Day: January 12, 2007

This post first appeared on moNSTerblog.

Man Child summoned me into the bedroom and pointed at the dressing table. My perfume and pressed powder were on the table and I’d forgotten to pack them. It’s the second time I managed to forget something. Opened my suitcase again, that cheap thing that my Dad got from some travel fair. I was practically prying it open with my nails. After about 10 minutes of struggling with that plastic piece of junk, I groaned (Man Child said it sounded more like a scream) and started sobbing.

I don’t want to go back, I cried to him. Buried my face in his chest and sobbed uncontrollably. He gave me a tight hug and told me that it’s okay. I cried more, because it didn’t feel okay at all. I was secretly hoping that he would give me a choice of quitting my job and offer me shelter. It’s wishful thinking, of course as none of my loved ones would tolerate such behaviour.

Soon, I managed to get hold of myself. Calmed myself down, stopped the tears and continued my struggle with the damned suitcase. It popped open with ease. I stuffed the perfume and pressed powder into available space with a heavy heart. And then, I was ready to make a move.

Man Child almost broke his thumb while moving my suitcase to his car. It bent backwards while he was pulling the extendable handle out (read: stay away from cheap suitcases). It’s very unlike Man Child to have that kind of things happen to him, how do I put it…he’s usually a very alert person.

I resisted the urge to ask him, but I could’t. Did I distress you? No, he said.

‘Are you sure? I asked again. You can tell me’.

‘Maybe a little, I totally understand what you’re going through’.

‘Thanks. You know my stuff are usually there and it really didn’t occur to me to have to pack them. They belong there, you know. The empty dressing table just did it for me. I went apecrazed, sorry’.

‘Don’t worry about it. You have to accept that it’s part of growing up’, he consoled me.

As a good friend put it, growing old is mandatory but growing up is optional. I don’t want to grow up, I hate it. But accepting it, I suppose it’s tolerable for now.

This post first appeared on moNSTerblog.

Lets call her Princess. I’ve known Princess for a very long time. Our history dates back to pre-Asian Economic Crisis. Back then, we both disliked boys, had under-developed chests, used the same multi-coloured Swan brand school bags and enjoyed abnormally long late night telephone calls. In fact, Princess wasn’t even a princess then. She was my best friend and we swore to live together in a luxurious penthouse once we become successful career women.

Suddenly, in the midst of surviving my first haircut disaster, my best friend’s chest started to develop, her naturally silky straight hair began to capture admirers while her skin stayed as spotless as the first day I met her. Imagine all of those things taking place while I looked like Pennywise.

Pennywise.

Princess and Pennywise. A certain interesting ring to it, don’t you think? In simple terms, I wasn’t thrilled to have my best friend transforming into a different person, what’s more, a better person than me. It was so difficult to juggle between harbouring evil thoughts about Princess and maintaining our dear friendship. I suppose, at the age of 13, I could have just easily raised the white flag to jealousy but for some weird reason, I didn’t. Princess was my best friend, and she soothed me as much as she provoked me.

Things of course ironed themselves out eventually. Along the way, I discovered push-up bras, hair straighteners and Oprah, my spiritual enlightenment. Then, got a couple of hearts broken and the score was even. It’s like old times again with Princess, only better. Well, I refuse to talk about the time when Princess got herself respectfully employed while I rolled around living off other people’s hard-earned money.

Funny isn’t it, how women are so competitive. There is no distinction, whether she is a stranger, an enemy, a best friend or your Mother, the instinct is to compare and compete. No matter how much you deny your feelings, you secretly wish that they were lesser or at least at par with you. It is sort of scary, but that is the way we women are made of. Relationships can be destroyed and forged (as in my case), so ladies, keep those claws to yourselves first!