The Boulder of Unmet Expectations

We’ve all felt it before. Where you elaborately predetermined the outcome of situation A, B, and C and chose the best possible plan of action … only to have a spanner thrown in the works. Sometimes, it isn’t even a spanner – because spanners can be pretty useful at times, it’s usually a HUGE BOULDER SET TO CRUSH YOUR SOUL AND HOPES. It feels like disappointment, but on a higher level. Like someone literally hit you with that boulder.

That’s the thing about humankind. Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot raises the point of mankind’s permanent hope for a better tomorrow by presenting audiences with a bare tree that miraculously grows leaves in the span of a single act. In order to attain that better tomorrow, we tend to plot and scheme our way – we envision ourselves enacting out ideal scenarios. Whether these scenarios entail you dancing in an open field with your beloved, clad in brightly coloured sari / kurtha, Bollywood style but ending up being told you smell like cabbage and being broken up with … or your ideal scenario is hooking yourself up with some delicious oily takeout only to find your mother was suddenly inspired to cook a four course meal: such is life.

It really is our own faults. Why do we set ourselves up with fantastic expectations? Too high standards? Are we blindly optimistic? Or just hoping for a better future? Moral of the story is, we all need to get off our fat, fantasizing bottoms and become twisted cynical folk. So we can be pleasantly surprised when things really do go our way.

Or we can revel in our sadnosity and disappointment at not having things work out, whilst indulging in copious amounts of food by comfort eating…
Either way, happy Easter.

The Female Elephant and Her Ladders

(Approach this with the mindset of a first world country, with financial aid readily available, not a rural poverty-struck dustbowl)

Rhodes, UCT, Comp Sci – NO, MEDICINE! UKZN, ID Numbers, Faculties… it’s around this point in time that lots of matrics begin thinking about what they’re going to do with the rest of their natural life. University? Technikon? Point Road….err Mahatma Ghandi Road?

What I’m about to put forward isn’t necessarily my personal life plan, but it’s something I realized we need to think about as a society. Let’s cast our mind’s back to the bra burning feminists of the roaring 60s : demanding women be valued for their entire persona and not just their physical beauty. This tangent isn’t about beauty though (listen to that Christina Aguileira song if you wanted that kinda stuff) – this is about the place of women in society.

Over the past, there have been countless demonstrations regarding women and education. Equality and all that jazz. Fast forward to the present and we’re left with a society acceptant of highly educated women. There are even female presidents (but, than again, we don’t need to run a country to let men know we RULE hahahaha). In 2009, women made up almost 50% of the American workforce. That’s pretty sweet right? But let’s probe a little deeper.

Look, from the society I come from (middle class Durbanite) – education is a prerequisite for life. You get educated, you go places. You have a dream job (whether it’s your own dream or your parents’ fantasies of having a Phd kid). We’re from a society where a woman is EXPECTED to be fully educated within the capacity of her family and be out on the field, doubling as a wife should she get married.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about.

Amidst this rush for work and high profile jobs for women, we’ve created a stigma around women who chose not to climb the corporate ladder, but chose to climb ladders to reach the sugar on the top shelf at home. We’ve begun to shun house wives within society, raising an eyebrow should we hear a lady would rather be a mother first than a corporate vixen. And that is the offensive truth.

I read an article recently about women and their hormonal clock – power suit clad canaries flying high in their fields, yet wanting to have babies after they’ve reached their peak…which tends to be after the childbearing age. What’s wrong with not wanting to pursue a job? What’s the inherent crime in wanting to rear the offspring, should there be a stable income source within the family?

In society, we are too quick to judge. As women, we’re taking on the role of nurturer and matriarch. We want to lead the herd and rear the calf. Elephants, however, don’t have a judgemental society. They’re quite chill, flapping their huge ears. Until a lion attacks. Then they’re all *finger snapping…. / tusk snapping* hell to the no!!! Trampling the dust out of the carnivore to SAVE THE BABIES.

Moral of the story, career women or not, we should accept that women should be able to have a choice between having a job and a family, or just a family. The woman that chooses to make her family her job is no less an awesome elephant than the woman that chooses to work. We shouldn’t expect a woman to get a job.

Than again, who said men can’t stay at home, instead? Hmmm.

The Charm of Textually Based Eloquence

The Charm of Textually Based Eloquence

(Note: writing some blurbish garbage on English doesn't necessarily mean I'm a smart ass and know everything about the language. Silly errors are bound to appear, so don't nitpick and judge, yo).

[Note Note note : since Blogger has gone all psycho, I'm using some nifty e-mail to blog system thing. Just thought I'd share that awesome info with you, in case the whole thing attaches some dodgey spam about Russian brides for you to buy online at the end of my post. Word]

Language is dead. Or, rather, it's lying on the floor, making 'awkward turtle' hands at the world as we are bombarded with " HI HW U" and " K N U". How did we get to this stage? How did conversation … 'evolve' from:

"Good afternoon Sir Fabulouslyeloquent, how are you?"

"Why good afternoon my fair/ average complexion lady! I am well and yourself?"

To:

Bob: Hey.

Mary: Hi.

Bob : how u

Mary: ok and u

Upon many occasions, it has been said that nobody really has control of language – there is no "Language Police" (credit due to Mr.David there, a fine English educator) that patrols the tongues of unsuspecting civilians, eager to beat them to a pulp should they let slip a slang or a lazy pronunciation. In terms of natural selection, the organisms most adapted to living within the environment will outlive those that cannot. So, does this mean that our language is catering for a lazy environment?

We're living in a world proficient in it's technological advancements, yet as time wears on and predictive text pulls in, we find ourselves negligent of spelling and grammar. When I type on my Blackberry, I (at times) make a conscientious effort to count the number of spelling errors I make to try and better myself, instead of typing gibberish and hoping the dictionary would enlighten me with the supercalafragilisticexpialadocious word I would like to use. But not all of us do that. People that send messages containing wrongly spelt words that own a phone with built in dictionary have some long, hard thinking to do about their lives and the way they spell it.

However, in a world where two sentence questions and one word replies fly back and forth over cybernetic high ways (low ways in terms of conversation, haha – your dose of dryness) … it's somewhat special to find a person that types out words in full. A person who presents themselves eloquently over text based communication. It's fantastic. What's even better, apart from minding their p's and q's, is the thought that they're making an effort. I guess that's all we really want in life: to see people are making an effort to talk to us, impress us, engage us. It's stimulating.

However, I know there are people in this wordy world who type like pros but cant converse to save a life. If you're intending to be skilled at one medium, at least attempt to balance it out on the other half. It's useless being a written Jedi when you can't wield the lightsabre, you know?

Therefore, I'll be proud to admit that I would undoubtedly be more inclined to speak to the weirdo that says "Hey, how're you doing tonight?" than someone insanely hot who says "Hey. Sup?" Having an excellent command of language isn't a definite prerequisite for a good friendship, but it sure as hell makes you slightly more attractive…however, if you rock up with a message reading "Good evening, fairest maiden, I love you. In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum".

The latin, you see. Kills it. Whattt.

Oh, by the way, what is the purpose of having entire conversations based on the sending and receiving of SMILEYS / EMOTICONS!? Grow up and learn to speak.

That will be all, now I'm off to pwn n00bz @ COD ;).

The Arrogance Effect – like the Axe effect, but better.

Confidence, they say, always grabs the eye. You could be dressed in dreary rags, yet with the right attitude, could be seen as the hobo equivalent to Giselle Bundchen. But what do you get when an individual has a surplus of such attitude? A confidence overload. Yes, you got it : arrogance.

 

Let’s take two scenarios, referring to each gender.

Scenario 1:

A man spies a woman across a crowded hall. The woman looks at him for a brief moment, then turns her nose up and looks away. He thinks “Arrogant Cow.”

Scenario 2:

A woman sees a tall, okayish looking man at a crowded venue. She’s trying her luck, looks at him and smiles. The man avoids eye contact entirely, and looks away. Her intuition (skillz, yo) tells her the man knows precisely her intentions, but he’s obviously too important or amazing to go near her. She thinks “Must…have…hot…man….” Instant attraction, better than that of any deodorant.

Perhaps the stronger of the fairer sex (women, in case you were wondering) would be able to resist the arrogance effect, and unto them I say “WELL DONE. DON’T YOU DARE FALL FOR THE NEXT SWAGGERIFIC BROTHER WHO THINKS HE’S GOT THE MOVES”. To the rest of us (mostly myself) it’s quite an issue.

I had recently fallen prey to such an effect when I ventured into conversation with a fairly normal looking young man of about 20. His features were plain, yet it was his attitude that transformed his physical limitations into that of a glowing demi-god. His flattish nose became equivalent to the beauty of the Sphinx’s missing facial feature (really hot, since it’s in Egypt and all that. Dry joke ftw) and his height elevated him to the status of a man clearly out of my reach. His demeanor dripped arrogance, signaling the odds of tapping (and I don’t mean the kind of dance) reaching negative ratios. Yet this invoked a primal urge within me.

“Must….have…hot…man.”

Now, I’m not a genius, but I am a bit bookish and quite capable of civil conversation, yet this young man seemed to find endless opportunities to ‘chirp’ me. Although I was hardly roasted in the conversation (heat proof fringe), it was the emotional distance that was maintained that became thoroughly exciting.  My irreverent yet witty jokes were met with an eyebrow raise where they usually ignited polite laughter. It was intriguing how real he was – how unafraid he was to imply, “Stop, your jokes are terrible”. All this was possible because he was very much assured that I would still be attracted to him; regardless of any verbal exchanging of blows (that’s what she said, although nothing came to be of it. Sad face) …. And he was very much correct.  

Men and Women : Prehistoric Stage

I’m well aware that such an archaic urge usually belongs to the not-as-fair sex (men, duh). Yet inevitably, as per Jungian Psychology, we all contain common archetypes within our subconscious psyche. Therefore, as a woman, I probably acknowledged his level of testosterone to be breaking the barriers of common humanity, essentially conveying the prehistoric message of: Man tough. Man provide for woman.  Make babies. Ug ug. Grunt. Protect woman and babies. Ug ug.

Although in reality his urbane, perfectly clipped nails and pristine hairstyle wouldn’t stand a chance in a battle to protect our cave from a T-Rex, he’s undoubtedly the modern equivalent of the macho caveman. His Mercedes would parallel the rock throwing skills of the man of the stone era, his highly skilled university degree (Bsc/Bcomm/BComp Sci/ BEng … basically anything but a BA ) would serve as his spear to defend us from the saber tooth tiger of poverty and his parent’s palatial house coupled with his private apartment would represent our cave (that’s what she said). 

Men and Women : Present Stage. Ooh, sexy and too cool for me.

Oh, did I mention such arrogance only ever really becomes that much more attractive when he smells like money…err I mean D&G Blue. Perhaps the whole reason some women turn to gold digging is because their subconscious need to be provided for is uprooted by the man, who instead of bringing home freshly killed pterodactyl, brings home 6 digit paychecks.

The Unnatural Equating of a Matric Dance Date to Spouse

Above: Matric Dance Night(mare). 

The lights. The glamour. Your teachers in a row to greet you, with standards higher than the marks you score with them. Hair perfect, lustrous and stylish; nails immaculately preened, an alluring figure, an outfit to kill…and on your arm… A HIDEOUS TROLL OF A PARTNER.

Above scene : not too cool.  

Most (normal) students equate their matric dance night to be the culmination of twelve years grinding (in whichever way you interpret that) under the regime of a principal and an armada of teachers armed with chalk … or whiteboard markers if you consider yourself ‘too cool for a government school’. The dance is supposed to be the best night of your life. Your life. Singular. Yet a date is made compulsory, preferably a member of the opposite sex. That’s where the trouble comes in. If you took your boyfriend or girlfriend to your dance, bugger off – this article isn’t for you.

When it comes to matric dance partner selections, there is a set criteria of qualities that prospective dates must meet. In my mind, the following was a must:

 

Taller than me

Not to be fatter than a whale…generally a lean build would’ve been nice

Personality!!!!!

Taller than me in heels

Nice face

Taller than me

DTF. Not literally, but have a bit of that rawr quality .

Super duper tall

Was that an impossible-to-be-met-knight-in-shining-armour list? Not really. Yet a few months prior to the dance, most of us girls began to panic. A frenzied, animalistic kind of panic – like a woman from a period romance impregnated by their Barbados slave and seeking to marry the first white man she meets to save her virtue. And that’s where the trouble starts.

This is written from a female perspective, so bear with me.

First comes the dress – what style? Colour? How much weight do I lose to fit into a fishtail? Or should I use a buffon underneath? Such a fuss equivalent to that of young brides is created as varying designs accost parents’ pockets. Quite naturally, they’ll find the most affordable style favourable, at which point the precocious female’s taste swings to the precise opposite of the design spectrum. If dad hates it, I LOVE IT.

As for the groom, or matric dance partner, there's the question of matching. A tie? A cravat? What waistcoat ? Who will pay for the threads that link us as a couple as we walk down the aisle…errr enter the hall? Although there’s less stress in the male sheathing department, the significance of matching is still very much prominent : the significance of appearing as a couple. A unit. Husband/wife. Partner/date. Suspicious? Very much so.

Next come the corsage. Never take it for granted that your partner will get you one, especially if you’re in an all girls’ school such as myself. Such a floral arrangement can be equated to a wedding bouquet , although traditionally the bride will ensure she has one, not the groom. However, the floral symbolism is still significantly evident. This can be compensated for with a delicious box of Lindt, which I received from my tasteful partner. Seriously, though, to me : eating pleasure > looking at an arb bunch of flowers on my hand. 

Lastly, are the photographs. Today I showed the shots of me and my partner to my aunt and uncle. My uncle started asking questions about my date’s father, their family name, religion etc and ultimately concluded that he ‘liked’ that boy. What exactly he liked the boy for, I am still unaware of. Then, it hit me. My date was Gujrathi. My cousin, their son, married a Gujrathi girl. You get it.

What further ads to this hullaballoo are the dress makers, who snidely remark to our parents, “Oh the next time you’ll be making a fuss like this is at her wedding day.” Then it strikes us: our partners become something of a one-night husband. A groom for our vanity. A human-skinned clutch bag… The chaste may not necessarily agree with my next point, but generally you’d want to take someone along that you’re attracted to – should any ‘clutching’ occur. A hot boy :) 

If we review the list and discussion, we find a succinct parallel created between matric dance partners and potential husbands and wives. Matching morals and values usually correlate in terms of sustaining conversations and relating to each other as human beings / frisky teenagers. 

Thus, unless you can tolerate a meaningless arm-accessory, there needs to be an element of depth in the chosen one. They should be as special as NEO leading you into the MATRIX of your matric dance (haha, see what I did there?). Generally, in our hormone driven decisions, we just want to have fun with someone sexy. No pressure, right?

Oh, one last thing.

Make sure you’ve seen them dancing before. You've been warned. ;)