Single Girl

So, of course I’m disgustingly happy in my marriage, but even the most contented of wives occasionally longs for her Carrie Bradshaw days. Or in my case, what my Carrie Bradshaw days might have been like had I not been a child bride (okay, twenty-two isn't exactly a child, but you get my point!). Occasionally I have visions of my alternate single-girl universe, and in my life as a single girl, I never watch TV. I’m a vegetarian. I read the paper (not sure why this detail is included in my single-girl life other than Roger turns on SKY news every morning so why would I read what I’ve already watched?). In my single-girl life, I volunteer for charitable causes. I have weekly dinners with my girlfriends. I belong to a book club. I take long bubble baths and sip champagne to celebrate my singleness. True, I could quite easily incorporate most if not all of these things into my married-girl life, but for one reason or another (a few of them even legitimate), I don’t.

But this week…this week I have been single. Roger and his dad went to Zambia for the week on a business trip. At first I was disappointed that I couldn’t tag along, but then I began to think it might be kinda fun to be single for the week. Of course, the excitement was quickly followed by fear that I would be forced to spend my evenings with the M-I-L, but it is with great relief (and a slightly bruised ego) that I tell you – my mother-in-law has not wanted to hang out with me at all. I’ve been totally on my own. Free to go out with the girls, read the paper, take a bubble bath…

But as you might suspect, my week as a single girl did not exactly play out the way I thought it would.

Day One: I decide to enjoy this time to myself with a quiet night in. I intend to read a good book, maybe take a bath, and have a big healthy salad for my dinner. But I don’t. Instead, I make myself a cheesy three-egg omelet which I consume with a bottle of red wine while watching a bad Drew Barrymore movie. I follow up the bottle of wine with an embarrassing amount of chocolate. (Healthy eating not so much a part of my single-girl life.)

Day Two: Okay, so I’ve had my drunken Bridget-Jones-All-by-Myself evening, but today will be different. I get up and go running. I eat a healthy breakfast. I go to work. I go to the grocery store. I buy healthy food. I make healthy soup. I eat healthy soup. But then I talk to my sister, and talking to my sister makes me want to drink wine with my sister and sadly, I can’t drink wine with my sister because she is ten thousand miles away, but I can drink wine while on the phone with my sister. Oops. I’m Bridget Jones all over again. Clearly, I would be an alcoholic if I were single.

Day Three: It’s six a.m. and I convince myself that I should take advantage of not having anyone to rush home to by going to the gym after work instead of going running before. So, I sleep late. Too late. I don’t shower. I go to work with messy hair. (Who am I kidding? It’s messy whether I shower or not.) After work I go to the gym, then home to eat a bowl of leftover soup while I peruse bumperstickers on facebook. I consider using this time to try and write something meaningful, but writing feels pointless. From here I spiral into dark thoughts about my purpose on the planet and the meaning of life in general. I eat a bowl of ice cream and go to bed.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a week. Four nights (and since Roger’s BFF, Greg, got into town on Thursday, I had a surrogate husband sleeping on my couch for Day Four). Still, three days on my own were enough to remind me how much I need my impossibly laid-back husband. He's the perfect antidote to my overly obsessive nature. Without Roger around to keep me laughing, my world looks pretty dark.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m confident that I could take care of myself if necessary. After all, I am a strong independent woman. (Can you hear me roar?) As a child of divorce, I learned early that a woman should not depend on a man to take care of her, financially anyway. But what about emotionally? I mean, aren’t husbands and wives supposed to depend on each other? But can you need someone too much? Wow. Didn’t mean to get so deep. And here again, I’ve probably crossed the line between refreshing honesty and too much information, but there you have it – the deep dark secrets of my alternate-universe single-girl life.

It just reinforces how much I love Roger, and how happy I am that I found him when I did.
AWWWW....

Enough is Enough?

Last week, I went with a group from my office to protest crime in South Africa at The Million Man March. The turnout wasn’t quite as impressive as the title suggests – the news reported a meager four thousand activists – but we gathered outside of Pretoria’s Union buildings and listened to a few speeches, intermittently chanting “Enough is Enough!” Our purpose was to tell the South African government that we are sick of living in fear. We are tired of being victims, of losing loved ones to violent crime. We’re no longer going to passively sit back and complain about crime; we are ready to take action. Enough is enough.

Okay, so in all fairness, I admit that I can’t write about living in fear quite as convincingly as a real South African. After all, I’ve only lived in Joburg a little over a year and fortunately, I have not yet been directly affected by crime in this Big Bad City. That’s not to say I haven’t been affected at all. Back in November, I explained that living in Joburg has taught me to be more aware of the world around me. It has also taught me to accept gates, guards, electric fences, and laser beams as the norm. The fact that I live in a fortress doesn’t seem weird to me anymore, because everyone lives in a fortress. Drive down any residential street in and around Joburg and you won’t see a single house. Rooftops maybe, but the eight-foot fences topped with crackling electric wires will prevent you from seeing the houses themselves.

Sometimes I think crime, or the fear of it, prevents us from seeing each other too. We move through each day with our heads down, our eyes distant. The walls around our houses are nothing compared to the walls we’ve built around our hearts. We’re suspicious of strangers; we assume the worst about those around us. We don’t see each other as individuals; hell, sometimes we don’t see each other at all. We barely notice the men and women begging for change or selling random wares at traffic lights. Maybe we felt sympathy for them once-upon-a-time, but now we don’t even see them, or if we do see them it is with suspicious eyes. After all, what is stopping them from breaking your car window and lifting your purse? Or using a weapon to force you out of the car? Aren’t these the very people potentially breaking into your home and taking your things, taking your life? Why should we feel sympathy for them? Aren’t they the enemy?

Every day on my way to work, I see a guy at the intersection of Jan Smuts and William Nicol selling little bags of dried fruit and nuts. He wears a bright smile and a neon vest with the words “I DON’T DO CRIME” stamped across the front. He’s a fixture at this particular intersection, but I admit that I barely notice him anymore. I remember when I first encountered him though, he really pulled at my heartstrings. There was a part of me compelled to buy his cashews as a way of encouraging his honest lifestyle. But then there was another part of me that would think, “Why should I buy his dodgy fruit simply because he’s not a criminal? Why should he be rewarded for obeying the same rules as the rest of us?” Sadly, I don’t think much of anything about him anymore, but I still understand why he wears that vest. He is pointing out – in a not-so-subtle way – that he’s not stealing; he’s not even begging. He may be annoying – knocking on the window and shoving his dried mangos in my face – but what he is trying to do is positive.

Now, at another intersection – further up the street – is a guy with a different sign. And this dude isn’t selling anything. His sign reads: “Hungry boy, too scared to do crime. Please help.” To say that I feel no sympathy for this young man would be untrue, however his sign invokes a very different reaction than that of his fruit and nut selling counterpart. I feel absolutely no desire to roll down my window and hand over my change. It’s something about the sign: “Too scared to do crime.” To me, that means that he has no problem with stealing, but he’s afraid he’ll be shot or end up in jail, so instead, would I please hand over my money willingly? After all, he is asking nicely…

Is it just me? Or would that irritate you too? Who knows…maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he is morally averse to crime and the problem lies in his copywriting skills. Or maybe I just have far too much time think about it while I wait for that damn traffic light to change.

And speaking of signs, at yet another traffic light is my favorite - a comedian whose sign reads: “My cat arrested for eating neighbor’s chicken. Need money for bail.” I know. But it makes me laugh, so he gets my change almost every time...

I’m not sure how any of this this ties back to the Million Man March. Maybe it doesn’t…but we can’t honestly talk about crime without also considering poverty. Because I have to believe that most criminals aren’t motivated by malice; they’re acting out of desperation, and desperation is everywhere in this city. You only have to take a drive down Jan Smuts Avenue and experience the beggars and hawkers at every street corner to see that. Are these the criminals? Or could this be their last stop before resorting to crime?

I don’t have any answers, and I doubt my chanting will do much to persuade the government to take a tougher stance on crime, but it still felt good to do something proactive, to stand up amongst the million – okay, four thousand – and say “Enough is enough.” Now, if only the criminals running the government would listen…

Writer's Block.

I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, right? I’ve been told it happens to the best of us. So I’m not going to panic. Really - I'm not!

And yet…

For a writer, there is nothing quite as terrifying as the blank screen. My heartbeat quickens. I feel a drop of sweat forming on my brow. I’m overcome with the need for peanut M&M’s.

Is this it? Have I run out of witty words? Have I used up all of my clever observations? Are my profound conclusions finished? No! It can’t be over…not yet! It's not like I’m out of things to say…it’s just that something keeps distracting me. For some reason, I’m unable to focus long enough to form coherent sentences. Something is preventing me from…

...Oh, sorry about the interruption, but it was my turn on Scrabulous, and then I got a friend request from someone I hadn’t heard from in ages! It only took me a second to confirm the friendship but then I felt obligated to check out her profile and you wouldn’t believe who I found on her friend list! So, of course I had to request his friendship and…oh, where was I?

Oh yes, Writer’s Block. What could it be? Why has it been so hard to formulate a post for this weekend? Why have I been unable to write anything that even remotely resembles something worthy of…

Sigh.

As you can see, I’m distracted. And as this attempt at humor suggests, I am very aware of the cause.

It’s Facebook.

Damn you, Facebook! I’ve been a member all of seven days, and already I feel the hours disappearing faster than the peanut M&M’s on my desk.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m loving it. It’s wonderful to hear from so many people and see how they are doing and what they’ve been up to, but the amount of time I’ve already lost to the black hole that is Facebook is a little ridiculous. I’m sure it will slow down – once I’ve found most of the people I know and seen their pages and pictures – but it’s amazing how addictive the whole process can be (one of my girlfriends calls it ‘cyber-crack’).

However, I suspect that playing online scrabble with officemates and scouring former classmates’ profiles isn’t the sole reason I’m struggling to write this week. You see, I was brave enough to put a link to Adventures in Africa on my Facebook profile, and suddenly people I haven’t talked to in nearly a decade are making comments (or “writing on my wall”) about my blog. It’s exciting…and flattering…but it is also more than a little bit terrifying. I suppose, as a writer, the goal is to write for as large an audience as possible, but to imagine faceless strangers reading and enjoying my innermost thoughts is one thing; to think of my former teacher reading it …or the girls I envied in high school…or the guy I had a crush on in college…or even the writer I admire in my office…well, to consider them reading it is a completely different matter! Suddenly, I’m paralyzed. My fingers are frozen on the keyboard as I wonder what my new readers think…what entries they’ve read…if they’ll revisit the site. I scroll through old posts and wonder if anyone will look back and read some of my favorite ones (like Home Invasion and Confession). I cringe at some of my old posts...the whiney ones, mostly, and a few that were written on nights like tonight when I was too distracted to put anything decent together. I turn my attention back to the blank Word document. The white space taunts me. What should I write now? I can’t simply write about whatever happens to be on my mind now that I have a legit audience (I mean, there might be twelve of you now, and that’s totally different from two!). The pressure is on…and I need to say something good.

This definitely isn’t it. But hopefully, my teenybopper fascination with Facebook will have dissipated by next weekend, and I’ll be back to my usual neurotic-but-witty self. But until then (and since I feel like I owe you some form of entertainment this week), check out the Facebook Song on You Tube. It makes me laugh every time. (Thanks Greg!)

Perfectly Plastic

I hate locker rooms. I never really know what to do or how to behave. It’s not that I mind nakedness; I really don’t. In fact, I think there is something symbolically freeing about being naked – something childlike and unashamed. I’ve done my fair share of skinny dipping and even topless sunbathing when the occasion allowed it. But for whatever reason, I’m extremely modest in the locker room. Maybe I’m intimidated by the perfectly sculpted naked women strutting to the showers, but plenty of the not-so-sculpted are baring it all too, so what’s my problem? I mean, I’m not hiding out in the bathroom stall or anything, but I carefully remove and replace, you know?

Sometimes I worry that I’m changing too modestly. Do I look like a prude? Do the other women think I’m hiding something? Because the only thing worse than looking like you want to flaunt your goods is looking like you're paranoid that everyone wants a glimpse. Now I know what your thinking – I’m over analyzing the whole situation and no one is actually thinking anything about whether or not I rip off my sports bra in the middle of the locker room or wait until I get to the shower. And I know you’re right. It’s probably just my narcissistic tendencies that allow me to believe I’m being judged. Or maybe it’s because – as much as I try not to – I’m doing a little judging myself.

For example, a few weeks ago, I walk into the locker room and my eyes are drawn to this tall, thin blonde who is standing in front of the mirror and blow drying her hair. She’s wearing crisp black trousers, gorgeous high heels, but not a stitch up top. I quickly avert my eyes and make my way to an available locker. I’m acutely aware of my irritation, though I’m unsure exactly why I’m annoyed. I glance over at the girl again, and this time I recognize it. Jealousy. Damn. If I had her boobs I’d probably be naked as much as possible too. I throw my bag into the locker and adjust my headphones before heading out the door. But as I make my way to the exit, I pass the skinny blonde again, and I notice something I missed before – the small bandages beneath each breast. Well no wonder they’re so damn perfect, I think to myself as I crank up Justin Timberlake on my shuffle.

As I begin my workout, I consider what it is about seeing those bandages that has made me feel a little bit better about my own less-than-perfect breasts. I guess it’s the same reason the Dove video about how ads are manipulated makes us feel better about the way we look. If the girl in the locker room has been surgically enhanced, or if that model in the magazine has been digitally altered – she’s cheating, right? And that makes her no better than me. In fact, I feel – dare I say it? – smug.

But that’s not right either. I can assume that the girl in the locker room has taken steps to alter her appearance in order to feel better about herself. And isn’t that her right? Shouldn’t I, as a feminist, applaud her decision to take control of her body, and ultimately, her self-esteem? Or does a real feminist condemn the surgery – believing it to be yet another way that our misogynistic society encourages the self-objectification of women? (And according to Gloria Steinem, or Ms. Magazine anyway, that’s exactly what a real feminist believes.) After all, shouldn’t a woman value herself (and be valued) for her brain, not her boobs?

What is it about boobs that has women of all ages, races and socioeconomic statuses running to the plastic surgeon? And it’s not just boobs, people (oh, and it’s not just women). It’s liposuction, chin lifts, injectables, nose jobs, tummy tucks…And the price and pain of these procedures are no longer deterrents. The statistics are staggering. Botox and Restylane are household names. Big Tent Books just published a children’s book called “My Beautiful Mommy” to help kids understand what their mothers are doing to themselves. It's an epidemic. I’m not condemning it, but I’m confused by it. And I’m not quite sure where I stand.

I have plenty of girlfriends who have undergone plastic surgery – some of them are reading this post right now. I don't want them to think I’m judging their decision – at least, I hope I’m not – but I can’t help but feel a little bit sad that these women - young women - went through something so painful and potentially dangerous just to feel better about the way they look. Why is it that their self-esteem is so dependent on their outward appearance? Of course, I suppose the same could be asked about me. Aren’t I the one spending hours jogging all over Joburg to feel better about the way I look? I suppose it’s not much different.

In an ideal world we would accept our physical selves exactly as we are. But what exactly does that mean? Sure, we would have no need for surgical enhancements, but would we also get rid of the concealer…the lip gloss...the Spanx…the curling iron? What about high heels? Am I less of a feminist because I feel better about myself in my Nine Wests than my Nikes? I think most women would say the same…but where do we draw the line?

I don’t have the answers. No profound conclusions today. I can’t even say without qualification that I would never undergo the beauty knife. One day I may consider having rat poison injected into the newly developed crease between my eyebrows. And yet even as I type those words, my heart hurts a little. Because I want for those things not to matter. But that’s just the naïve optimist talking, I suppose. The realist just ordered yet another jar of overpriced moisturizer off sephora.com.

DVRs, detours and other bad analogies

“And what was the purpose of your travel?”

The friendly man at U.S. passport control asked us the question after welcoming us back to the United States.

Roger stumbled through a vaguely generic answer, hesitant to go into the details of our temporary residence, while I stood silent, my mind spinning with possible answers. The purpose of my travel? It was far too early in the morning to process such a multi-faceted question. I suppose a less neurotic person would simply answer with “Business,” or “Pleasure,” or maybe even “Family obligation,” but not me. I said nothing, instead allowing the words to hurl me into yet another bout of overly-obsessive self-analysis.

What is the purpose of my travel? Forgive me if we’ve been down this road a time or two already, but after ten days in the States with most of my favorite people, I can’t help but ask myself what the hell I’m doing living on the opposite side of the planet. In fact, I spent most of the twenty-two hour return flight feeling like I was headed in the wrong direction. What am I doing? How did I get here? What is the purpose of my travel?

But even as I ask the question, I know the answer, I suppose. I came to South Africa because I was curious. I came for a potential career change. I came for an adventure. And I’m here to write about those adventures. I’m also here to get to know Roger’s family. To enjoy the sunshine and a different way of life. And most importantly, I’m here because it’s important for my husband to spend time with his dad before it’s too late. Coming here was the right decision, I know that. And I like my life here, it's just that…

When I’m home, my life in South Africa feels a bit surreal. Like a dream, or an alternate universe. It feels as though I’ve hit the pause button on my ‘real life’ and flipped to a different channel – just to see what’s on – all the while fully intending to go back to my originally scheduled program. And while I appreciate the options my DVR affords me (can you tell I watch too much TV?) and I’m enjoying the Africa channel, I’m starting to itch to see what’s going to happen on the real show – the show that’s on pause. As long as I’m watching the Africa channel, my 'real life' stays on hold.

It’s okay though (she resolves with a smile). I know everything will work itself out eventually. Life is a journey, right? I may be on a detour at the moment, but I’m still enjoying the ride…

That being said, is it wrong to start thinking about steering in a new direction?