Whoosh…Burnout

Miss Rose is going to be taking it easy for a while. I had a bit of a cold/flu thing going on last week, but I seem to be having some trouble relocating my strength. Getting my grocery shopping done and subsequently cooking my spoils seem to be all I can manage. Waddayaknow…I might not be Superwoman after all! At least I now have a good excuse to catch up on some reading, in between naps. Cartoon heroes read too from time to time, don’t they?

It’s A State Of Mind

Anecdote from a recent family get together:

My uncle to my brother: How old are you again?
Him: 30, soon turning 31.
My brother’s girlfriend’s son (loudly): My mum’s 40, soon turning 41.

Stunned Silence, followed by a flurry of cover up activity.

Way to go, kid!

Patterns

Today I had breakfast with a friend I have neglected for a while. Because of work, on the one hand, and because of a closer and more time consuming relationship with another friend. I never was much of a multi tasker. I sat in my comfy chair in my pyjamas, overlooking the vineyard while juggling laptop and plate with two pieces of toast. Ok, four. And I had a giant smoothie too, if you must know. But I have a cold and I need my strength…

I thought of how nice it was to reconnect with this person. I’ve missed the trademark insightful comments and quiet support. And we always find something to laugh about, even with the both of us tired and overstretched. But this is no big news.

What gets me is that, with very few exceptions, I feel most comfortable with new and distant. New countries, distant friends…I may miss them but, when they’re close, I can’t be who I want to be. I can’t keep the bits I don’t like under wraps, which means I become weak and nervous and spend more time discussing problems than laughing and having fun. And I do like fun, heaven knows we all need it. So when someone gets too close –like the closer friend I mentioned at the start– I reclaim my space and build my wall again. I know it will happen sooner than later in this case too. That’s me, the way I work, my pattern.

And after some time, wall intact again and bad bits conveniently forgotten, I will drop by and say, Hey, long time no see! And I will think again how great it is to reconnect with a distant friend.

Commission

In Barcelona’s Gracia –the Bobo neighbourhood– there is a Japanese style sushi bar. The white stone sign outside reads KIBUKA in squat black letters. Next to it, on a smaller black sign, is this: かぶき。This is hiragana for ‘kabuki’, by the way, as in the form of theatre. And indeed, once inside there are some huge prints of men with painted faces to be seen.

I can just imagine what happened there. The man commissioned to do the sign scribbled the word down on a piece of paper, then lost it somewhere along the way. Or maybe his wife washed his trousers with said piece of paper in them –but don’t try telling her that was her fault– and it emerged illegible. Look now what you did, mujer! He would have yelled at her. But she, practical no nonsense woman, would have been unfazed. No paso nada, hombre, she would have replied. I can read it, no problem: k-i-b-u-k-a. And he would have grumbled a little more under his breath, but swiftly got to work.

Three weeks later, sign delivered more or less punctually, he would have shrugged his shoulders at the consternation (and hyperventilation) of his employers. Granted, it was a little different from the word they kept repeating to him now, slowly, as if he was an idiot. But with this type of words, who will know the difference anyway? As far as he was concerned, they were making a mountain out of a molehill.

And true enough, when he passes by these days, he vaguely remembers there was another word somehow similar to the one gleaming on his sign. But, for the life of him, he can’t remember what it was.

Snip!

I cut my hair today, because I’m finally growing it. If you’re a man, I guess that sentence didn’t make an ounce of sense. And I guess, also, if you are a man, you can do without reading on. This is girl talk at its finest…

Right. So I am finally growing it, after about three years of circling Indecision Central. Yes, I know a short crop is really cool. So please don’t remind me or I’ll be tempted to have it cut again. I just got really tired of the same old look, so here I am seven months into the sprouting process and I think I’ve finally reached the point of no return. I’ll actually go through with it this time.

But after seven months spent in the Hairdresser Free Zone, my locks could really do with a little help. Everyone knows that turning to a hairdresser at this crucial stage would be a serious mistake (what is it with hairdressers and inches, anyway?! If that’s one inch then, by their reckoning, I must be a midget), so I decided to have a go myself. Picture the scene: the bathroom mirror, a hand mirror placed –at an angle just so– on a bar stool straddling the sink, and me balancing on a folding chair, trying to get a clear view of what I was doing with my nail scissors. Yes, nail scissors. I wasn’t confident with the kitchen scissors, and cuticle scissors are way too small. I trimmed the back a little, which was getting too long not to be categorized as a mullet. So now I’m sporting a weird (or funky, depending on who’s looking) bob-like do. Not half bad, really. I wonder why I ever bothered with hairdressers to begin with…