Now I’m not sure if you know this, but I love packing. Packing, organising, rearranging, cleaning, moving bits and bobs around and around; basically anything that falls into the ‘making something neat’ category is the shortcake to my jam. The Calvin to my Hobbes. The Adagio to my Secret Garden.
Call me OCD if you will, but I much rather prefer the term ‘easily bored’.
Sexism is a f**king problem. Think of this situation as having a giant pink elephant standing in the middle of the room. Everyone notices its presence, and how ridiculous it looks just rooted there, furiously trumpeting its long pink trunk and stomping its salmon feet.
Yet the world merely tiptoes around the pink elephant without bother, putting up with this absurdity because they either fear the ridicule in being the sole lunatic who pointed the elephant out, or the crippling dread of being alone (think herd mentality).
It’s one of those situations where your mother doesn’t – and simply can’t – prepare you for in life. I mean, how would you prepare your 10-year old daughter for the overwhelming tsunami of unwelcome sexual references, and uncalled for remarks on her dressing/makeup/gait/hairstyle/speech/lunch preferences etc.?
For years I never understood this statement. Even when I was back in school, I would proclaim to my weary parents that I, and I alone, would embark on the magnificent one-man-project-work-show.
I was arrogant enough – even when I was 7 and tiny – to somehow know that my groupmates would screw up the project work and I’d have to redo it.
I’m not level-Melvin Udall yet; I don’t take pleasure in flicking the light switch on and off five times before entering any room, or feel the need to bin a bar of soap after each use – That’s OCD, not habit. Or as we Singaporeans comically imitate the Thai: Same same, but different.
The need to abide by a routine – be it with the help from planners, task apps or lists galore (I’ve done it all) – has become a chronic disability, crippling my ability to spontaneously ‘enjoy life’. Or as I like to call it: Being unprepared.
As my first work anniversary is around the corner, I thought it just to document my observations at places that I’ve worked at, pointing out occurrences that not only strike a chord (or nerve) but also frequently serve as afternoon amusement.
They were also doing their squats wrong. I wanted to tell them, I really did. But then I thought to myself, “Nah, with manners like that, you’d survive that back injury just fine.”
Decked out in my usual gym garb, I made a beeline for my usual squat rack. Halfway through my set, two girls approached me, claiming that I was using their squat rack and that I should move aside.
I woke this morning with the most unpleasant feeling, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to remember what it was that caused me a discomfort comparable to having period cramps and concurrent constipation.