Another New Year And Other Ramblings

This is the last week in the Islamic calendar of the Hijrah year 1427. The New Hijrah Year will begin after sunset this Friday.

I find myself making resolutions for the new Muslim year: I want to work on my various relationships: to God, by being a better Muslim; to my family, by being a better daughter, a better sister, a better aunt; to my friends [including bosom buddy], by being a better, thoughtful, understanding, considerate friend; to the society, by being a better member of the public; to the environment, by helping in any way I can to protect the environment, to use resources more efficiently, to reduce, reuse and recycle [to borrow from The Body Shop’s slogan!], to be aware of other living creatures sharing this planet [and not drive any particular species further to extinction! Err, surely cockroaches and lizards don't count?!] etc, etc. For I am one person but I play different roles to different parties [God, family, friends, society etc].

I remember thinking as I was cleaning HQ two Sundays ago that if that day was my last day on Earth, I most certainly didn’t want to spend it being miserable, sad, gloomy, unhappy and down. I told my mate about it and she said she watched a movie starring Angeline Jolie that same weekend titled Life Or Something Like It and the movie’s tagline is ‘What if you only had seven days to live?’ Then last Tuesday, as if to drive the point home further, Grey’s Anatomy aired the episode (As We Know It) and Meredith opened the episode with following voice-over: ‘In hospitals they say you know, you know you’re going to die. Some doctors say it’s a look patients get in their eyes. Some say there’s a scent, a smell of death. Some say there’s just some kind of 6th sense, when the great beyond is headed for you, you feel it coming. Whatever it is, it's creepy. Because if you know, what do you do about it? Forget about the fact that you're scared out of your mind. If you knew this was your last day on earth, how would you want to spend it?’

Wow. I believe God is sending me a message. To get myself out of this funk; to pull myself together; to fully embrace life and what it has to offer. To be thankful Always for life’s little pleasures. I may moan about my job but at least I have a job, I’m not another statistic in the unemployment field searching for the right job and I get paid. I may not have the perfect supermodel body with voluptuous figure, a perfectly sculptured face with the most dazzlingly white Colgate smile, but at least I am healthy and not deformed/disabled. I am thankful that although I don’t drive, I have a good pair of legs – for walking or running after the bus. I have a roof over my head, food on my table, clothes in my wardrobe and other accessories too. My family structure may be unusual but it’s not odd and we’re as functional or dysfunctional as any other family. At least I have overprotective parents who care very much for me and love me unconditionally, despite all the headaches I caused [and still cause] them while growing up.

So I vow that I shall put into practice what I have learnt: to sharpen the saw [which is Habit 7 of the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People], by preserving and enhancing the greatest asset one has, which is oneself. It’s about renewing the four dimensions of your nature – physical [by exercising, eating healthily, managing stress]; spiritual [meditation, religion]; mental [reading, writing (yes, including blogging!), visualising, planning]; and social/emotional [communication and cooperation].

And no, I'm not yet prepared to meet my Maker. I have committed so many sins and can't recall the last good deed I did. I'm definitely not proud of this miserable fact.

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I recently wondered if I can actually ever live with someone. I’m such a fussy puss; I may not look organised at work [my workplace is cluttered during the day but I ensure it’s clutter-free when I leave every day] but I so dislike having things out of place at home. I clean the house and mop it three times almost every week and I just can’t stand wet bathrooms. I try not to deep-fry anything because I dislike the grime that results from such activity; besides such oil-coated food is not good for health anyway. When I return from trips, I’d unpack immediately and be done within half an hour and within the hour would already have my clothes in the washing machine. I don't go to bed leaving the sink full of dirty plates and cutlery and crockery.

On the other hand, I can be quite a mess and quite lazy too. I hardly make up my bed at micasa, I just pulled the silk quilt over. I have a few recipe books but I can’t be bothered to try any new recipe [cooking for one should be kept minimal for it to be economical]. I loathe ironing and I haven’t yet managed to clean the windows [now that would take hours! I get exhausted just thinking about it].

So maybe I’m not meant to live with someone yet. I don’t even want to consider having a housemate, such is my fussiness. A pet cat can be a good (if not better) housemate than its human counterpart, except I can’t take care of a cat yet, not when I still am trying to take care of myself. Plus I don’t want to bother with cat hair [I do not yet possess a vacuum cleaner, sad eh] and having to deal with the traumatic time if/when my four-legged feline companion die [sorry for thinking too far ahead but I’ve had my fair share of crying sessions when my furry feline friends died]. So maybe that’s why I’m still solo until now. Because it hit me, while chatting with my friend, how can I live with someone of the opposite sex when I’m so fussy? I’ve seen relationships breaking when people start to stay together – and mind you, I’m referring to those student days when friends share the same house and the friendship deteriorated or went downhill fast after that. I was Lucky to have stayed at the university hall the whole three years of my undergraduate days, and even then I had some disagreements with my English and American flatmates [yup, me the troublemaker], but I did spend a summer in Dublin at my girlfriend’s place and suffice to say, it’s true that you really know someone after living with them.

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It has been one and a half months since I joined this new department. I’m still struggling to fit in, slowly getting into the hang of things. Very slowly actually. It's not easy when you have new stuff dumped into your tray almost daily, things you don't have the slightest clue about. And I find myself still clinging on to the comfort of friendships established earlier in my old department and lunching with my friends. Although I am making new friends here, they are just not the same.

And I’m having problems with my next-cubicle neighbour. She talks excitedly and loudly [OK, I’ve been told I talk like that too] and cackles. A mate asked me if I felt irritated [he could hear my neighbour from his place, three cubicles away!] and I said, well, it’s not as if I have much choice, do I, at least not for now. Told him too that I’ve learnt to try tuning out noises from cubicles next to me even before moving to this new place [yup, I do have bad luck with noisy neighbours]. Can’t wait until the renovation has completed then hopefully my neighbour will move away. Oh, by the way, my neighbour, well, she’s my boss...

Anyway, a colleague of mixed parentage met me in the washroom as I was about to perform ablutions on Monday and we had the following conversation:

She: Oh my, you do look super-Chinese!
Me: [Grinned and thought: Oh super! You think I look like a supermo-, wait, super-Chinese? I didn’t know such a word exists!]
She: Yes, you really do look super-Chinese!
Me: [Still grinning but groaning inwardly. I’d prefer it if you tell me I look like a supermodel!]
She: Yea, you look super-Chinese and you look so much younger too without your scarf.
Me: Thanks, I much prefer to hear that second part!
She: Yeah, you do look sooo much younger. Maybe because you have short hair!
Me: Oh, I can't be bothered to keep my hair long anymore. It's too hot to do so in this weather. I used to keep it long back at uni and finally I decided to chop it all off during my third year. I was a bit sad after cutting it but everyone remarked how young I looked and I knew I'd made the right decision. So, no more long hair for me!

Yea, I have always been told I have Chinese looks. Sheesh, for that matter, a friend always jokingly refers to me as a Vietnamese, yeah, me the Miss Saigon. In Bangkok, we had the locals asking if we were Thai - yeah, right, when we could barely speak the lingo! Oh well, at least I look Asian enough...! [No, I don't know if I have Chinese blood coursing through my veins but I am quite confident I don't have Siamese or Vietnamese or, for that matter, Khmer blood]. And oh, what a boost to my ego to hear someone said I look much younger. Heck, it’d be a boost to any lassie’s ego to hear someone complimenting her on how young she looks, and especially if the compliment was sincerely offered by another girl. I am chuffed now, I am.

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I was actually thinking of how old I’d be on my next birthday in the shower on Sunday evening and, can you believe it, it took me a while to figure out how old I’d be! Now, is that a sign of age catching up or that I’m in denial, not feeling I’m x going on x+1? But I don’t feel that I’m even in my age group. I still feel, act and think like I'm a teenager. Yeah, some may call it immature. But who cares. It's My Life anyway. Besides, I always believe that in each of us is a child that wants to go out and play. And that you don’t stop playing because you grow old, but that you grow old because you stop playing. And age is just a number. Just like your height, your weight, your clothes’ and shoes’ sizes. And we’re hardly concerned with the rest of those figures so why bother about age? Besides someone said I look so much younger, so why care about my age. I, for one, don’t want to!

And if today is my last day in this world, surely my age is the least of my concern [and yours too].

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Footie footnote: 10-man Arsenal overcame Blackburn Rovers last Saturday. Read about it here and here. We're meeting ManUre this Sunday...

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Happy New Muslim Year to all from Miss Saigon ‘Super-Chinese’ fussy puss.