Hi, my name is Owl and I am an Adrenoholic.

*hi owl*

They say admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery. So am I there yet? Can I drive a car now without doing the kind of crazy speeding/weaving/racing that has landed me two tickets in one week? Can I be content with an exercise regime that doesn’t force me past my body’s plaintive protests till the adrenaline kicks in and everything goes numb? Can I be content with a life that doesn’t constantly push my own comfort levels to the very edge of my breaking point? Because admitting I’m addicted to adrenaline is the only thing that accounts for all that and I think I need to stop.

So far, nothing else has really seemed to fit. I’ve considered, and been accused of, the other options. One I hear a lot is: “Owl, you’re just tryna go out young, in a blaze of glory.” Um, I aint that young any more. I’m gonna be 27 this year. That’s proper grownup, no bones about it. If I drove my little hybrid-mobile (Corolla body with Camry engine) into the back of a truck while racing a Porche down Sheikh Zayed Road, no one will be wailing ‘only the good die young’ on my behalf. Buddy Holly and James Dean were relatively kiddies when they kicked it – at 22 and 24. And Romeo and Juliet were supposedly teenagers. I’ve edged past ‘fresh faced young thing’ to ‘perfectly ripened weird fruit’. Yep yep. So if I accidentally offed myself right now, I doubt my life story would be tear-jerker Hallmark channel material. It's always been more of a dark comedy.

The blaze of glory part, also, is very iffy. First of all, lately I’m not blazing for much. Running 40 kilometers a week isn’t deadly, unless I choke from inhaling a mosquito or being overwhelmed by the cologne clouds some of the guys run under. And secondly, other than the one-off sky-dive, I’m pretty tame. Nowadays I’m more about getting myself into slightly sticky social situations and testing the limits of my patience with stupid press events. I know, so extreme.

Lots of the other supposedly insanely reckless things I’ve done have actually been accidental anyways – despite my admitted adrenaline addiction. I didn’t intend to work in a hotzone when I joined the news agency in Islamabad, but it just so happened to be down the road from both the oft-and-finally-fully-exploded Marriot Hotel and the regularly-problematic Red Mosque. And being sent up to report on the Kashmir quake and serve as the ‘local guide’ to the rest of the news crew, while awesome, wasn’t actually my idea. I was assigned to go because I was the closet thing to a native my news group had. (And yes, it is funny that an American half-breed whose desi side hails from Karachi and only speaks whack Urdu can be considered something close to a native of Kashmir. My apologies to the Kashmiris.)

Not to mention, if I were to attempt to orchestrate some daredevil stunt to go out with a bang, knowing my luck, I would probably end up botching it and have a hilariously tragic but-non-fatal outcome. Say, for instance, I decided to free-jump off of the Burj Dubai – instead of going splat I'd probably trip on my way up the stairs, fall a very unlethal distance and land in a passing garbage truck, only to be discovered in stable but stinky condition days later and live out the rest of my 50 years reeking of old shawarma. I cannot be trusted to actually organize anything, and would turn a spectacular swansong into a ridiculous hiccup.

And anyways, I really don’t actually have a deathwish. Granted, I never plan for the future and don’t count on having one, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’d like to join the Choir Invisible right away. I figure my time is written and there’s nothing I can do to change it. In the meanwhile, I ‘live like I’m dying’ but hopefully, am not actively doing the dying part. In fact, there’s still a ton of stuff I very much would like to do before I bite the dust and it's gonna take a while to get through the list so I hope to be around a little longer at least.

The other explanations for my seemingly self destructive streak aren’t too kind either. “It’s a cry for attention,” I’ve had some relatives accuse. Hmmmmmm..... nah. When I’m racing, it’s not like I’m leaving my name and number in the dust the losers have to eat. And even my blog, which really only covers a portion of my antics, is anonymous and fairly out of the way. I mean, I’m not above the petty human wants of validation on some level, but there are better ways of doing it and I’m really not vying for the limelight.

The only remaining accusation for my bad behaviour that holds any water is a desire to prove something. Yeah, maybe. But then, who isn’t trying to prove something or another to someone. Could be I’m still trying to make some massive socio-politico-theological point with my antics, but to be doing that so often for so long and at such intensity would require deliberation, focus and intent – all things I tend to very much lack.

So trying to live life to its fullest – and riding the accompanying adrenaline rush when you stare down your fears and do something amazing – is the only thing that sort of explains my grab-bag of hobbies, habits and hazardousness. Not sure if this presumed ‘addiction’ is the cause or the result of my lifestyle, but it’s not so good. I’m going to have to rein it in a bit. I’m not made out of money – to pay all those damned tickets on my car – and I’d really hate to accidentally hurt someone else with my own complete lack of self preservation. So yes, to the dear friend who asked, I shall indeed slow down. Or try to anyways. Sigh.

Looking through my Word documents, it seems I have way more unfinished/unpublished blogs than finished/published ones. Not sure what that says about me, but I like to think: Quality Control. In reality though, it says: ADD.

That is far closer to the truth. For here I be, unable to finish a thought or remember what I was saying mid-sentence or sometimes, what month it is. So it's time for the last resort of all half-assed bloggers - a list. Yay!

So, I am, supposedly, notoriously chill. I get along with pretty much everyone and can find something likeable in even the most difficult people. When friends are making plans about what to do or eat or whatever I’m always the useless one who says “Whatever. It’s all good with me.” I don’t ask for much. Expect even less. I am, as one friend put it, very Zen. Sometimes annoyingly so.

But I am, continuing with last week’s theme, particular about SOME things. My roomie has begun noticing them and sometimes pointing them out (“I WAS going to invite you to see this flick with me but...”). I’ve never really bothered trying to sit down and think about the things I’m NOT chill with, but I am a bit lost for brainpower today, so I thought it’d make a passable blog. They are, kind of appropriately, random and weird. Ah well, with me, could you expect anything less?

* I don’t own any yellow clothes. Not sure why. Maybe because I’m kind of a jaundiced white as it is. The only pink stuff I have was bought by others or a joke.
* I can’t do fried food.
* Potty humor is never cool.
* Malls freak me out. They’re full of people, noise, and commerce. Bleck.
* Don’t try to feed me pasta. It’s all empty carbs. Makes me sad.
* Most cake is just an edible sugar-coated sponge and thus, not nice. I’d take pie or cookies any day.
* Horror and romance are two genres that should never have been invented.
* It nearly requires an act of God to get me to go to the movies. It is somehow the combination of a couple of my big dislikes – holding still, wilful suspension of disbelief, mindless absorption, paying money for something usually useless, being in a big room with lots of people and wasting time.
* Yes, I am mildly agoraphobic. What’s it to ya?
* Clocks that tick are torture devices.
* There is something wrong with Dr Phil.
* The reason probably why God didn’t make me a big burly dude is because I’d be punching out the lights of: people who are mean to customer service staff, people who hurt animals, anyone who drives their car like a weapon for intimidation, guys who leer, jerks who look you in the eye and lie when you both know the truth, and people who think they’re entitled.
* I am illogically biased against the rich and privileged.
* Cork wedge heels look stupid.
* As I am neither a Muppet, a pony nor a sofa, I don’t think I should be fuzzy. Thus, I don’t wear velvet, suede or sweatery things.
* I am allergic to George W Bush, Jerry Springer, Ariel Sharon, Mondays, and dust.
* Don’t butter my toast please.
* Sticklers to the law and social obligation annoy me.
* I have no patience for scaredy-cats.
* Laziness when paired with selfishness – meaning you won’t do jack and you expect other people to do it for you – is nearly unforgivable.
* Overly groomed guys are weird.
* Owning/ coveting jewellery that isn’t disposable/costume makes me feel like a Yahoo.
* Kiwis make my tongue itch.
* Whiners suck.
* Red delicious apples are false advertising.
* Skinny jeans are not a nice invention.
* Banks are evil.
* The more stuff I own, the worse I feel.
* Lipstick feels and smells funny.

There. I did it. I made DECLARATIVE NEGATIVE STATAEMENTS. Ooooooh. Now I have ruined my good name and revealed myself as a fussbudget. No more marriage proposals for me, alas.

I know talking to one's self, particularly one’s brain, is very much the purview of my Abez – she of the Left Brain – Right Brain debates of great fame and yore. But I’m gonna break protocol right now and go off on a personal grey matter directed shake down. Iz ok Bezzie, you can borrow my sports-injury and being-a-girl-befuddlement themes for your blog. I’ll even throw in a smartass-point-and-laugh-at-the-world entry, no charge.

So. Yeah. Here we go.

Ok seriously Brain, what is the up? First I have an endless night dreaming of hideous attack dinosaurs. Dude, I am not even SCARED of dinosaurs. They’re extinct damn you! And even if they weren’t, they’ve got bird-brains and I could probably psyche them out by pretending to be an ugly tree or something. Or even just flap my arms and go “Grrwaar, I’m a dinosaur too!” Jurassic Park didn’t phase me and I was a kid when it came out. But Brain, you manage to make them alive and scary and smart in my dreams and have me running for my life from evil T-rexes (T-rexi?). Not fair at all. I woke feeling indignant and VERY gypped. I mean come on, scare me with something that’s actually kind of worthy. Like Dick Cheney. Bastid makes my blood run cold.

Then, oh-Brain-o’-mine, You had a chance to redeem yourself the next night, but what do I get? Nightmares about a bug infestation. I mean, ok, that’s a little more realistic. I don’t particularly like bugs. But again, I don’t get my dander up about them – remember the rules – you either give them ground or smash them against it. But in my dream those creepycrawlies were all over and hideous and unsquashable and not nice and big. It’s bad enough they bite me when I’m awake – do I have to be dogged by their Owl-tasting ways in my sleep? Brain, you SUCK. Some people get to dream about flying, riding unicorns or meeting celebrities. Some people even get the gag-gift of dreaming about me – apparently I am hella good at the unintentional Astral Travel - friends constantly tell me I pop up in dreams. So Brain, you could punk me with an equally banal guest appearance – how about Dan Rather? But no. The Queen of the Restless Slumber, who only actually reaches REM about once a week, I get dinosaurs and bugs. This is muchness not fair.

I am considering taking out a vacancy ad for a new brain (cuz either you’re there and you suck, or the lights are on and REALLY no one’s home so I need a replacement brain to keep the dinosaurs away) if not getting a lobotomy. But I am giving you another chance. Because I realize this may just be the ulcer meds. One label did say something about patients with dementia. Might have been warning against addled geriatrics taking the pills, or may have been telling me that dementia is a free bonus side effect of not having my stomach digest itself. I dunno. Details have never been my thing. So, if, at the end of this course of medicine, you do not get your act together and stop giving me embarrassingly stupid nightmares, I am so going to kick your ass. Or your medulla oblongata. Whatevers. You know what I mean. Brain. Remember, I know where you live. *glares*

There are rather large and glaring gaps in the content of my blog, long-time readers like to point out. “There is so much that you never talk about on here! Stuff that I KNOW you have opinions on!” What me, have thoughts? Pishtosh. I’m just blogistan’s intermittently sarcastic and introspective gasbag. Actually comment on something, you know, serious? Nopes. But then, never say never.

One of the questions that I get asked a lot is – what’s your take on the whole Muslim marriage situation. Because, as you know, that’s THE thing that everyone like to harp on about these days. There are no good guys. There are no righteous girls. People suck. It’s a sign of the end of days. Blame it on the media. Blame it on the West. Blame it on the rain. Etc.

And as a 26-year-old unmarried female, I am supposedly the prime demographic to whine about the situation. Look at me, I’m a victim. I am obviously the best thing since sliced bread, all that and a bag of chips and hotness in a can. If I aint hitched it’s cuz the world has failed me. Tragedy of tragedies.

But seriously? Come on. If all I wanted was the Mrs status, I could have had it years ago. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been getting rishtas – that’s sub-continental for proposals – since I was 12. And that really IS NOT a tooting of my own horn cuz it’s nothing to be proud of. They come because I’m female. For the gross majority of guys (who also happen to be of the gross sort) that’s all they require. And as I’ve retained that unique selling point – my gender – all my life, yeah, the rishtas still roll in. Yet as you can guess by the fact that I’m not married – they also roll right out.

Use your politically loaded term of choice to explain that. You can say it’s because I’m too picky. Or as they say ‘back home’- too advanced. Too smart for my own good. Too independent. Too empowered. Too brain-washed by unrealistic expectations in the media and movies. If you’re a little more compassionate, you’ll say it’s that men in general are lagging behind while women have developed further. Everyone’s got their own one-line summary. Except me. Life is complicated and so am I. Trying to distil it to a single point would be fairly useless, as the reasons vary person to person. I can only speak for myself.

Socio-politico jargon withstanding, at the end of the day, I am single because I’ve thus far consistently decided to be. I’ve been presented with some options, given many a thought, and not yet been induced to accept any. It’s that simple. Until I find someone who makes it worth my while to shack up, I won’t. And that’s my call. I have the option of marrying just to marry, staying single, or holding out for the marriage that makes sense. I pick the latter-most one. For whatever reason, I am waiting to find someone I WANT to spend my life with. Someone whose ‘take’ on Islam – and we all have a take – is compatible with my own. A person who wants similar things out of life as I do. And I am, perhaps foolishly, wanting someone who can appreciate what I offer and not hold against me what I lack. No I am not expecting a certain profession, race, color, age, or financial status. Just a connection, understanding and respect. I’m not picky. I am just particular.

Is this a new behavioural evolution for womankind – particularity? No. Women have always had hopes and ideals. We just have a greater ability to humor them now. For me, like many other young women, there is little compulsion, beyond loneliness and the Islamic injunction, to marry. So yes, I guess you can blame it a bit on ‘the times.’ No longer does being female equate broke, vulnerable and inept – if ever it did. I’ve been financially self sufficient since I was 19. Despite my propensity for disaster, the fact that I’m still alive and whole means I must be doing a fair job of looking after myself. And as it’s been a while since Dubai was afflicted by marauding hordes and bride raids, I am fairly safe. Plus, if a space-time-continuum-defying-straggling Hun Invasion does blow through, I doubt the extra weight of a gold band on my finger is going to make me much harder to throw in a sack and ride off with.

But do I not realize what my choosiness may mean for my future? That the longer I hold out for that elusive ‘something’, the less offers I’ll get? That my ‘market value’ is dropping by the minute? That all the 'good guys' are getting snapped up? That I’m testing my own will power, virtue and character unnecessarily and am putting my immortal soul in harm’s way? That there’s a very good chance I’ll die an unmarried spinster with no one to look after me? Haha, of course. Everyone and their mother (including my own), loves to remind me of that. There is a Sword of Damocles of companionship failure over my head, no doubt.

But then, there’s one over everyone’s head. No one is promised matrimonial bliss. Marrying young is no guarantee for happiness. Neither is waiting. Going for the 'arranged' seems to work as often and not as the ‘love’ variety. Marrying in your culture is no foil to divorce, but then neither is marrying out. It doesn’t seem to matter also if you’ve married someone much older, younger or the same age. Nothing is a sure-fire bet for matrimonial success. That’s life.

So, bearing in mind that there are no guarantees, I am a ‘particular person’ and I intend to live a life of value married or no, you know what I’m doing? I’m keeping my eyes open, holding true to who I am, and asking Allah – for whom NOTHING is impossible – to help a sista out. I want only what’s halal. And I want a good marriage, not just a marriage for the sake of getting it done. And I, unlike the naysayers, actually have faith that He’ll provide that.

So quit riding me already.

I am generally not one for overt concern. My pants are on fire? No sweat, can I get a glass of water? I have 20 deadlines converging at the same time while my left eye decides to stop working properly? Eyes come in twos, I’m still good. I may have broken my ankle in the middle of a football game? Walk it off.

But I’m kinda concerned right now. Not anything near wide-eyed panic, mind you. Can’t even imagine last time I did that. But I am, a wee bit, flummoxed.

So many moons ago, some of you readers my recall my Stomping Around Dubai Without My Shoes On adventure. Basically I had two overlapping press events on opposite sides of Sheikh Zayed Road and rather than drive through the congestion to get there, I decided to powerwalk like a demon. Except, I was wearing evil elf shoes, and they were killing me, so I kicked them off and went barefoot. Along the way I zoomed past a stunned looking gentleman in a green shirt, who I vaguely remembered only because his shirt was so bright and he looked completely shocked.

When I later wrote about my barefoot adventures, that very same fellow turned up on my blog and identified himself as Farrukh – longtime reader and fellow blogger. That, in itself, is a fairly weird coincidence – that one anonymous blogger would be running by another one doing something she would later blog about. But what is even weirder is, that when I actually properly met Farrukh last week, he told me that he knew I was the Barefoot Wonder before I confessed it on my blog. His explanation/logic? He saw an 'athletic' (I blush at the abuse of this word in describing me) and determined hijabi and knew it had to be Owl. To which I offered an articulate, “Oh!” and let that be. Maybe he's psychic and doesn't know it. Go fig.

But last night, when I went running, it sort of happened again. I run at this rather poorly lit park where I’m one of dozens of health enthusiasts of all shapes and sizes doing laps. I was on my first lap, about 2 kilometers in, and at a fairly good pace, when I turned the corner, ran a few steps and heard: “Owl?!” Except, of course, I mean my real name. Which is not a very common one, so instead of ignoring the usual muttering I hear when I run past people, I stopped. And turned around and saw a woman I only somewhat know. She’s a journalist as well and very active in the Muslim community here, but really we’ve only met a handful of times over the past four years and I definitely have never spoken to her about my running nor seen her at the track before. “Whoa! Hi! Long time! And woman, how did you recognize me!” She just shrugged and said “I saw a covered woman running. I thought, that has to be Owl.” Just like that.

Come to think of it, the run-by recognition has actually happened once before. I was doing laps at the park a few years back when I passed Knicq Bhai who also recognized me despite the fact that I was a. A blur. b. Wearing my weird and unflattering running gear, and c. Sweaty and near-death-seeming. But then, he’s practically family, so I wasn’t too surprised that he’d managed to pick me out of the pack during our random passing, even though neither of us was expecting to see the other.

So my perplexity is this – Um, am I really the only 'athletic' *cringe* hijabi in all of Dubai – or rare enough that people can make random guesses that any extra clothed sporty girl in their proximity is going to be me? And so far, be right? Or, is my overall insanity so apparent on my blog and in my interactions (as the other journalist doesn’t know about the blog or is even on my Facebook), that people can glean that much about me? It’s a hot night in Dubai, when most sane people are in front of their TVs, eating dinner or at the club, and yet there’s a girl running at the park in a hoodie and long pants – MUST be Owl. Cuz she’s nuts like that. I met her once and I can tell!

I obviously need to be more opaque, mysterious and private. And blogging about this is totally going to help me accomplish that. Yes indeed.