister cut me off, tired of buying new shoes for me, only to see them destroyed one heel at a time. It pains my sister deeply when her shoes get scratched, scarring them for the rest of her life. 

I managed fine without new shoes, content with the three pairs I adored from her last visit. But after a few months, things changed. While sitting innocently on the train, I glanced down at my feet and noticed scratches on my pretty Mary Janes. Those scratches weren't there yesterday, or were they? I looked away, but the ache in my chest lingered.  

Oh. My. Gosh. I had fallen in love with shoes. 

It was a slow and steady descent. In hindsight, I was in denial. Wearing nice shoes always made me feel good, yet I avoided the commitment of purchasing and caring for them. To make up for lost time, I bought four pairs of stilettos in one week. Whether you're a fan of SATC or not, you have to admit that Carrie Bradshaw has brought our inner shoe-obsessed selves out of the closet and into the mainstream. We just need to set ourselves a budget to control our infatuation. 

Modern women have given up trying to squeeze into the glass slipper, realising that even if the shoe doesn't fit, happiness can still be found in the nearest shoe boutique, offering different shapes, colours, and sizes. I believe women love shoes because finding not only a pair, but the right pair that fits perfectly, provides a defining sense of self and independence, reminding us that we now have choices.