I am beginning to worry about myself. There are times in your life when you have every right to be scared. It’s not only allowed, but expected. Times like – when you’re being mugged. When there’s a riot. Or when you’re jumping out of a plane. That, ideally, should be scary.

I wasn’t scared though. Skydiving is meh. Everyone does it. It’s like a roller coaster – so controlled that you’re more in danger of dying crossing the road then jumping from a plane. And I’m going tandem, with a seasoned sky-dog on my back. Nothing’s gonna happen. That’s what my brain was thinking during the fly up from the Ras Al Khaimah Aero Club to the fated pocket in the sky from where I’d jump.

It was a long ride. So long, I actually got a bit bored. The view was lovely, but blinding, so I spaced-out. Of course, when I’m not engaged, my face goes into screen-saver mode – which looks sad to people. “Hey! smile!” the jumper in front of me shouted over the roar of the engine. I offered an obliging grin but not enough to put off concerns that I may be quietly panicking. The instructor strapped to my back tapped me on the shoulder and leaned close to my ear. “Are you alright? You’re awfully quiet. No need to be worried you know. You’re in great hands.” I laughed. I’m not worried. I’m thinking. “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that if I were you,” he answered.

I watched the clouds misting by the window for a good 15 minutes, with the dial of my instructors altimeter periodically telling me how much longer a wait we had. Finally we reached 9,000 feet and the door of the van-sized plane we crammed into was opened. First our two synchronized skydivers jumped out, in their funny suits and hands clasped. Then came my friend’s turn. She and her instructor hobbled over to the open door, and waffled a bit while the instructor got her to sit down properly and get her feet over the edge. In a second they too were gone. I was still not feeling much. Just curiosity. It was loud and cold, and I’ve always been drawn to edges. What’s over the other side, I wondered.

In a few seconds I’d find out. We crawled over to the door. I sat down, my Converse dangling over the edge, my feet swinging wildly from the pressure of the air. “Ready?” my instructor shouted. Below the world was a swirl of sand. I gave him the thumbs up and locked my arms. We counted to three, rocking forward on one, backwards on two, and on three we roll forward. I see ground, sky, ground, and maybe sky and ground again. I’m not sure. The world is spinning so wildly and it’s so cold and windy that it’s taken my breath away.

I’m stunned. All my composure couldn’t prepare me for what it actually FEELS like to be hurtling towards the ground at 120 miles per hour. Never a screamer I shock myself with the sound of my own screech and laugh. But before I can really come to enjoy the feeling of my eyes tearing and my cheeks rippling in the wind - only 30 seconds of wide-eyed staring at the fast approaching ground below - my instructor taps my shoulder. It’s time to cross my arms and grab my shoulder harness before he pulls the cord. The kaleidoscope of color I’d been watching makes a jarring shift as the wind catches our shute before it comes back into focus – now slower and more clear.

Hanging like a mouse in a cat’s mouth, I gently float down. Below I can see the runway and our landing zone. I reach up and take the directional controls from the instructor and steer us around in a smooth spiral. Soon the airplane that so rudely tossed us out, lands below. It would be a dreamlike state except for the pressure from the harness across my chest and around my legs reminding me of the force of gravity exerted on me. Suddenly I feel a little remorse for all those plastic soldiers I savagely tied to handkerchief chutes and tossed from my balcony window when I was little. It couldn’t have felt very nice. I had no idea.

Still, it’s a lovely ride. We swirl about in the air over our landing zone and take in the view – the coast, the desert, the highway we drove in on, the local liquor shop my oblivious instructor points out to his teetotalling charge. Soon we seem low enough to be plucked from the sky like ripe fruit. The instructor reaches up and takes the controls from me and we prepare to land. After a nauseatingly small spiral down, we straighten out and pull up just before we touchdown, running. Smiling. Still not scared.

Subhanallah. What fun.

I have 20 minutes to update. Can she do it?!

Er, probably not. But I’ll try anyways.

I've been asked "doesn't anything serious ever happen in your life." In spades. But it's pretty boring stuff. Wouldn't you rather hear about how much of a goof I am? No? Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you.

I'll tell you about the job then.

Work is going well. I actually enjoy it. So far anyways. It’s weird, after so many years, to finally be somewhat in-charge again. I’d been boss back in Pk, but since I came to the UAE I was relegated to a cannon-fodder position. Not being expected to lead or represent, I sort of slipped into the comfortable role of office free-spirit. It was also the only time in my life I’ve probably really acted my age. I was 23 when I came out to the UAE and was made a reporter. Then, instead of worrying about image and leadership, I just got to be me, with little responsibility beyond my own performance. And it was fun – when I wasn’t chasing down stories and taking interviews, I was goofing off with friends in the office, always ready with a joke, with a box of homemade cookies on my desk and my little Styrofoam cow to throw at people when I was bored. Good times.

Now, I’m boss. Not The Boss. A boss. I have a team of writers, designers and others to direct. And it’s kind of scary, but at the same time, thrilling. I love problem solving. It was a lifetime ago when my best subjects in school were math and science but apparently I'm still a nerd. Being given charge of the engine of my magazine’s production presents an efficiency challenge to me. I’m all about setting up the systems to reach peak performance with minimal stress and drama. I like cutting the fat and focussing on actual KPIs. And yes, I DID just speak management nonsense at you. Booya. If you kept your reciept you can ask for a refund. But yeah, so far at the new job, I’ve had free rein to do that – which is awesome. It’s so rare that you actually get to try your ideas. I feel blessed to be given a chance.

And then there’s the people-handling. Out of office, I’m a super chill person. I love everybodies. I take people as they are and don't try and change them. Actually they are kinda like mathematical formulas – once you understand the equation, you can plug in the variable and plot the graph. Knowing ‘the formula’ of a person also makes it easier to see where they come from and communicate with them in the language they speak. But generally that means I'm passive and accomadating - not particularly boss-like qualities. And also, impersonal mathematical metaphors aside, I just like to make people laugh. So in social situations I generally spend a lot of time telling stories and jokes.

As a boss-lady though, being Chuckles McChill isn't considered good form. Turns out I’m supposed to to command authority. Which, coming from a middle child, anti-authoritarian like me, isn’t easy. Normally, I'm content to follow. So long as I'm being led well. Screw up my work with bad management and you have one revolt-happy peasant on your hands. And then there’s the problem of politicking. That, I hate. People should be honest and genuine. But there’s a part of office life that is insincere – like being friendly with someone who’s a jerk, or asking your boss about his health when you don’t really care, or listening to someone vent when you don’t think they’re in the right. I worry about becoming this super corporate robot person and losing myself. I mean, right now I can tell myself that if I do any of those things, it’s just to be polite and not to get ahead. But who knows. I gotta be careful this doesn't eat my soul.

So, yeah, should be interesting times ahead. The Big Boss has given me permission to implement a new productivity cycle and come the middle of next month, I’m going to be leaned on very hard as Medium Boss goes away on holiday. Wish me luck yos. Owl’s gotta pretend to be fancypants and she aint. She’s busted pants.

And yes, that was OFFICIALLY the MOST BORING BLOG POST EVER! *confetti* *horns* *spray cheese*

Move over Janet Jackson. I am the QUEEN of the wardrobe malfucntion. The Super Bowl Shocker is an amateur. Yes, I know she did expose rather some taboo parts of her body, but given that she was already flashing 90%, to accidentally go the last 5%, big whoop. I, who attempt to COVER 90%, am forever flashing a far higher number.

I had two, COUNTEM, TWO – wardrobe malfunctions in one day.

Firstly - knockknock!

A friend of mine (HEM!) is very kindly hosting me while I get my junx together and decide whether or not fame and fortune is going to suddenly find me and spare me the indignity of getting my own seedy apartment. So far, I’m still holding out. (PSST, SPOTLIGHT – HERE I AM!!!!)

So I get home before her every evening, and without fail I leave the key in the lock inside, which prevents Hem from being able to open the door and let herself in. It’s become nearly a ritual - I hear a patient but slightly exasperated knock at the door, jump up from my sloth while apologies and jibberish pour from my mouth, fumble with the lock, and let her in. And she wonders why she's letting me live with her.

I got home late the other evening and was in a rush to simultaneously eat something solid, change out of my work clothes, pull on my softball gear, find my glove and run out the door before my game started. Also, about half a million people were pinging on the messenger whatsit and my phone was ringing. I’d just put some chicken to grill and was half way out of one shirt and into another when I heard a tentative rap at the door. “OH NO!” I garbled from inside my jersey. “I’m COMING!” Which, to the outside listener, sounds like: “MRPHMRPHMRPH!”

I pulled my face through the headhole, located one arm, and pulled back the curtain that covers the nearly FULL LENGTH WINDOW that is Hem’s front door. But of course, I forgot to mention, the window door has that weird tinting on it that prevents you from being able to see OUT, while letting who ever is on the other side see in quite clearly - like an interrogation room mirror (don't ask me why I know bout those 0_0). It occurs to me that the door may be on backwards. Hmm. Dunno why I hadn’t thought of that before.

But yes, so half-in-a-shirt Owl, without hijab, yanks back the curtain and then suddenly thinks, Wait, what if it’s NOT Hem? So I do this futile peering through my hands thing, trying to look out, and see nothing. And yes, all the while not quite dressed. Well who else would it be?I ask myself, and wrench the door open. Only to find… the new neighbour. A very dignified gentleman by the name of Lauren. He was coming to introduce himself and invite all the building residents over for drinks. And was at that very moment, I’m sure, rethinking his move to the neighbourhood.

To make matters worse – which is what I specialize in – not only did I meet a stranger at the door looking like a lunatic escaping a straight jacket, but at some point my stupid brain made a bizarre executive decision. It didn’t want to frighten the neighbour further by slamming the door in his face – so I stood there politely nodding, half hidden behind the curtain, as I surreptitiously righted my clothes and pulled the hoodie on my jersey over my head. Which I’m sure made me seem even MORE normal. “Yes, well nice to meet you,” (shifts shirt around) *SMILE* “Welcome to the neighbourhood!" (rams hoodie over escaping mane of hair) “Thanks for the invite!” (pulls neck of shirt closed)

Oh, and did I mention the suspicious smell of burned flesh was wafting from my house – as I’d forgot my dinner on the stove. Lauren excused himself in a hurry and you know I haven’t seen him since and his house is looking suspiciously empty.

Sigh.

But it gets BETTER. Next up - The TEAR!

I went to softball right after that. We had a double header and I was EXCITED! I love softball. I really do. Makes me happy. I play second base, which is a pretty happening spot on the in-field. Not as in-the-line-of-fire as shortstop, but very involved. If the ball is hit anywhere but right to a fielder, it gets sent to second, where I’m ready to catch and tag the runner out.

Of course it’s rarely as neat and simple as all that. In the heat of the game, lots of times the ball gets thrown wild and I’m expected to be one part ball-player, one part gymnast – keeping one foot on the base while I lunge in the opposite direction to catch a ball. It’s a miracle I haven’t snapped any limbs off, sprained any joints or torn any muscles.

But this time, something DID tear. We were on the field, and there was a crazy hit over third. The runner on base was already past me and the batter was coming up fast to second. The fielder threw short and I sort of collapsed like a folding table to get the ball and the out - an ESPN-like play that had a strangely blood-curdling soundtrack. RRRRRIPP! One of the most chilling sounds in the world is the sound of the back of one's pants giving way. I popped up like I’d been bit, but didn’t have a second to think before I noticed the second runner barrelling down to home plate. I cocked my arm and threw, getting the runner out and making a double play – or triple if you counted my own ‘outing’.

At this point, we still had one more out to make before I could head into the dug-out. Do I call time and shout to the umpire that I’ve had a wardrobe malfunction, or do I keep on playing and hope the girls in the outfield behind me aren’t blinded. Hmm. Decisions decisions. I gambled on my pants having a dark colored lining and my shirt being long, and kept playing. After catching the last out, I did an awkward sideways run into the dug-out that would make any crab proud. There my team-mates were all “What happened to you! You had such a funny look on your face during that play!” Uh, guys, my pants have suddenly acquired air conditioning. “NO!” Yep. Thankfully another player had a spare pair – which to my GREAT luck, turned out to be the breakaway variety. Pants designed to SHOOT OFF at the slightest provocation. But at least the seat was sound. So I ducked over the bathroom and changed.

Was the problem solved – er no. Cuz remember my speciality. Every play I made that inning resulted in one snap or another popping open, usually around the knee or the thigh. *STRETCH* *POP* *JUMP* *POP* *RUN* *POP* Dear LORD. If I sneeze and laugh at the same time this could be the death of me. Or all of the spectators anyways. But I looked around and realized when you’re playing on a field covered in scantily clad girls in shorts and sleeveless, there’s really little chance anyone’s noticing the one veiled up, long sleeved, panted girl who’s got a tiny bit of skin showing. So in between plays I just pulled the extra safety pins from my hijab and pinned the pants together as best as I could, and carried on.

And that, my dears, is why I am Self Hazardous Material of the MOST hazardous sort. I hope you found some pleasure in my extreme mortification. That is all I ask for in life.

Blogs are best written when one shouldn’t be writing them, and about topics that one shouldn’t be talking about. No?

I’ve got so much work to do my to-do list has it’s own spreadsheet, but that can’t be helped. I had about four hours of hardcore productivity and now my brain has left the building. Which of course, is the ideal time to attempt to write some material for this qualitative blog I run. *guffaw*

So what’s my taboo topic? Flirting.

It has been said, and conceded, that I wouldn’t know I was being flirted with unless you sent me a formal memo with a statement of intent. Even still I’d think you were joshing. Whoa. Seriously? You sure? Um. Why? What’s it do? The difference between light-hearted conversation and flirting I don’t seem to get. Me, I’m always happy to laugh or make someone else laugh. I’m nearly pathologically incapable of being serious for more than five minutes at a stretch. But my kidding around is equal opportunity and not gender specific. If you’re there, and you have a sense of humor, I’ll bounce some banter off you. That’s it.

But even me, in my infinite spaciness, have to admit that lately, weird stuff has been happening. I’m being flirted AT. And by the most random and inappropriate people.

I was at a very hootin-falootin conference this week. Two of them actually. At one – a massive meeting of megalomaniacs and CEO types - I was in stake-out mode – trawling the crowd to grab some famous press-shy folks for interviews. I’d done my second round of the crowd when a guy I dimly noticed on my first pass made a b-line towards me. The dude – an American CEO in his early 40s – said he saw me on the first day, struck up a convo, and in typical journalist manner, I went along with it. When I’m on the job, contacts are crucial and you never know who has a story to tell.

He must have asked me my name, and I assumed that meant he wanted to know who I worked for or what I did. I answered that I didn’t yet have my cards printed, but I did bum some off one of my team members and handed him one. He picks it up and reads it and says “Ah, so you’ve got a name like a porn star!” Wha? Um, I’ve never met a porn star, so I don’t know what they’re named like. He then proceeded to explain how the name had porny implications. Er, I’ll take your word for it. Wondering when he was going to ask for some publicity or something, he surprised me by turning the interview tables on me, asking how the conference was going for me. Meh. It’s my job. I’m here to cover it, not enjoy it. “Yes,” he answered with a leer, “But it doesn’t have to only be business, you could also make it pleasure.” To which I probably offered a confused but polite smile thinking – only way to make this place fun would be to catch it on fire. Still no story or pitch was forthcoming. He was taking too long to get to whatever point I assumed he had, so I bid my adieu. Just before I darted off, he grabbed my hand to shake it, told me his name, gave me his card, and said he’d look forward to hearing from me. Later I realized he never mentioned the desire for print space.

Then there was another dude at yesterday’s Space Conference. Yeah, I know, I’m such a rockstar. One day I’m all Global Domination and the other I’m Space the Final Frontier! This one was even more boring then the other so I was in a less than social mood and more snarky then usual. After listening to one session where adorably delusional scientists rallied on about how important it was for us to colonize the galaxy in a time when economies are collapsing and the world is a mess, I spotted my interview subject. But alas, he was busy. So while he wrapped up his convo, I thought to talk to one of his co-speakers. This was a youngish guy from the US, some chairperson of some space thingie. I introduced myself, made a little polite small talk, and then something weird happened. I think I cracked a joke or something, and the guy’s face just lit up. Like he’d been asleep before and now he was awake and interested. Just about then my real target was free and I had to grab him so I tried to shake myself loose and told the guy I had to run. “Yes, well, but will I see you later today?!” he asked. Uh. Maybe. I dunno. “I’m going to lunch right now, do you want to come with?” he tried again, that super animated hopefulness never quite leaving. Sorry, can’t, I have some more people I have to find. “Will I see you at least before I leave?” Unlikely. And then I left. I had a bunch of elusive Trekkies to track down and a friend to meet up with, and Space Chairboy was the last person on my mind when I finally got home later in the evening. But not forgotten for long, because lo and behold, top of my mail box, was an email from him, wanting to get together before he flew back out to the US. And again, no mention of a story or interview.

0_0

Something is seriously up. Cuz these weird incidences were just two of four dubious interactions that I had in two days – the other ones not as amusing. That’s crazy odds for ‘The Invisible Woman.’ I usually blend into the furniture, chameleon that I am. Or I scare away the natives with my headscarf and/or snarkiness. This is all very out of character. I was really confused by it all, and was thinking I'd got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe these guys just have a funny way of trying to get interviewed.

But I think I figured it out. It’s the no-carb diet. With all that protein I’m eating, I OBVIOUSLY must smell like a steak. Hence the sudden abundance of hungry-looking dudes. They just needed lunch.

I learnt rather a lot of sciencey-flavoured stuff while I was doing The Big Fancy Fellowship. Most of it, rather shockingly, went right over my head with not so much as a by your leave. I mean me and particle acceleration – I LOVE my accelerator! ZOOM! And string theory – why I’m already a believer. Have you ever HAD string cheese? Most of it should have been like preaching to the choir. But alas, I apparently missed the boat on many of those well intended deep science thingers.

But it was not all for naught. I did get some residual benefit from the enterprise. Namely, a shiny new scar on my leg from being hit by a car. Also I learned how to make tandoori chicken. I temporarily got over my stage fright in a hurry. And I even learned something. Or rather, I thought I did. I’m not so sure now.

See there was lotsa talk in those seminars and classes about carbon-based this and that. Peoples and all manner of everything on earth are carbon-based. Heck, thus far we even think everything on OTHER planets is also gonna be carbon-based cuz we’ve not found anything yet that isn’t. Basically if it lives, it’s made of carbon. This is the law. There are no exceptions.

Except. Well. For me.

Ladies and Gents. Friends, Romans and Countrymen. I am a CARB-based lifeform.

You can save yourself the cost of those two other letters. That additional “-on” is unnecessary. I am composed of and fuelled by carbs and carbs alone. Take them away – as I have done this week – and I disintegrate.

What is left? Something distinctly inhuman. It wakes up in the morning rather like an antisocial lava flow – pouring from the bed, to the floor, to the counter where sometimes its housemate has lovingly placed a cup of tea. Otherwise it sort of congeals there while waiting for the kettle to hum. Following that, you would hope that an infusion of caffeine may lend the non-carb-thing some structural integrity, but it doesn’t really. I just go from ooze to something a little faster - an aggravated glacier perhaps.

With the aid of my caffeine – black tea, no sugar and a drop of soy milk – I then move on to preparing the main course – eggs or wholly indigestible flax and bran pancakes. I haven’t decided which I like least – it’s a close running. Eggs bother my stomach and aspiring furniture stuffing flapjacks leave much to be desired – like the removal of my tongue.

The cooking of my limited options happens in slow-mo, partially because yes I am only mildly excited lava – but also because I think I am trying to delay the inevitable – when I have to eat the stuff. Eventually, after much sluggish crashing about in the kitchen, breakfast is ready and quietly dispatched. Lets not talk about it.

After that, fuelled by the entirely unenjoyable meal I then proceed to make my lunch for the day. It too, you guessed it, comes in a similar variety of unappetizing options. It’s either lettuce with chicken, lettuce with beef or lettuce with tuna. For snack, we have tuna with lettuce, chicken with lettuce or beef with lettuce. For variety, we eat celery and cucumbers and a bit of cheese. Just a bit. Somehow I get everything washed, cut, cooked and packed before Armageddon creeps up on me, and then I ooze over to my closet to find something to wear.

That too, is not a very fun experience. One of the reasons why I’ve set off on this new form of self torture is because I’ve put on a few pounds over the years and I don’t quite enjoy getting myself dressed. Everything is just a little snug and I miss the good old days when I was just a grouchy head and sharp fists protruding from a mass of fabric. Ah bless. Now I’ve got meat on me and other such grossness that has no business on an Owl. Bad for aerodynamics.

In another morning miracle, without the aid of limbs or a spine, I manage to pull out things that don’t clash too horribly or make me feel too sausage-like. It is all ironed and dumped over my head. I scowl at myself in the mirror for a bit, grab my lunch and then rush to work, as I’m now two eons late. I started the morning off in the Triassic period and have slipped into the Cretaceous.

At work I pour my lifeless self into my chair and stare at my computer screen with what used to be two bright eyes but are now just kohl-rimmed lumps in the pile of slow-moving sludge. Soon things start to fly at me like business reports, news briefs, freelancer receipts, and flatplans. Letting out a sigh, or that could be magmatic gasses, I set about handling them as quickly as a spineless lump of carbless misery can.

Eventually the day – marked by overly frequent sugar-free trips to the coffee room - rolls to an end. I pack up my bag, say goodbye to the team and direct my flow to my car. After a long drive where I don’t even have the energy for my usual squalling karoking singalong, I reach my destination. The rest of the evening is then spent in these range of activities - trying not to get knocked over by the weight of a softball, power oozing down The Strip, hanging out with carbON based friends, tidying up at home, and eventually flowing into bed and falling into a semi dormant state until morning rolls around and I do it again.

If this is not proof of my carb-based-lifeform-ness, I don’t know what is. Somebody please call NASA. I think I’m going to donate myself to science. Maybe they’ll give me free liposuction and spare me the diet.

In my mail box this morning:

Oh, my little Granola Bar,
I miss your tough exterior and your sweet nuttiness.
What's up darling?
Love. Mom

How do moms always know? Right when I’m feeling my most loathsome and lost, my elusive momma sends me a three-line letter that sets it all straight. I’m not a horrible monster, I’m a GRANOLA BAR. Get it right yos.

Oh hi. You're still here. Sorry this place is beginning to suck again. I'm sort of disillusioned with the internet these days. And people. And the laws of physics. And toe socks.

Sigh. Yes. It is mightily tragedacious. Be thankful you are not me. Otherwise you'd be mired in the muck of mehness. Living on nothing but chicken and boiled eggs. Howling at the moon.

I really DON'T want to explain myself. I already know why this all is and take my word for it, it's totally not worth reading about. Let's not and say we did. Okay? Okay.

Moving right along.

Did you ever notice all I ever do on this blog is talk about me. How disgusting. Who let me get away with that? I mean really, of all the narcissistic little neurotics out there, I of all people should not have been given a blog. Take it back please.

But here I go, talking about myself AGAIN. Make it stop!

Well you know I COULD talk about other things. Like my latest insane undertaking - cuz you know as long as I live and breathe I will forever be trying to do the nearly impossible. This time - it is life without carbs. Yep. Seeing if an owl can live without tea-time and popcorn is a bit like seeing if fish can breathe out of water. So far, I live, but if we're going by the content of this blog, it's not much of a life.

And then there's my job. Cuz I do have one you know. It's not imaginary at all. Ok, maybe some parts of it - I like to think it's an office of the world's rarest hybrid of genius super models, but when I glance in the bathroom mirror I realize it's only me. *pin drop* Oooh, you didn't see THAT one coming did you. Never know what to expect when I haven't had my morning toast. Which apparently powers my ocular acuity. But yes, its real, I do have a job, and today they let me have my own trashcan. They must know I produce all sorts of rubbish.

And I could talk about how my famoree is trying to sell me off to the highest bidder - all of whom suspiciously seem to be 'simple', 'very fair' but actually brown, 30+ 'boys' with mustaches and degrees in computersomethingoranother. Also, they are looking for a 'simple decent girl' who is also, if you don't mind, just a little, you know, stunningly gorgeous. Hopefully with long dark locks and downcast eyes. Just the usual. So yes, matches made in the heaven. The lot of them. Kill me now. At least then I can check up on the factory up there where these things are coming from and see what's wrong with it.

But wait, that is beginning to sound semi informative. And without carbs, we do not do such things. You want me to say something of value you must feed me a cookie. Otherwise, NO SOUP FOR YOU.

I could also write about my latest embarrassments. Cuz also, I still do that a lot. Rather. And then some. This week at softball I ended the game with a bang - which may have just been the sound of my ego exploding. Ever heard of a rundown? I got ambitious and was stealing third when I landed myself in the hotbox. There I apparently broke Dubai softball records by surviving six turns before getting tagged after being tripped by the opposing team. And of course, my greed made me the last out of the game. We lost. But I went down in history. Or was that just sand?

And lastly, I could write about the weather. How I get to go swim in the ocean in NOVEMBER. And I didn't even get drowned or jellyfish stung http://degrouchyowl.blogspot.com/2006/06/ten-things-you-did-not-know-about-me.html or ogled or anything. Which is pretty damn awesome. So you had best be jealous otherwise I shall sick global warming on you.

But I won't. Write about none of it. Because it's still one way all about me. Which is appalling. So I'll spare you. Don't say I never did nothing for you. :P

Nothing is ever truly good. Undeniably beneficial. Safe from scrutiny. Worthy enough. Of our precious time, money and attention. We are a generation of sceptics. Special pride is taken in shattering ideals, popping bubbles, chipping back the glittery exterior to reveal a rotten core. To take apart a concept, belief, action or behaviour is a sport. The champion of the game is he who is the least enthusiastic and most critical.

In the face of which, nothing is sacred. We doubt everything – religion, politics, charities, NGOs, startups, IPOs, leaders, icons, celebrities, new-age philosophies, diets and decisions. A guy on the street asks you for a few bucks, and you hold back, knowing that it will only go to a drink or a smoke. An organisation comes asking for your support aand you wonder whose agenda are they secretly forwarding. A friend asks for a loan and you panic, running through in your mind their wasteful spending habits and their poor record of follow-through.

It leaves you a bit lost though. If everything is flawed and imperfect, then what’s worth doing? Seems like everything, if you boil it down, is just a waste of time. An empty gesture. Mindless posturing. Futile good intentions. Then all you do is sit. And judge. And pass. On life.

But I have a happy thought. That little gem that when remembered, like Peter Pan, gives you wings so that you can take flight. I found something worth doing. Or trying anyways. For once I stopped fearing and doubting. I turned off my cynicism and stopped seeing its imperfections and plotting the many ways it can go wrong. This time, I stood up and put my neck out.

But did I really find the one good thing out there? Something I can faithfully throw my weight behind without fear of it giving way on me? A fail-proof plan? A guaranteed win? Humankind’s last absolute?

No. It’s actually a huge long shot. That the person I’m helping will succeed in the short-term is fairly likely, but not certain. A lot can happen in the next few years to put them off their path. They may change their mind. They may not have what it takes. They may not be given a fair chance. It’s all possible.

Even more doubtful is that after accomplishing the goal, they will actually do good. Take what they’ve learned and earned and make a difference. We all dream big, but living a life of purpose and service is a hard slog. Who really wants to do it? Presented with an actual way to make that pious purpose happen, most of us will balk. Maybe this one will as well and simply decide to take the easy way out.

And lastly, the likelihood that I’ll get back what I put in – slimmest of all.

Yet none of that matters. In beating my own lower self, I already have won.

It is remembering this that lets me fly.

There is hope for me yet.

I am, apparently, after all, just a girl.

After weeks of Hem and I trying to out-man each other (“Dude let me carry the boxes!” “No way, you’re too small, you’ll break.” “Nuhun! I have GUNS!”), I have failed the ultimate manliness litmus test. Apparently – and brace yourself because this shocked even the unflappable me – I blush.

Whoa.

I had no idea. I have no memory – beyond last week’s instance – of ever having blushed in my life. No teasing of friends resulting in more than my eye roll and wry smile. None of my constant bumblings bringing on an embarrassed flush. No unexpected compliments resulting in a delicate glow. No off-colour jokes getting through my thick skull and skin to leave me a shocked beetroot. I’m a combination of oblivious, nerve deadened, controlled and sceptical – or to sum that all up in one Urdu word – dheet.

So what got me to raise the facial red flag? It would HAVE to be something UTTERLY shocking to rattle this journalist/badass/simpleton/health reporter/sister to two brothers/smart-aleck/rolling-stone/big-city-girl. In my weird and varied life I must have seen/heard/read about it all and have long since stopped being scanadalized.

Right? Wrong. All it took was for Knicq Bhai to correct my Urdu.

(Wha???)

We had been car shopping where I was rattling on about something, and somewhere in my prattling verbosity I goofed up what was otherwise a fairly understandable sentence by getting the masculine and feminine of a word mixed up. In true brotherly fashion, Blogistan’s superstar speaker waited till I reached the verbal equivalent of a full-stop and told me the proper way to say what I thought I’d said. I remember being confused at his interruption (I was in the zone!) and was standing there, slack-jawed, trying to figure out what he’d just said (suspiciously sounded like he was repeating my last sentence at me – amateurish attempt at that NLP mirroring you’re always reading about bhai) when it hit me. Knicq was correcting my use of language. OH! And that was when the alleged blushing occurred. Or as he put it “We had just stepped out from the car showroom into the afternoon sun and one couldn’t help but notice that you went red!”

Now I have no idea why that would make me go all flush. Really. I mean, I know I make a hash of Urdu every time I open my mouth to speak it. Which would be often, as I tend to use it about 50 per cent of the time. In language, as in life, details fail me. I’m the Queen of Vagaries and Urdu is given no quarter. You see, I picked up the language during a stretch I spent in Pakistan when I was younger – going from total mute to fairly fluent in three years. Or at least, I THOUGHT I was fairly fluent. Turns out everyone around was just so pleased that this otherwise utterly American kid had learned some of the lingo that they never bothered to tell me that I missed one of the basic concepts of the language - grammar. The progenitors of Urdu had more faith in the intelligence and patience of its speakers than English’s inventors and assigned gender to all objects. Everything is either male or female, not just people, which determines the suffix of the resulting adjectives.

(I think)

In my version of my father’s language, however, things don’t have gender. Or, rather they do, but it goes through unpredictable sex changes. I can never remember whether something is male or female and will just make a guess of it depending on how I feel that day. (It’s sunny out, cars must be female!) The resulting Urdu I speak is a combination of bumpkin and four-year old – which is apparently quite charming coming out of the mouth of an attempted sophisticate. That’s why my family and friends have never corrected me. They think I’m cute. 0_o So I go about sounding like an idiot and everyone gets a quiet chuckle out of it.

*shakes fist*

When I wised up to exactly how bad of a mangling I was giving to Urdu (only very recently), I asked my friends to start correcting me. Some have – Shalu and Hem have taken on the job. But everyone else just politely acquiesces and then goes back to giggling behind their hands when I accidentally castrate an otherwise manly table or backpack. After a bit of nagging, I had only recently convinced Knicq Bhai that he too was to help reform me. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he decided to let me know I’d botched it.

But not only did I blush – but I had no awareness of it! I had no idea I’d gone red. I didn’t feel it at all. And as Bhai only pointed it out to me a polite 48 hours later, I had no way of rushing to a mirror to see if I really had gone all pink and splotchy or if he was pulling my leg. He’s rather an honorable sort, our Knicq Bhai, so I’m going to take his word for it – I blushed but didn’t feel it. Which is even MORE disturbing than the fact that I am after all, just a big honking girl-pants. If my damned wiring is going about letting the cat out of the bag on me – telling people when I’m embarrassed, uncomfortable, pleased, or shocked, SHITE! Where and when ELSE have I been blushing?

The possibilities are endless.

*dies*