I don’t mean to alarm you guys, but I’ve noticed a trend on my blog. Lets look back to June 2008:

http://degrouchyowl.blogspot.com/2008/06/its-time-i-went-invisible-again.html

Friday, June 06, 2008

It's time I went invisible again. Catch you guys on the flipside in a few weeks/months/years - as long as it takes to figure things out. Or be flummoxed to the point where I want to talk/write again.

*sinks*

I then proceeded to go mute for nearly two weeks. Not much by way of a vow of silence, I grant you, but they have been known to run longer.

The year before that… well there are no June-July 2007 archives. That’s because I was on a six month blogging hiatus that started in February with this entry:

http://degrouchyowl.blogspot.com/2007/02/goodbye-cruel-world.html

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Goodbye cruel world. Put a fork in me, I done.

Then there was the summer of 2006, peppered as it was with threats of silence and absenteeism - like the June 12the entry that ends with “I am secretly plotting the murder of my own blog” and the June 19th entry entitled “Put a fork in me, I’m done.” A few weeks later I’d cop out of writing with a cheap grab of someone else’s work that went:

Even just words
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'
doesn't make sense any more.
- Jelaluddin Rumi

In the next two months there was hardly an update, just a light sprinkle of words here or there. In Occtober I’d finally ask:

Will the real Owl please shut up
Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Don't you guys get sick of reading my thoughts? I do.

Four of you claimed you didn’t. I guess that was enough to get me back to blogging.

The year before that, I apparently was in good communication spirits. There’s no sign of my annual silence but 2004 had its trace.

Friday, June 04, 2004

I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want to write no damn stinking articles. I don’t want to take interviews. I don’t want to have to say “uh huh” for two hours while some lonely official tells me his life story over the phone when all I wanted was a short quote. I don’t want to edit crap writing any more. Mine, or anyone else’s. I don’t want to blog.

*breathes*

I need a vacation.

Which takes me all the way back to summer of 2003, when this crazy little corner of the Internet I call my blog was created. And sure enough, just two months in, I was already being nagged to “update already” and began issuing what is now a traditional “Sorry I’ve been AWOL guys, just not feeling up to it” statement.

So, uh, you have to know what’s coming next. The past two months of blogging have been half-hearted at best and now I can barely get myself to type in my URL, let alone put thoughts on to electronic paper. I live most my life absorbing and reacting, but now I have to process. In techno-speak. Owl needs to de-frag. If the past six years are anything to go by, I am likely to come back. Just don’t know when. Or why.

I have been taking this kinda crazy Iron Man fitness class for the past few months. I got into it for an article – one of my company’s mags needed willing guinea pigs to torture and I’m always up for some madness – and then later stayed on because it was effective and fun. Sadly though, I hardly have a week of classes in a row because I tend to travel a lot for work. I think I’ve been to three different countries in the last month alone.

A few weeks ago, after my second disappearance and return in as many weeks, I was helping put the weights and things away, when the instructor gave me this funny look and asked me if I was a spy. I burst out laughing at that. Good joke Mr Fitness. You know I’m just a ho-hum business journalist. No drama or mystery there. But he wasn't kidding. “I mean, you have this amazing background, speak a bunch of languages, are scary smart, fit, and you leave the country at the drop of a hat. You know you could tell me if you were, right?” Which he followed up with one of his I Am Being Quite Serious looks – ala Zoolander.

Oh lordy. Me as a spy. Imagine that. I am so not spy material. First there are my famous ‘creaking joints.’ They’re a bit of an Owl sonar system, so says my brother-in-law. He claims to be able to tell where I am in the house by listening for the clicks when I walk. So much for stealth mode. I wouldn’t be able to sneak up on anyone who wasn’t deaf – which would limit my assignments to Geriatric Reconnaissance. And the clicks would also be damned annoying when I was in disguise, pretending to be someone else. No amount of Inspector Clouseau -esque costuming would be able to mask the sound from my misbehaving ankles. They would be my undoing.

Then there is the question of - aren’t spies supposed to be super dangerous? I am hardly a lethal weapon Mr Fitness. To which he raised an eyebrow and said: “I don’t know about that.” Haha, yes, you’re right, I have been known to drop a weight on my foot or workout to the point where I look green and faint. But, you see, I don’t know much about spying and all that, but I always kind of assumed that you’d be needing to incapacitate OTHERS. Not yourself. That, I doubt I’d be much good at. Unless I had them laughing at me so hard they had an asthma attack. Again, then I’d only be sent on missions against the ill and infirm. Boo.

And even if I manage to learn to direct my self-destructiveness at others – and not those with poor lung function - there is my big problem with lying. I am terrible at it. If and when I ever lie, I IMMEDIATELY begin to die of guilt. Even stupid white lies that you unwittingly say or hear others say on your behalf. Like, for instance, I am actually still feeling awful that I didn’t correct an aunty when she was telling people I go for a 7 mile run a day. I don’t. I WAS doing 7 kilometres about 4 nights a week, which is really NOT the same thing. At the time, I didn’t want to prolong the conversation that had me as the central topic, so I just nodded and smiled as the aunty went on. But then that horrid Truth Serum that seems to run in my veins got to working and since then I’ve been making a point to tell everyone who was privy to that conversation that no, it’s kilometres, not miles, and it’s not daily. Which makes me look more than a bit anal and nutty. Sigh.

Imagine then if I had to LIVE a lie. I could see myself at some diplomatic soiree being introduced as the Ambassador of Elbonia, while in fact I was a secret-agent-woman for M16 or something. Two minutes after smiling politely as the lie was released into the wild, I’d be overcome by remorse, get a terrible stomach ache, and then have to take to the side all those who’d been told of my fake designation, and inform them that um, I also work in data collection. Or something. Anything that at least somewhat covers my actual job. Which would summarily let the cat out of the bag. I’d either be ejected from the country because of my spyishness, or just ostracised for being so money-hungry that I was moonlighting on the side of my diplomatic job.

The only thing that makes me remotely spy material are my looks, but those too are also my undoing. Yes, I am average to the point of it being ridiculous – average weight, average height, average coloring. Add to that my mixed bag of mixed-race facial features and you have the World’s Most Generic Woman. I have passed for all races but black and all my adult life people have been telling me I look ‘exactly like someone they know.’ But…. I wear hijab. Which again, like my creaky joints, would be a bit of a giveaway. My arch nemesis, The Claw or whoever, need only be on the look out for a suspect in: a scarf, a turban, a strangely large hat, a bloody head bandage, a mummy costume, an astronaut’s suit, a nun’s habit or a suit of armor. Even at a fancy dress ball, he need only say “Everyone, remove your head gear!” and I’d be smoked out. Alas.

So, my hilariously non-astute personal trainer, what appears to be a deliberately dull and harmless façade for my exciting life of mystery and intrigue is…actually just me. *shrug*

I dedicate this post to my dad:

Did you know I talk about you all the time? Tell people stories about you. Do the accent mom swears I ham up way too much. Explain how much you love to feed people and talk. Try and describe you to the many people who know me but not the family/circus of which I was just one of the many acts. It's funny that after a near lifetime of trying to define myself against and in spite of you - I now spend so much time plainly and even proudly showing others the traces of what I am from you. And wishing I'd inherited more.

The father I talk of is Legend. He is larger than life. In the stories I tell, you see this earnest but spacey silver bearded gentleman in an apron, feet spread wide as he stirs pots of food on the stove (some possibly burning) and expounds on religion, politics and life. And just when you think you've heard the entire record - I used to swear I'd memorized all your monologues - you bust out with a new one or a completely unexpected joke, cracked with one of mighty Mongolian eyebrow up and the other down and your mouth turned up in a grin that is contagious. My abbu.

You are larger than life and yet, we're practically the same height. And somehow I have never thought of you as a small man. No one does. You're all heart and muscle - you love, share, sacrifice and humble yourself for others. You manage to be the biggest man I know even though I can now see over the top of your white-haired head.

Mom used to always tell me she married the nicest man she ever met. I used to think she obviously didn't get out much. Turns out it was me that lacked the exposure. Not everyone's dad would cook, clean and look after four kids while their mom went home to be with her own sick father. And few of my friend's dads have been as willing to make others laugh as you are. Any time we gave you a gift you would wear the wrapping bow on your head and most pictures we have of you you're pulling a funny face. Though you never remembered my birthday, you seemed to always know when I wanted ice cream and would come home with my favorite flavor in the bag. (“Abbu how’d you know!” “I just have feelings. A father just does.”) And though I spent my teenage years in an impenetrable shell, when I finally came out, there were no reproaches for the years gone. I know in many ways I defied the expectations of your culture and generation of how a girl should be, you've amazed me by accepting and even being proud of who I am. It was you who looked after my clippings and it humbles me every time you ask me my opinion about a problem. I hope to always make you proud.

And though we do still have that vein of friction – probably a permanent state between a conservative desi father and his noncomformist tomboy daughter - I think I realize now that it exists more so because we are so much alike. You are probably the biggest reason why I have character - I never saw you to lack it. And you're the reason why I have what the rest of the family calls my cast-iron will, because you, my little-big abbu, has never let circumstances hold you back. You are loyal to a fault – and so am I. And though I am introverted in ways that always perplex you the garrulous extrovert, I know the art of conversation and the joy of giving and hosting because of you. You taught me how to laugh at myself, to be humble, to work myself to the bone, to remember God, to serve others, to be patient and to hold myself upright.

I know I never say it enough, because I am prickly in ways that I’ll probably never be totally rid of, I love you. Thank you.

I put a banana in my purse this morning as I was running out the door with the vague notion of – when I get to work, and when I get hungry, I shall eat this. Instead of what I usually do, which is stumble out of the house with little more than chai and a corner of toast in me, then at work drink about four cups of tea while emailing my roommate or my sister or whoever I feel like throwing a boomerang at that day with the articulate and endearing message of “I AM HONGRAY!” Bananas in purses is what is known as being a Grown Up. Or planning. Or something.

Incidentally, right now, at ten to ten, I am drinking a large flagon of tea out of my pirate mug and eating peanut M&Ms. So much for grown up. Also, my purse and the person who carries it smell like lunch at the Primate House. I am obviously awesome. And an 8-year-old. With a caffeine problem.

I try though. Really I do. I woke up this morning and very methodically ironed an extremely fussy skirt with panels and pleats and an equally fussy shirt that sort of ties like a judo gi while looking like what Japanese Barbie Wears to Office. After zipping and tieing myself into the ensemble, I then took all up a notch and put on … make up. Damn straight. Owl wears make up. This, by the way, I believe is one of the portents of the Apocalypse. Ask Nostradamus. He knows. But yes, the reason for the extra effort is once again I’m interviewing some fancypants CEO today and have to look the part. And before the banana was drafted, I put on one of my five pairs of knee-high boots for the extra height to keep my swooshy skirt from dragging and also maybe making me seem extra Grown Up. Because the root of grown is GROW, and tall people are thus all much older and stuff. So in 3 inch heels, I could not possibly be a 26 year old pretending to run a magazine. Nuhun.

I then got in my car and drove myself to work. Only doing a bit of the speeding, weaving and taking turns at absurdly high speeds just to hear the tires squeal. Because I am mature now, donchaknow. Also, I think it may have had something to do with the fact that traffic was unusually bad and there wasn’t much space to act-out. Then when I got to work, I boldly went where no-one-who-valued-the-undercarriage-of-their-car-would-go, and parked relatively near my office (for once, sparing me the 1 km walk in Dubai’s heat), and got out. Only to feel a slight strange dragging about the hips and waist, upon which I looked down and realized my skirt was trying to go south for the winter. You see, the tailor who made the thing had forgotten to put in the customary button or hook to keep the long side zip from slowly opening on its own. By the time I’d made the drive to office, all my fast-turns and manic driving had apparently put enough pressure on the zip to begin its slow decline and my bound out of the car was all it needed to become a serious menace to public decency. I grabbed it before it made its escape and quickly zipped it back up and continued my power-walk to the office.

So now, I am at work, looking EVER so grown up with my mascara (which, btw, is ANNOYINGLY ITCHY), tall boots, complicated blouse and swooshy skirt – all of which is only slightly marred by the fact that every few minutes my hand strays to the zip which I try to discretely pull closed again. Because, of course, I wouldn’t have a spare safety pin on me. I mean, what, a hijabi, carry extra pins? What an absurd idea. That would be too responsible of me. And take all the spontaneity out of life. What fun would it be if I didn’t regularly try to keep my scarf on with a bent paper clip and my clothes on with staples? Hmm? Exactly.

I think though, I am pulling it off. As in, despite my wardrobe malfunction, I can still look Grown Up. Because there is precedent for this. You CAN be perfectly authoritarian and stuff while keeping a hand on errant bits of clothing. Napoleon did it. Seriously, think of all the paintings you’ve ever seen of the guy. Didn’t he ALWAYS have his hand in his jacket? His shirt must have been doing naughty things and he was keeping it in check. And because he was also a totally self-assured megalomaniac with plans for global domination, no one was the wiser. So, as long as I spout pithy quotes, go about dissing England and shouting I Love Josephine, I shall be set. Also, um, I may have to invade Russia. Ah well. Anything for the job.

A good friend of mine requested I write about fear, stress and anxiety. Well, first he asked me to write about love, goals and dreams, and when I stopped snorking and saying “ewww!” he switched over to the bleaker topics. Since he was so kind to offer a less mushy alternative, I will oblige.

Not exactly sure what J-man had in mind with the request, but I am going to assume I am somehow going to share a sort of ‘how I manage the Troublesome Trio’ rather than a ‘guess what freaks me out’ post. Because that would be kind of useless and what if one of you blurkers is a psychopath who is waiting for me to confess my fear of dustbunnies and begins mailing me packages of them? Could happen.

Beginning with fear. I guess that one is pretty simple My rule is – live fearlessly. That isn’t to say I don’t ever feel fear. For all the sweet superhero nicknames and no-so-sweet robot ones I’ve been given over the years, I assure you I’m all human. And that means I have all the perks and crap that comes with the territory. I just try not to let them get in the way of doing things that I should or want to do. Yes I know the argument that humans have evolved to feel fear for a reason – that it keeps us safe from harmful things. But I think most of us nowadays tend to be controlled by fear and survival has nothing to do with it. We’re frightened of failure, embarrassment, letting others down, disapproval, poverty, discomfort…and we let those fears keep us from living much of a life. We stay in our comfort zones, where nothing is scary.

It’s kind of hard to get out of there though, especially if you’re prone to anxiety – which I have been most of my life. It helps to walk through your fears. What is the worst that can happen? You fail? Big deal – at least you tried. You took a risk and were bold. To me the other option of not trying has a guaranteed worse result – it makes me a gutless pansy who lets fear rule them. But what if you try and fail but, to top it off, you made a fool of yourself? Well, humility is a lesson worth learning. Or what if you hurt yourself? Every hardship borne with patience wipes away sins and makes you stronger. What if you become crippled? That may be the one thing that makes you truly learn to appreciate your life. And the supposed worse-case scenario - what if you die? Conveniently, I believe your time is written and there’s an afterlife, so there’s no point in worrying. You can’t delay or speed up your death either way – it will simply come.

To me the only scary thing is the loss of faith. Because at the end of the day, the only thing that actually has any value or permanence is how you measure up in the eyes of God. All the pains of this life are temporary – as are its joys. But the next life, well that’s forever. And the one opinion or judgment you should worry about is that of your Creator – Him you owe everything and He has all power. So that is the only thing I would really bother worrying about and making a conscious effort to avoid. And thankfully, loss of faith is ENTIRELY in my own hands. No one can take my faith from me. It lives in my heart and my mind, both of which are out of reach of prying hands. No matter what state my life, my body, or my world, I can always have my faith provided I choose it.

So once you realize that there is really little to be afraid of in life, you can then work towards managing stress and anxiety – which are sort of the starting points and fuel for paralyzing fear.

I find managing stress harder than dealing with fear. Fear is more potent and immediate – it’s an emotional dynamo that you can’t help but notice. I also find it easier to counter – if you’re scared of say skydiving, one second’s application of will and you’ll have thrown yourself out of the plane and conquered your fear. But stress is a slow burn that builds. You don’t always realize it’s there till it’s picked up some momentum and then it’s hard to put out. Keeping the stress down is a daily challenge for me, living in a crazy city, working as a journalist, being the second in command at my magazine and trying to be a responsible member of my family. It’s not easy. My ongoing battle with migraines, insomnia and ulcers testifies to the challenge it poses to me to this day.

It may help to think of stress as being of two kinds – the kind you can’t help, and the kind you can. The kind you can’t help is part of life – your writer misses his deadline, an interviewee cancels, your boss makes you the whipping boy for something that was his fault. Those things are going to upset you. You’d be a machine if they didn’t. But you can’t let them have any more of your time and energy than they are due. Feel your pain or indignation, and then get over it. Chances are none of those stressors are so dire that they should ruin your day or even more than an hour of it. If you’re still pissed or worried about something that happened hours later, that’s probably unnecessary. Go for a run, or hang out with someone who makes you laugh, or listen to some music. Let it go.

The reason why sometimes it’s good to have a time limit on stress is because you have to be careful not to let your reaction roll into stress you CAN help. I do what I can, when I can, and then I force myself to let it go. You can only try, you can’t control everything. Once you’ve done your best, you have complete permission to release your stress. Some of us develop this bad habit of actually stewing in our stress. We hold to all the pain and uncertainty – worrying perhaps that if we don’t force ourselves to feel the misery, then something bad will happen. It doesn’t really. There is no point in being miserable in advance. Either stuff will happen, or it won’t – regardless of how happy or unhappy you are beforehand.

Anxiety is another side of the stress you CAN help, but I think it’s less outward and more inward in origin. The s*** needn’t hit the fan for one to become anxious. It’s nearly all preemptive or overreactive. Anxiety is some kind of psychological quirk that some of us develop after years of relentless stress. You become shell-shocked in a way, but instead of always diving for the foxholes when you hear a bang, you turn minute things into portents of upcoming disaster. You spend way too much of your time trying to spot things before they happen, as if you seeing a tragedy coming would force it turn around and walk the other way. It is like the stress you CAN help, except you’re not just wallowing in misery, you’re actively trying to piece things together to predict its arrival. And obviously if you go through life trying to see crap everywhere, it’s going to stress you out. Your anxiety levels build, your heart rate is constantly accelerated, your body gets exhausted from the overactive production of adrenaline, and you burn out. It’s not helpful.

Again though, it’s hard to get a hold on. The best thing to do is to slowly wean yourself off of it. When you find yourself slipping into anxiety, try and redirect yourself. Remind yourself that you’ve been wrong with your predictions most of the time in the past. And even if you are right, go over the list of the feared possible outcome and remember how each can be a boon, not just a bane. If you don’t consciously unwind yourself, the anxiety only builds and it takes less and less to freak you out. You have to make sure it doesn’t rack up.

And to help manage all three, I make sure every day includes some detoxing. I pray, which reminds me of my priorities, the good in my life, and drops my heart-rate to resting levels. I exercise, which is a positive outlet for frustration or anger. I write, which is a good stock taking and outlet for thoughts I maybe wasn’t addressing. I try to make sure every day has something I find useful in it – I like to cook and do things for my friends.

I know it sounds like a whole lot of work but in the end, it’s one of those things that’s worth the effort. Life is too short to be miserable. And J-man, if I can do it, so can you. :)

When I am properly old and mouldy, I think I will be quite grateful I managed to keep this blog on life-support all these years. It may be the only thing I’ll have that passes for a recording of my existence. I expect my memory is going to just be a pile of dust by then. It’s already pretty bad today - stands to reason it would be even dimmer decades down the line. Your mind is like a forest – paths you tread and retread are easy to find, their imprint strong and sound. If you refuse to go back down those paths, weeds will grow, the forest will crowd in, and you’ll lose the thread.

Which is what I do. I don’t dwell on the past. It’s done. Boxed and put away. You can’t go back to it so why bother agonizing over it. And to needlessly recall it, is just that – agony. Either memories are pleasant or unpleasant but I find remembering either variety to be nearly equally painful. The pleasant memories always make me a bit sad, for times gone, friends misplaced, lives altered. Nostalgia is a bitch. And unpleasant ones, well, they weren’t much fun the first time round, can’t expect them to have improved with age. I think I do enough experiencing and analysing – in near microscopic focus - in the present. Once something is dissected, processed and understood, it’s filed away for near perpetuity.

It’s great I suppose, for being able to focus on the now. I don’t consciously carry emotional baggage probably because I’ve dropped it in that metaphorical mind forest and it’s been over-grown and lost. It seems to me that to live with one foot in the past and the other in the future would make for some very inefficient and awkward walking. I know I need to keep going forward, so I’ve sited the target, squared my shoulders, and steamed ahead. Leaving the past behind. Focussing on the present. This I can work with. Now is changeable. Yesterday is definitely not and tomorrow is just a hope. But I can try for today.

But yes, along the way, I forget things. Kind of happens you have whole swathes of your life you don’t seem to ever talk about, stories that you don’t tell, experiences you won’t relive. Generally, I can seem to pull them up when prompted – but many, like my first meeting with UDM/Insurance Guy – I think I’ve lost forever. Which is worrisome. I didn’t realize the permanent cost of this odd coping mechanism I’ve developed. I hoped those memories would be there if I wanted or needed them, but I’m beginning to worry that I don’t even remember what it is that I’ve forgotten. Damn.

Ah well, as long as I manage to forget THAT I have forgotten, maybe I’ll reach that oft-mentioned state of ignorant bliss.

And if not, well there’s always the blog.

(be afraid, be very afraid)

I often suspect that the people in my life privy to all the madness that it contains must think I am either cursed or a compulsive liar. Really, so much insanity happens that sometimes even I can't help but think: “WHAT?! BRAIN, IF THIS IS ANOTHER DUMB DREAM I AM SO GETTING YOU LOBOTOMIZED!” But, sadly, my latest weirdness was pure reality. No need for embroidery or fantasy.

It happened at yet another fancy press to-do at a swank hotel. My boss had dragged me along, trying me out as the new brand ambassador for the company. Yes, I clean up well and talk pretty, but dude, I’m not sure I want to be charming and well behaved full time. He didn’t ask my opinion though. Boo.

After the typical mind-numbing session on something or another where people argue about things no one really has any will or authority to change, I ducked out and headed for the media room to refresh my caffeine charge for the next bout of boredom. I was standing at one of those tall tables, drinking tea and reading over my notes when I realized someone was talking to me. I looked up and there was a smiley yellow-haired gentleman in that typical shabby suit jacket that seems to be standard of Arab journalists. “Sorry, what was that?” I asked. Smiley Blonde Arab Guy must have said something about the session or the weather. It was so dull and trite I didn’t even spare a single memory neuron recording it. Of course the next question was the usual one I get – where are you from? And thus began the typical game of 20 questions I seem to always be subjected to. What do I do? How long have I been in the UAE? Do I like it here? Why did I leave the US? Is my family here too? Who do I live with? Blahblahblah.

I kept trying to get back to my notes and had probably finally given SBAG the message that I was busy when I heard ANOTHER “Hi!” I looked up and found a pop-eyed desi gentleman on my left, smiling a slightly quizzical smile. Sigh, another would-be networker I thought, and stuck my hand out for a shake and introduction. “Hi, I’m Owl with That Magazine.” He shook my hand and kept giving me this odd look. “You don’t remember me do you?” he finally said. "Oh, sorry, no." I’ve been a journalist out here for four years now, and have met and forgotten more people than I’ll ever be able to count. “I read your writings,” he offered. “You write about society and life in a way that is so inspiring! I am always waiting for them.” Huh? I write for a business magazine. There’s nothing about society or life in there – just economic junk. “Hmm… are you sure you haven’t got me confused with someone else? I write pretty dry analysis and things.” He gave me that quizzical smile again. “Oh no, I remember you. You have your picture next to your writings. Very small. But I remember. You have some UK-Pakistan connection, no?” Now it was my turn to look quizzical. My picture? We never run my picture. “I’m from the US not the UK. Are you quite certain it’s me you’ve been reading.” “Oh definitely!” he spluttered. “I remember something you wrote about Kashmir…” And then it hit me. “You mean my column, in the newspaper – two years ago?” “Yes yes! Your writings! You truly inspire me. So inspirational. You find a way to get to the core of the matter. I only read few few of your writings, but I am still inspired.” The guy obviously had some issues with past and present tense but at least now I knew what he was talking about – he liked my column. Past tense.

All the while, the SBAG stood there, smiling patiently. When Unblinking Desi Man stopped to sip his tea, he would jump in. “So what do you think of Obama? He is from your city, no?” Another standard question, which got my standard politically correct and shallow response. I’d just finished my sentence when UDM cut in again. “So you don’t remember me yet?” he asked, leaning close perhaps to jog my memory of his face. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. What was it we interacted about? You’re in PR I see, was it for a story about the company you represent?” He seemed not to recall. “Could be, I have had different different jobs in UAE,” he answered, taking out a pile of business cards from his pocket, fanning them out on the table. “See all these journalists I meet – BBC, CNN, if you want I can help you get a better job. Basically I am journalist myself as well though I am in PR now. Before I was with insurance magazine.” And that is when the lightbulb in my head began to flicker to life. An insurance magazine. That sounded familiar. But I still couldn’t think of how I’d know someone working for that kind of title and why we’d have interacted.

UDM quickly moved on and started asking me how my life was going, and what I was up to, and why I didn’t have a column any more. Meh. I was in the middle of going through the push-button answers when SMAG, who was still standing there, smiling to himself, held up my business card, read my full name out, and piped up: “So you are Pathan?” “Yes.” “What does that mean?” Wait, you’re asking me what being Pathan meant? What kind of question is that and what kind of journalist are you?! I am so not giving you a lesson in Central and Sub-Continental history and anthropology. “It’s an ethnicity,” I shrugged and went back to my tea.

Realizing maybe he hadn’t asked the easiest question, SMAG tried again. “So, are your rings Pakistani rings?” Wha? I looked down at my hands and saw the usual three funky silver rings that I’ve picked up in my travels here and there. The idea that they would be Pakistani, and what that would even mean, never occurred to me before. “No, they’re just rings.” “No significance?” “No significance.” “You don’t like gold?” “No, I prefer silver.” Wow dude, you are so great with the asking of awkward personal questions that are also totally irrelevant. Such a credit to your newspaper you are.

But before I could even take another sip of the tea I desperately needed, UDM goes: “So what is the significance of your rings?” *blinkblink* Uh, dude, if you turn your head a fraction to your right, do you not see and HEAR the gentleman beside you who asked the SAME DAMN QUESTION TWO SECONDS AGO?! But alas, one does not always get to say what they’re thinking, so I just answered “Like I said, no significance.” Not taking the hint, he carried on – “They are not… engagement rings, or marriage rings?” Um, have you ever SEEN an engagement/wedding ring worn on the thumb, middle finger or shaped like intertwined leaves going up and down the right-hand ring finger? “No, they’re just rings. No meaning behind them,” I answered. At this point, the light bulb over my head got a little brighter. Insurance magazine AND marriage questions…this seemed oddly familiar.

Again awkward pause. I’m used to people chit-chatting with me to pass the time, but this had been exceptionally weird and I wanted out. I start packing my bag up when SBAG asks “Do you want to be opera?” Huh? “I’m sorry, what?” “Opera opera! You know!” I just shook my head and smiled confusedly, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Here UDM decides to finally acknowledge the man who’s been less than a foot away from him and says “He means to say you’re very very pretty.” *jaw drop* “I don’t think that it was he meant at all,” I stuttered, and turned back to SBAG. “You mean Oprah?” His smile got even wider “YES! You want to be like Oprah? On TV?” Hahaha, um, no. "Never aspired to be on TV, especially not as a talkshow host." “But you could be,” he opined. Er, thanks? And if that wasn’t random enough, he then asks: “You have seen the aquarium?” Now I am seriously beginning to wonder if someone had spiked my tea, or if this is just a bizarre dream. Aquarium? What? “In the hotel, there is BIG aquarium. You have not see it?” “Oh, no, I’m working so I’ve been in the seminars.” Having allowed SBAG the undeserved privilidge of two questions in a row, now UDM jumps in “Oh yes. It is beautiful. Would you like to go for a walk with me? I will show it to you.” Er, NO. “Um, thanks, but I really have to get going. I’m on the clock here.” UDM looked shattered, but I was not having any more of this. I’d been stuck in this insanity sandwich for the past ten minutes and now I had to get out.

I’d finished my tea and crammed all my things back in my bag and was looking down, trying to remember where I needed to be next, when UDM takes it all to a whole new level of weird. “Your hands, they are…” and at this point, I kid you not, makes some weird inhaling-of-breath-slurping-type-sound before adding “…sensitive. Just by looking at them I can see you are such a sensitive person. So sensitive, tsssssssss,” making that sound again and that weird facial expression some desis do when they’re talking about either something really cute like a baby or something they want to eat. I think I stood there in total shock for about two seconds before I bolted “Uh, I think I see my boss. Gotta run. Bye!”

0_0

What the hell. Seriously, WHAT THE HELL?! How on earth does this kinda crazy crap keep happening to me? And this time – in stereo?! Do I have some kind of gravitational pull that attracts weirdoes? Is there a note on my back that says something like “Single white female lunatic seeks like-minded psychopath?” Is my deodorant the olfactory equivalent of weirdo love potion?

And you know what – I did finally place the guy. Apparently, I’d bumped into him at a press event about three years ago, when he was working with an insurance magazine, and afterwards he’d kept asking a colleague of mine who knew him if I’d consider him for marriage. Shock of shocks, I must not have responded positively to the inquiries.

Sigh. You can’t make this stuff up. You wouldn’t want to.