There was this event at the uni today that everyone seemed to think I needed to attend. It was a lecture and dinner on bike safety. And at least three separate friends forwarded me the invite. I guess that tells me something about how my cycling is viewed.

I didn’t have anything better to do so I thought I’d stop in on my way to my softball game that was happening later this evening. Except, of course, I left the house late, and had to put the pedal to the metal to get there on time. It was your typical mad dash – a couple red lights broken, some cars dodged between, and no slowing down.

When I got there I quickly locked up my bike and ran up to the lecture. I got in a few minutes before the speaker, a doctor of paramedic medicine who looked oddly familiar, got started.

“How many of you bike?” he asked. I and a few others raised our hands. “How many of you wear helmets?” again I raised my hand, mentally adding the caveat of ‘mostly anyways’. “Well, it’s of no use if you drive like a maniac!” the old doc thundered. “Why, just on my way down here I drove behind a young lady who broke two red lights. And I thought to myself ‘You’re gonna die!’”

Then it hit me, why I thought I’d seen him before. I had. About fifteen minutes before, when I biked past him. That ‘gonna die young’ biker was me. Haha, um, er. Yeah, I’m working on that.

Thankfully, he didn’t recognize me without my helmet and coat on. I quickly ducked out after getting my fill of depressing facts (“You will have a run-in with a car for every 4,500 miles you bike – it’s just a matter of time.”) I had a softball game to get to, and if he made me late, well, then I’d have to bike like a maniac again to get there.

Softball was worth it. I’ve had a couple bad weeks after I reinjured my sprained ankle, twisted the other one, and pulled both my quads. But after a week of pills and having both ankles wrapped, I’m finally getting my game on. I had two catch outs today and one of the much needed runs. Now, if I can only get my speed back. Normally, I’m nothing if not fast – not the best hitter and an average fielder, but I can get behind nearly any ball and steal more bases than most. That is - when I don’t have two aching legs that simply do not respond when I need them. Boo. Still, at least I’m not a liability to the team.

So it was a good day – free dinner, interesting lecture, and a good showing on the field. Until my ride home. Did I mention, I, er, got a ticket. For breaking a red light. On my bike. DAMNIT!

I've been the recipient of some very random hugs lately. First was the editor of a student mag I was helping out with (read: "being a superior, condescending bitch about"). I didn't think my critiques and constant questioning of the status quo would endear me to anyone in the group, let alone their stressed out EinC. But when I saw her at a party the other night, she came over and bear-hugged me and told me how awesome she thought I was, and how sad she was that I was leaving, and how we had to get together as much as possible before I go. And I think she meant it.

Then at a dinner of my awesome Muslim Students Association crew I got TWO more hugs - both from a very sweet and slightly anti-social girl who I haven't been the best version of myself around. We've done a lot of work together on some very understaffed projects, so she's seen me frustrated and impatient more than anyone else in the crew. But she still came over and surprised me with a hug in the middle of dinner, and another before I left. Just like that.

I know they were probably just typical social gestures, but I'm still touched. While I tend to think the world of my friends, I don't really expect the favor to be returned. I've had this notion all my life that most people just put up with me, rather than actually like having me around. Yeah, I know, I don't have the healthiest sense of self worth. Meh. So to have these lovely, generous gestures of friendship just given with no reason or expectation, is slightly bewildering. But wonderful all the same.

Go hug someone.

(I am sort of conflicted about whether this blog should stay the non-personal soapbox it's been since I made it, or let it become unfiltered written therapy. Depends I guess on who reads it. All you blurker types, I don't mind letting you have a front row seat in my head. I don't have to look you in the face tomorrow and deal with the judgment. But friends and relatives, I don't know if you guys can handle being given the keys to the kingdom. So if you read something here that shocks, offends, or worries you, do me a favor and pretend you don't know me.)

How can time be moving forward while I'm moving backwards? Instead of getting older, I am somehow becoming young. Softer, not harder - shedding the armor I built up around myself like a snake sheds its skin. With the sloughing off of fear, mistrust, pessimism, propriety, and cautiousness, I get closer to the core. Already I can feel the warmth emanating from behind the last few barriers and hear a hopeful beating.

But God, how necessary were those layers once, pulled tight and held closely shut until they solidified. I wasn’t quite ready for the world I was thrust into. Exposed to the elements too early, it was the only way to survive. With each new sling and arrow came more layers, covering what was once an opalescent pearl with a gnarled shell. In time, I had convinced myself that was who I was - the barnacled oyster instead of what was inside.

Why change now? Because I must. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Life is evolution. I want to keep moving forward, and there’s only so far you can run when you’re chained to such a weight. Cutting myself loose is necessary as much as having my armor was before this.

So it’s strange that at an age when people are just beginning to settle down, I feel like I’m finally taking off. I am the oldest 16 year old you’ll ever meet, instead of the youngest 45 year old you never wanted to know. Divested of that hard shell, I am suddenly light and disturbingly unanchored like a kite waiting for a gust of wind to take it away.

I have years to catch up on and lessons to learn – some that will undoubtedly be painful. But I’m not scared any more.

Dear God,

Where is the edit-undo button. For my life. Because I need it yesterday.

Love,
Owl

Spring is FINALLY here! PRAISE THE LORD! I did it! I SURVIVED A BOSTON WINTER ON A BIKE! This is my Mount Everest moment yo. For a previously non-biking person, who has NO tolerance for cold, and lives 6 miles off campus - this is no mean feat. Alhamdullilah!

Lets have a recap of the past nine months of biking

Hit by a car - 1
Clothes-lined by a car door - 1
Flat tires - 1
Popped chain - 7
Snapped gear cord - 1
Broken bones - none
Fractures - less than one (mysterious knee cap problem, either fractured cartilidge, or severe tissue bruising)
Max miles in one day - 25
Average miles per day - 12
Estimated total miles biked so far - 2,376
Total cost of bike equipment - $140 ($50 for bike, $30 for seat, $15 for quick release seat mount, $15 mud guards, $20 lights, $10 chain and lock.)

The feeling of freedom, youth and strength - PRICELESS.

To those lovely people who have been writing me and asking "What's up?! You sound so lost on your blog! Is everything ok?!" - thanks. I'm feeling a lot better now. Subhanallah! God is truly great and kind. Whenever I've spiralled out, He graciously picks me up and sets me upright again.

In case you're wondering though, no I've not made any decisions, and nothing has really changed. I've just stopped fighting it. I'll be ok with whatever happens because I've put it in God's hands. I trust that answer more than anything I could decide for myself. Now I'm just going to go where the going takes me and wherever that is, I'm certain I'll find what I'm looking for.

*drifts out to sea*

I suppose I should 'splain myself. Not everyone knows, or cares, about my gypsy ways.

I have moved much in my life. My parents both have nomad souls - my dad is the eternal optimist looking for a utopia and my mom is always hanking for the new frontier. So from when I was 8 to when I was 15 we moved every year. Seven moves in seven years. Sometimes it was to a whole new country, sometimes a new city, sometmes just a few blocks away. But they all involved a degree of uprooting and rebirth.

As if that wasn't bad enough, when I turned 18, I decided to go AWOL from the world, and moved myself and Abez to Karachi. Eight months later, my family had joined us and we all moved to Islamabad. We moved one more time within the city before a few years later, making a clean break and shifting the family to the UAE. Then we were in Sharjah for one year, and then Ajman for another. And then last year I moved to Boston for a year-long research fellowship. When that finishes next month, I have to move again. And this time, the choice of where I end up is nearly all on me.

So far, I've really not minded having to move so much. I figure all that exposure and change is probably responsible for some of the better parts of my personality (and sure, probably some of the weirder parts as well. I wouldn't be able to do so many accents and immitations if I hadn't meet so many whack people). Having been an outsider most of my life, I've had to develop an internal reserve of strength independent of my place in a group. And I've learned to appreciate differences and find commonalities with all sorts of people and cultures. The nature of being on the go and knowing my presence is temporary has taught me to value only what is truly precious - people, not things.

But the more I move, the harder it gets. With each shift, I've gotten so much better at being human instead of the aloof little girl I used to be. While the first few times I moved as a kid, I barely had the time to make friends, now I seem to hit the ground running, making connections on the fly. Some (and increasingly more) are very deep. And if those friends aren't globetrotters themselves (like Crayon, Hemlock and Maryam), when I leave I also leave behind the hope of ever really seeing them again. And that is getting more painful than I can bear.

So that's the boat I'm in today. There are people I don't want to leave. But I don't think I can stay. And that makes me wonder if I need to stop all this moving around. Just pick a city, or even just a country, and stick to it. For a little while anyways.

Sorry yos, but I canNOT update right now. I can't be trusted not to say something stupid. So in the meantime, enjoy some comedy.

Go to Youtube, type in Turbans Back, click the top video that turns up and enjoy! Yours truly had a part in making that. :)

When I decided not too long ago, to "live like I was dying," I didn't think that meant I'd die trying to LIVE. But, after a week of near-misses and hilarious catastrophes, apparently, that is what I do.

Living fun? Softball practice. The first round, I was the only one who showed up in sweats - everyone else was just in their jeans and regular shirts - so I thought this time I'd stay in my civvies too. Except, I forget that all those other people in jeans were BOYS and I am a GIRL. And girls' civvies are really NOT conducive to an hour of intense fielding drills. My lovely indigo, low-rise, Levi flares, did not survive the practice. One dive for the ball, and I'd ripped out the thigh. Thankfully, my low body temperature problem spared my blushes, as I was wearing thermals underneath. Still, my fashion sense is decimated. Air conditioned pants during a New England spring, are NOT in.

Living fearless? On stage. How many times do I have to die of mortification before I can say my pride is truly good and dead? I once again got roped into organizing the entertainment for a student event. This time, I thought I'd be smart and delegate the actual performance part to those better suited for it. That went well, but they decided they wanted me to be a part of their show, and next thing I know, I was assigned a script, a British accent, and a new "nice and professional" wardrobe. I then had to put my oily and spotty face before the camera, wearing an uncomfortably fitted outfit, and parade my poor Mary Poppins for all the world to see. There is now video evidence that I am no Julie Andrews and Monny Penny's job is safe. My acting career is dead.

Living free? Biking. All cyclists live in fear of one thing - the dreaded clotheslining. That's what happens when someone parked beside you suddenly opens their car door as you pass. The resulting collision resembles The Three Stooges Joins Cirque du Soleil, where you go flying head over heels, and may or may not do a couple turns midair before you land somewhere in traffic. I was rushing to a ball - no joke - when I had my date with a door. The driver of a lovely gold SUV timed her entrance just right so that I was perfectly parallel to her when she introduced her car to my handlebars. Me, my bike, and my new high heels all ended up on different parts of the road. Thankfully though, I wasn't really hurt, but my confidence on the road is in the ICU right now.

Living open? My big mouth. I normally tend to be pretty private. You've got to know me for years before I tell you about my childhood, my challenges, or my fears. But in my old age, apparently the screening process has gone out the window. It's verbal dysentery meets senility. Suddenly I've been telling some people things that if I took a second to think, I'd realize were better left unshared. Like, hmmm, the joys of having a fat teenagehood. And why my hands are so scarred. And the name of the monster I think lives under my bed. If I don't clam up soon, my sense of mystery (and sanity) is gonna be killed.

(P.S - I think I'm getting myself in even worse trouble. And I think I've figured it out too late. Only thing I can do is deny it.)

It's a quiet tinkling, the sound of my sands. I hear them, falling down, falling forward, sometimes faster, sometimes slow, but always falling. No matter how far and fast I travel, they follow me. Now the sound grows louder. A deafening silence that echoes patiently in the corners of my mind. When it's dark, and everyone has gone home, that sand is all I hear. My time is running out.

I don't know why it is that I live this way - always moving. I'm like a spool of thread that long ago was idly set adrift and has been unravelling ever since. The spool dances by, shedding its tangled layers. Perhaps its that covered core that I am trying to get to. Or maybe it is the thread I need to castoff, trailing like a lifelind behind me. Or it could be that I am simply running from myself - from commitment, stagnation, and mortality.

In a month, I move again - the dozenth time in my short life. And like each time before the last, I leave a piece of me behind.

I only have so many left to give.

It's funny, the difference between how we think of ourselves, and how we really are. In my case, it's pretty darn hilarious. I'm so left-field, I should just concede defeat and whenever I form an opinion about myself, just move two fields over to the right for good measure. That'll get it somewhere nearer to accurate.

Like for instance, I like to think of myself as a pretty stoic person. In the movie reel of my mind, I see myself as a kind of female Clint Eastwood - silent, sceptical, reliable and constant. If you were writing a crappy paperback about me, the text would go a little like this... "Owl stared across the vista, thinking, wondering. Her hardened squint took in all with an unforgiving gaze that spared none, including herself. That was just the way she liked it, for Owl needed no protection, no one and no thing." Those of you who know me have permission to laugh. Yes, it is TOTALLY wrong.

I'm nothing of the sort. I am a flippant, uncertain, goofy, changeable, confused, confusing, human quicksilver. I have near monthly meltdowns, where I throw EVERYTHING up in the air and have to redefine and resettle it all. That's when my army of faithful friends are called, written to, sought out, to help back together this very stroppy and self-destructive Humpty Dumpty. They kindly sit by me as I hold up to the light every aspect of my patchwork personality, considering whether to keep it or throw it in a kind of psychological house-cleaning. And one some occasions, they have to talk me down when I seriously consider throwing it all out and starting afresh.

And I like to think of myself as fairly indestructible. Or as my lovely Abez would sing "I AM INDEFATIGABLE!!!!!" But I'm not. I don't know why I pretend I am. Considering the amount of times I've wiped out in life, physically and metaphorically, you think I'd have wised up to this by now. But no, I keep on plodding ahead, pushing myself to my very limits, playing in traffic. Because I have to know, I have try, and I have to feel. To borrow a sentiment from my girl Hemlock, I live my life like a glorified science experiment, where I am the litmus paper, beaker and thing that goes BOOM all in one.

Given these two very painful propensities, of course I tend to be a bit tightly strung. Except that, well, that wire is very well buried so most people don't know that it's humming so high a sneeze could snap it. But it's just the natural result of these self-eviscerating habits. My poor traumatized soul knows the drop is coming eventually. Deny it though I may, that I screw up with fair regularity, the scars are still there.

Which is why I shouldn't have been surprised when the other night when a friend, who I've only known for a few months, quietly said "Hmmm... you panic too much." What, me panic?! Never! I was so taken back by the accusation that for a solid five minutes, tried to convince them I didn't. But then another few minutes later, my subconscious volunteered the admission - um, yes WE DO! And I remembered all those years of being so shy the idea of talking to people would make me feel ill. And then later, how many times I've called up Abez saying EDIT MY COLUMN, I THINK I'VE LOST MY TOUCH! And just a year back, how something as innocuous as being stuck in traffic and missing an interview would give me a panic attack. And even now, talking to certain people who make me nervous can set my heart racing. I'm no expert, but all this sounds like a panicky person.

And yet I persist in this silly idea of what and who I am. I guess it's wishful. On some level, I probably realize I'm a transparent cartoon character of a human being, but I keep hoping that I can fake it till I make it. One day, I'll wake up with the cowboy squint and bulletproof exterior and I'll be set. Till then - denial aint just a river in Egypt.