underwear thoughts
Beirut, March 17 2016
(it's fifteen minutes past midnight, so!)
I'm going to be quick with this one so I can get back to my yet unfinished packing. I understand that my army of followers is in dire need of knowing the way I feel today, the progression of my emotions and obviously, the current state of events. I cannot go to bed without giving you, invisible readers, your daily fix of my fascinating life.
I also find my life to be very mesmerising. (But that's a big fat lie. You know it. I know it.)
Anyway, in with the news, out with the self-deprecation!
I have done two things that I am excessively proud of as of now:
1. I have heated a wax strip under the hot iron, causing the strip to melt and the wax to spread itself generously onto the surface of the iron (which we use, by the way, to iron our clean clothes. Hello, sticky waxy shirts!)
2. I am still not done packing for tomorrow and am beginning to fall asleep. The bright side is: My limbs have all been waxed to near perfection (there's always a blind side in me that gets powered on when I can't be bothered anymore, allowing a few sparse hairs to relish their freedom on my skin.)
The next post I write on here will have a different location, so this is exciting. So many I's already. Am I self-centred? Possibly. Definitely.
We spent the day with Maria and her baby daughter, eating, playing, playing with our food and drinking inhumane amounts of coffee. Then, I went to see my teta. Teta and I tried to draw the family tree and to calculate how Iraqi my generation is, knowing that my grandfather's grandmother was Iraqi. I figured that since we were the sixth generation from the original Iraqness of the great-grandmother, we were about 17% Iraqi. My brother, the one who seems to have gotten the better, wiser brains, said that my calculations were fraught with mistakes. He came to the conclusion that we were barely 3.75% Iraqi, which left me feeling bummed and quite un-Iraqi. Of course, I identify as a Lebanese, but also as so many things as I have links to so many people and so many places. (Not that many, I was exaggerating.)
I am beginning to get cold as I am currently sitting in my underwear. I definitely have regrets, regarding the waxing situation. I wish I had finished this horrendous task earlier today. But no, I had to spend an hour this morning scrolling through my useless Facebook feed.
I almost feel like not talking about the emotional progress. It is starting to feel irrelevant. At least today, it does. I sense that the silly boy is trying to avoid me at any cost, and I say this, not as a result of us not having talked for a week (which is perfectly normal considering that it was our final agreement,) but based on a personal feeling. But it could be an arbitrary feeling. It's just, I am growing tired with allowing my brain to feel like I am not good enough for him. I am growing tired of feeling like all that I am will never be sufficient, or real, or something worth pursuing. I am good enough. I am more than good enough, even. But ah, such is the power of a recurring thought that has turned into a habit.
I have talked, in the millions of posts published previously about my relief. But I spoke of one form of relief. The one that liberated me from the urgency of figuring out my life just so I could please him. There was another kind of relief. I am relieved that I no longer have to feel like I am not enough. Relieved of knowing that his opinion of me does not matter. Relieved to think that, though it has not yet arrived, indifference is on its way. Indifference. Not love, not hatred. Indifference. The ability to spend hour upon hour stuck in a book or stuck in the most extraneous activity, without once flinching in memory of him, without once lifting my head to see his face, remember a kiss, an embrace, a look in his eyes.
Indifference is a glorious feeling.
Somebody told me yesterday that they would marry me because they thought I was gorgeous and had good chat. And before you start thinking that I ever go looking for approval in others – I do not – or that I am actually wanting to be married – I do not, not yet at least – the statement felt good.
Yes. I am a brilliant creature of the night and of the trees and of the words.
And I am also, as Kim put it, a silent hero. Only she and I will understand this.
So on this jolly, jolly note, I will save my arse from freezing and hop into the shower. And dream of trees. Always and forever. Trees.
(it's fifteen minutes past midnight, so!)
I'm going to be quick with this one so I can get back to my yet unfinished packing. I understand that my army of followers is in dire need of knowing the way I feel today, the progression of my emotions and obviously, the current state of events. I cannot go to bed without giving you, invisible readers, your daily fix of my fascinating life.
I also find my life to be very mesmerising. (But that's a big fat lie. You know it. I know it.)
Anyway, in with the news, out with the self-deprecation!
I have done two things that I am excessively proud of as of now:
1. I have heated a wax strip under the hot iron, causing the strip to melt and the wax to spread itself generously onto the surface of the iron (which we use, by the way, to iron our clean clothes. Hello, sticky waxy shirts!)
2. I am still not done packing for tomorrow and am beginning to fall asleep. The bright side is: My limbs have all been waxed to near perfection (there's always a blind side in me that gets powered on when I can't be bothered anymore, allowing a few sparse hairs to relish their freedom on my skin.)
The next post I write on here will have a different location, so this is exciting. So many I's already. Am I self-centred? Possibly. Definitely.
We spent the day with Maria and her baby daughter, eating, playing, playing with our food and drinking inhumane amounts of coffee. Then, I went to see my teta. Teta and I tried to draw the family tree and to calculate how Iraqi my generation is, knowing that my grandfather's grandmother was Iraqi. I figured that since we were the sixth generation from the original Iraqness of the great-grandmother, we were about 17% Iraqi. My brother, the one who seems to have gotten the better, wiser brains, said that my calculations were fraught with mistakes. He came to the conclusion that we were barely 3.75% Iraqi, which left me feeling bummed and quite un-Iraqi. Of course, I identify as a Lebanese, but also as so many things as I have links to so many people and so many places. (Not that many, I was exaggerating.)
I am beginning to get cold as I am currently sitting in my underwear. I definitely have regrets, regarding the waxing situation. I wish I had finished this horrendous task earlier today. But no, I had to spend an hour this morning scrolling through my useless Facebook feed.
I almost feel like not talking about the emotional progress. It is starting to feel irrelevant. At least today, it does. I sense that the silly boy is trying to avoid me at any cost, and I say this, not as a result of us not having talked for a week (which is perfectly normal considering that it was our final agreement,) but based on a personal feeling. But it could be an arbitrary feeling. It's just, I am growing tired with allowing my brain to feel like I am not good enough for him. I am growing tired of feeling like all that I am will never be sufficient, or real, or something worth pursuing. I am good enough. I am more than good enough, even. But ah, such is the power of a recurring thought that has turned into a habit.
I have talked, in the millions of posts published previously about my relief. But I spoke of one form of relief. The one that liberated me from the urgency of figuring out my life just so I could please him. There was another kind of relief. I am relieved that I no longer have to feel like I am not enough. Relieved of knowing that his opinion of me does not matter. Relieved to think that, though it has not yet arrived, indifference is on its way. Indifference. Not love, not hatred. Indifference. The ability to spend hour upon hour stuck in a book or stuck in the most extraneous activity, without once flinching in memory of him, without once lifting my head to see his face, remember a kiss, an embrace, a look in his eyes.
Indifference is a glorious feeling.
Somebody told me yesterday that they would marry me because they thought I was gorgeous and had good chat. And before you start thinking that I ever go looking for approval in others – I do not – or that I am actually wanting to be married – I do not, not yet at least – the statement felt good.
Yes. I am a brilliant creature of the night and of the trees and of the words.
And I am also, as Kim put it, a silent hero. Only she and I will understand this.
So on this jolly, jolly note, I will save my arse from freezing and hop into the shower. And dream of trees. Always and forever. Trees.
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