Farewell, 2009

End of the year, resolutions, blablabla, as we say in French. I don't think I want to commit myself to anything for 2010. I have wishes, sure (health people! I wish everyone good health this year) and hopes (living in Berlin for 6 months) but these aren't resolutions.

In 2009 I....

-lived in the Heidiloft, a small and charming apartment in Lyon, and then moved back to Paris.
-passed a very difficult state exam to become a university teacher specialized in American civilization.
-got accepted in the Lyon music conservatory.
-decided to spend two years getting a Masters in environmental science instead of having a job, thanks to my scholarship.
-made new friends, more than I ever had before in so short a time.
-spent a month using shovels, hammers, and electric saws in Germany, and discovered I could do things.
-Visited Barcelona.
-ran a 20 K.
-had a bad, bad case of heartbreak.
-got over it.
-started blogging and internet-met a bunch of incredibly diverse and interesting people.
-became best friends with my sister after years of conflict.
-went to 42 concerts, 32 movies and 6 plays.

A good year, I think.

No resolutions then. Maybe just to keep my eyes open so I can help others.

Happy New Year, world!

I like to watch

There's the faint trace of purple lipstick on the narrow strip of skin between his spike-studded cuff and his leather gloves. He stares at the bartender. She leans towards him, her short green hair gleaming under the poor lighting. She grabs his cell phone, using the camera application as a mirror to reapply some lipstick. She looks at him provocatively. He's grinning at her. Her backless dress shows off the huge tattoo etched on her shoulders: "ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME". She throws a quick glance at me: "Wanna drink?"
"A lemonade please."

You know, because my jeans and cardigan weren't conspicuous enough.

I love this Goth bar. I come here when I can't sleep and feel like people watching. There's always a couple making out in front of the entrance door, alternately taking puffs from a cigarette and kissing. There's always a guy in his fifties hungrily staring at the young girls wearing bunny ears, and at the lesbian couples slow-dancing. And there's me, with my book and my owlish glasses, perched on a armchair, using the book as an alibi to watch the scene.

There's the two guys who always argue about nü metal, and the other guy who texts all the time.

There's the other bartender, with his spiky pink hair, who conjures up pastel coloured cocktails with one whisk, and who flirts with the indie guys who turn up already drunk.

I'm fascinated by the courtship ritual.Theway bodies find a way around each other, moving slowly, surely towards their goal. The way it always ends in the same way.

When I lived with X, I hoped his gift for living would rub off on me. One day, I would wake up, and I would no longer feel desolation rushing up to my heart, crashing like a wave against an obstacle. Depression would no longer follow me stealthily, robbing me of what was rightfully mine. I would bounce out of bed and everything would sparkle at me like a promise like passion like love like lust like faith like you.


I watch them as if they will entrust me with their secret.

As I leave the bar, rain pelting down on my bare head, I espy a couple under the bus stop. His hands move passionately down her back, and her arms are wrapped around him. As she breaks off the kiss, I notice the tattoo snaking around her white neck: CARPE DIEM. Seize the day.

I like to watch, because I want to like to live.

In the meantime, I'll fight this bitch off with everything I have.

Taking a break

I need a break from myself these days. I mean, I went to pick up my cell phone from the lost and found place at the opera house this morning and I managed to lose my wallet on the way.

Great. Maybe I'm trying to tell myself something? (or as my sister says I should just close my handbag better).


It hits sometimes: this need to change, to take on big tasks, big events, momentous things. It can be expressed in physical alterations: the red hair came after the break-up, and I like it, so it's stayed, even though the meaning of it has evolved. It used to be a big Leave me alone sign. Now I just think it suits me.

I feel it coming, this new wave of change. I'm looking forward to new music listening (thanks for the recommendations by the way), and to new authors. I started wearing dresses in September.I never used to.

So when I knew I would have to take a three-week break from training because of asthma, I decided I was going to do it.

Most people don't like it.

Funny how I don't care. Funny how I like it, and how it's my own promise to myself.

I wonder where I'm going, but I'm shedding old memories and dreams, and my newness is startling and wonderful.

All I need to do now is stop losing all my frakking stuff!

Merry Christmas (Snippets)

There's something magical about Christmas; and I'm not talking about the way my stomach magically expands to fit in all the food it does. You arrive at that point in the year when you're supposed to exude good grace, mellow delight and happiness, effortlessly. Christmas isn't really a choice for most of us. We may sometimes fantasize about skipping everything and just go drink some beers with our friends, but in the end, cultural pressures make us give in. Family tensions always resurface, making us dread the usual tiffs and spats.

But sometimes it just works really well. It's the silliness of wearing paper hats, or the joyful snap of a cracker, or finding out that a gift you chose with love is really appreciated. It's playing with the cousins and laughing at the funny anecdotes and singing Cole Porter with your grandfather.

I was really happy to be with my family and reunited with my sister (who makes a special appearance today).

Hugs from France and happy holidays!

HOLIDAY

Visiting the wax museum, I enjoyed a leisurely drink with a fellow soprano.


I'm on holiday! I'm so giddy this will be nonsensical. I had a wonderful weekend. X came to Paris to see a few friends, and although one of them got stuck in England because of the snow, we had a great time. We practised duets and went to the wax museum, and just relaxed together. He was in wonderful shape, looking handsome and contented. He's started seeing someone he likes and is enjoying the research he's doing for his PhD. Anyway, life is good for him. And I liked singing some Fauré with him. He still hates Purcell though. Oh well.

So now I have a few days before I start studying again and I need recommendations: any music I should listen to, any good books, any good movies? I want to catch up.

I'm so happy to get my sister back from the US of A, I'm so happy to be spending an afternoon wrapping gifts and I'm so happy I can waste hours on the internet again.

Eternal Sunshine of the...

What are your memories worth if you are the only one to have them? Often my sister and I bicker about remembrances, and I know how grateful I am to have her as a sounding board. Did this really happen or was it an illusion? We'll replay some of the funniest or worst times of our childhood, and we'll giggle or shudder in unison.

What is your past relationship worth if you are the only one to remember it?

My biggest fear, strangely enough, when X and I were together, was that he would forget everything. Because he does. He can't remember names or faces, or events or anything. I would cuddle against him at night and wonder if he would remember how nice the meal had been, or how much we had laughed during the concert of A Hundred Gypsy Violins. And then I would realize that of course he would not.

In a way my fears have been realized. Sometimes I'll ask him "Do you remember that weird time we had..." and he'll shake his head. I suspect he'll only remember the bad times. Or maybe not even. He'll ultimately remember that we were together at one point, and not much beyond.

I am very good friends with my first ex, we've known each other since we were 16. The friendship we've built goes beyond what we shared as a couple, but it's so very comforting to know that when I make a joke about the time we went wine-tasting around Alsace and got hopelessly lost and rather drunk, he'll know what I'm talking about and smile.

With X, I know our friendship will be completely different if we remain friends. I don't mind that two years of my life have been erased from his memory, because I never expected him to remember anyway, and I've had time to grow accustomed to the idea that I will only have my side of the story.

I guess I'm forgettable, but at least I get custody of all the great memories.

Special Snowflake

(The sign said originally "Road works closed to the public"-Chantier interdit au public- but some nihilist soul transformed it into "Happiness and opportunities denied to the public"-Chance interdite au public)


It's snowing here in Paris! It hasn't happened in years. In France we react to snow in a way that amuses my now American sister: "What, a couple of inches and you can't deal?"
No, we can't. As soon as the smallest flake arrives, salt trucks arrive. Accidents multiply. People complain. (Well, even more than usual). I'm sitting in the library, looking at the snow from the window. I love watching it. I remember when someone first told me that each snowflake is different. I didn't believe them. I went to look it up and then I tried to examine flakes under my father's big lense, but they always melted too fast.

In America, I learned the expression "Special Snowflake". At first I thought it was redundant, since every snowflake is special, then I realized it was an insult. I think it's a very poetic insult.

And the worse of it is I do think everyone is a Special Snowflake. I don't mean that anyone deserves special treatment, but that we are all different. We may behave in predictable patterns, but then so does snow. And to me snowflakes are so poignant in their sad descent, their perfection beyond my grasp or my lense. I know that many wonderful people cross my path too briefly for me to know just how special they are, and all the alternative lives I could live are as short-lived as a handful of snow.

So I'm reclaiming the expression. It sounds like an endearment to me.

"Come here, my Special Snowflake!"

Impetuous

I can't sleep. I'm nervous about all the finals, papers and Christmas gifts I'll never have the time to purchase.
My phone vibrates.
"Are you sleeping? Want to watch a movie at my place?"

It's one in the morning. I ponder for half a second, then slip out of bed, throw on a pair of jeans and a warm sweater, don't even bother to prettify my sleepy countenance, and go off in the cold, silent streets.

He has the requisite tiny student apartment, but it's so tidy and stylish, it looks more like a catalogue student apartment. I look around.
"Do you actually live here?"
He laughs.
"Yeah, I do, but since I've been interning and going out quite a lot, I have no food in the fridge to prove it."

I settle on his couch and we start talking. It's a desultory conversation, filled with un-awkward silences and the occasional yawn. We're both tired but I can tell he doesn't want to break off now, because the flow of words feels good. We talk about everything, the way you do when you get to know someone you're attracted to.

The inevitable tension settles in, and it becomes less if, than when one of us will lean in to kiss the other. But as the conversation goes on, there's no hurry. We both know, and we're old enough to enjoy the slowness, the flirtatiousness of this early morning conversation, and the curious feeling that whispering can give to perfectly innocuous words. Every movement feels momentous. Every smile feels like a secret shared. It's pretty much perfect.

And when I fell asleep in his arms, still in my jeans and sweater, it felt like the best impetuous decision I had made in a long time.

Don't push me

I am polite to the point of absurdity. I've annoyed countless people by over-apologizing, over-thanking, and any other over-politeness you can imagine. A typical exchange would be:

"Sara, can you stop apologizing all the time?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry it bothers you!'

So irritating.

I've been instilled with this since childhood and it's very hard for me to stop these reflexes switching on. It's like helping people carry their luggage in the bus or train: it's something I do because that's the way I should behave. I never question the impulse; I give in to it quietly.

Because of this, many have seen me as a doormat. I've been criticized for being too nice. I'm not nice. I'm polite. It's different. I can be nice, but I keep it for people I care about. I'm polite to everyone.

But underneath this veneer I am, in fact, a very angry person. I hate unfairness. I hate patronizing tones, disrespect, cruelty. It takes everything I have not to blow up when confronted with this in my day-to-day life. I think of my politeness as a protection against my aggressive side.

I treat people with respect. I try to make life a bit easier for everyone by smoothing over the small events of life with kind words and actions. That doesn't make me a good person per se: it makes me a frankly annoying person a lot of the time. However, don't push me. Don't treat me like someone who will accept anything. Because although the surface of the water is unrippled and calm, the turmoil underneath would scare you.

Why I am afraid of taking drugs

I am terrified of becoming an addict.

My father is an alcoholic, many people in my mother's family have been addicts.
When my sister smokes hash or takes amphetamines "to study" better, she thinks I'm judging her because I am conventional and straight-laced, which I am. But not about drugs.

I can't imagine losing control of myself. I remember taking sleeping pills and doing things and not remembering anything, and I vowed to myself never to do that again. I get tipsy very fast, so I rarely drink more than two glasses of wine at a time, say once a month.

Not everyone becomes an addict. I know people who do drugs recreationally.

I'm just scared that I won't be able to, so I don't touch anything.

And deep inside, I wish my sister wouldn't either. Because if by chance she does become an addict-I don't think I can witness any more self-destruction again.

The Tree

Coming this winter! THE TREE!

Featuring Mums, a tree, Sara and Adorable Cousin M masquerading as a tree himself. Happy times. And if I look a trifle haughty on the stepladder, it's because I'm afraid of heights.
Kitsch is the name of the game. Each year we go to my grandmother's apartment and we decorate until we drop.

OMG WTF

Mulled wine. And Class Christmas party.
Sara, the klutz, has just spilled her mulled wine on a friend of a friend. He's tall and nice and works for an environmental consulting firm. We were talking about his job and I just...spilled wine all over his beige trousers.

"You obviously did this to see me in my underwear."

By now he had changed into a pair of pants belonging to our host and I was helping him scrub the wine off.

"This isn't the first time we've met, you know?"
"No, when did we meet?"
"It was in a café, and you were telling these jokes, and everyone was laughing."
"Oh."

I didn't remember. But I liked him. He was funny and self-deprecating. We spent a lot of the evening sitting on a couch, laughing about everything and enjoying ourselves. I remember thinking:wow, I'm having fun! And I like him! I haven't liked anyone in ages.

As I gathered my stuff so I wouldn't be too knackered out for training this morning, he hovered around the door. I took a deep breath.
"Can I have your phone number, please?"
He smiled.
"I was about to ask you for yours."
"Well, that means you're going to have to choose the movie."
"Obviously."
"This is my finals week so..."
"No problem, I'll wait."

We smiled at each other.
"I like you."
"I like you too. Have a nice walk home!"

And I did.

Open relationships

I went to a bar with my statistics class some time ago. And the conversation turned to the topic of open relationships. Most of my comrades are around 21/22, and many have been in relationships for more than a year. I've noticed this trend among my friends before. I think my generation is into serial monogamy.

So many of them are considering at one point opening up their relationships. Mostly the girls, because they have been their boyfriends' first girlfriends, and feel that they cheated them from the normal playing around boys do(Yes, for French girls playing around is a boy thing). One girl told me as we sipped lemonade: "I feel that I would be able to control his cheating if I supervised it."
"But if you're opening up your relationship, it's not cheating, though, is it?"
She giggled.
"It's Cheating Prevention Tactic! It's a genius idea: you get to spy on him under the pretense of being open-minded.Hopefully I could choose girls that are almost as good as me, but not quite." She smiled evilly.

I come from a family where almost everyone has been divorced, even my grandparents. However I am not a relationship skeptic, on the contrary. I've had two serious, long-term relationships and I wouldn't say they were failures at all, or wastes of my time. But I find it difficult to believe that most people are brave enough or willing enough to put enough energy and effort into something once it stops being fun and effortless. I often see one person doing all the work, and getting discouraged, and that leads to separation.

I have no idea if I'll ever be in another serious relationship. But I've been thinking about what would prevent me from having an open one, and it boils down to this: I don't feel attracted to people only on a physical level, even very beautiful people. This would make it difficult for me to separate the physical from the emotional. And I think I would feel judged and compared to other women/men.

In fact, this second problem has nothing to do with open relationships, it has to do with me-my self-esteem, my confidence. Working on it!

The conversation ended on a funny note: a girl told me about her failed attempts to open her relationship for the summer, because she wanted her boyfriend to have more experience. He spent the entire month griping that no one was attractive/funny/interesting enough. He then realised how much he cared for her, and proposed.

Awwwww.

things I wish I could do

I wish I could comfort people in pain, and not witness their grief and be useless

I wish I could forget my shyness and reach out to others more often

I wish I could make some things less unfair

I wish this were not wishful thinking

I'm sure this is finals-related-exhaustion, but sometimes being powerless makes me feel angry, and sometimes sad, and tonight I'm sad.

I wish I could help.

My shrink called me fat

"You know, you have changed a lot in the past two years. The first time you walked into this room you were much thicker than you are now. You have shed your protective layer of fat."

...

"Excuse me?"

"You were obviously protecting yourself from men by being unattractive. Now you are no longer protected by your armour of flesh. You are no longer fat.This means you want to be attractive to men. "

By this time I'm completely amused.

"So now, what am I? Fat, medium, normal?"

"Normal, of course. You're absolutely average."

"So the difference between me being fat and me being average is 15 pounds? Because that's all the weight I lost. Would you really call that a huge difference, for someone who is 5'10? Because it's not. And I don't think you should associate "flesh" with unattractiveness, it's very reductive."

So he told me he was sorry he hurt my feelings. But he didn't. I don't think fat is a bad word, it's a descriptor. I disagree that fat, or flesh, are symptoms of a life less lived, less enjoyed.

What defines national identity?

This morning I was stopped in the street by a cameraman who wanted to interview me for national television, on the following question: what constitutes national identity for you?

I must explain that we are debating this topic very heavily at the moment. France in the last 40 years has known several waves of immigration from North Africa, Subsaharian Africa, Turkey, and many other regions of the world obviously. We will soon have more practising Muslims than practising Catholics. Some people are afraid that our "national identity" is threatened. A minister even said that he feared that France was now a couscous land, instead of the more acceptable choucroute (which by the way is a German dish, but whatever).

I thought a few seconds about the interview. My mother is a quarter Belgian, a quarter American, a quarter Spanish and a quarter Egyptian. My father is a Scot. I'm French. You can't really say I'm a typical French person, yet I feel entirely French. It's my mother tongue, it's where I was schooled, it's the way I am. I am French. But I don't think that my roots make me any less French than someone whose family has lived here for centuries.

Maybe it's a religious issue. Maybe we are afraid of Islam, because when I told the cameraman that I was the product of immigration myself he shrugged it off:"You're European."

I didn't do the interview. I had too many thoughts to muddle through, and I have too much respect for immigrants to make a half-baked statement in front of the nation.

France for me is a language. I understand that immigrants don't always talk French when they arrive, but I definitely think they should learn it. France is a way of life: we have secular public institutions here, so religion does not play an important part in our lives. You can't wear a cross around your neck, or a headscarf, or anything else in that vein, if you are a public official or a teacher, or even a student, when you are in a place representing the state (aka a town hall or a university). If this makes you unhappy or uncomfortable I don't think you should come to France. Other countries are more open to religious displays.

But I'm still pondering. My sister lives in America, by tradition the land of the Melting Pot. A young country,shaped by immigration. I wonder if America has the same trouble defining what its identity should be. I wonder if people in China, where so many languages are spoken, and over a billion people live, have trouble defining their identity.

And since this week, I am helping to host 50 young students from all of Europe, I have to make a short speech on "being European".

I have no idea yet. But I'm thinking about it.

Blue skies are here, at last

We met at a wedding. I was jetlagged, he was drunk. I fell for him, hard, but he lived in Sweden, I lived in America, he was recovering from a break-up, I was in a failing relationship. It wasn’t very promising.
One evening in Chicago, I sent him a Facebook message telling him how I felt. He answered. And how. He managed to slip messages in my pockets, my choir books, in my passport, without my twigging how he had enlisted the people I knew there. I sent him a package. He sent me the most beautiful postcard/letters from his trip to Europe, filled with people and stories and lust for life. In May I went to Sydney to visit him. He fed me almond croissants on Bondi Beach, the rising sun scorching my white cheeks. He fell in love with me.
By this time I was a complete mess. It took a few months to go home, break up with my boyfriend, fail to complete my masters’ paper, and live at my mother's house, depressed and useless. X came to stay with me in Paris. I was still a mess. I clung to him like a lifesaver. He made me happy. Then my father got sick and spent eight months in the hospital. He almost died for four of them. X held my hand and gave me the best hugs. He also kicked my arse and made me finish my paper. He proof-read it for hours on end, correcting it over and over again. I sent it in, got a good grade. He got a scholarship to Lyon so we could live together for at least a year. I found us an apartment. We were happy. Then he wasn't. At first it was all cheese and concerts and giggles and being young and in love. I studied for my state exam, he worked on his research. Then he fell out of love with me. It broke my heart.
He had been through a lot during the year and a half we’d lived together.
So had I, in an entirely different way.
It was hard to know what would happen. During those first weeks of hell, it felt as if all the bitterness, anger and sadness that come with breakups would consume me and him, and destroy whatever bond we had. I hated seeing myself through his eyes, as a clingy neurotic mess. He didn't respect my studies. I didn't accept his quarter-life crisis, as he called it. He bought a new bike and flirted with a young thing. Typical, I thought, before breaking down some more. I did my best, and so did he. We never said the unforgivable. We tried to respect each other. As soon as my classes were over, I moved back to Paris, I passed my exam with flying colors; he got a great grant to do his PhD. We stopped talking for a month. All this feels a long time ago.
It took seven months. But I know I’m over it.
I was in the bus and one of our songs came on. A song we had both listened to when the other was away, far, when we were doing the long distance thing, writing desperate passionate emails every day, when we were so in love. And I didn’t cry. I smiled. I remembered the almond croissants on the beach, and the first time he roller-skated with me, and our trip to Barcelona and how he told me he was in love with me in front of the Sydney Opera House.
I remembered all the good things. All the negative things are gone. And today I am over the breakup, and X and I are friends. Good friends. I have so much to thank him for and I am truly grateful for every wonderful hour we spent together as a couple. I’m happy to have survived this as best I could and I am happy that he is over it too.
I started this blog as therapy for the breakup. Now it has become something else, I’m not sure what. And I have become someone else too, and I don’t mind not knowing who I could be. If X taught me something over the years, it’s that all trips are more fun when the unexpected and the strange happen. I feel strong and brave and ready for time on my own, happy to take care of myself and to be single.
I’m so thankful for my family, my friends, my blogmates. You’ve helped so much. And thank you, X, for being my friend. And for making me laugh every time I see you. I care for you very much indeed.

Museums go with ice-creams.

When I was a school girl, my sister and I would get Wednesday off school (but we had to go to class on Saturday morning). Every Wednesday, one of our parents would take us to visit a museum. This tradition stopped when I turned 10, because of choir practice, judo classes and all the musical activities my sister was doing, but for five years we would trot off, wrapped in thick winter coats or clad in summer dresses, to go to a museum. My father is an art historian (and my sister wants to be one as well), so he enjoyed taking us to galleries, wheareas my mother, also an art afficionada, was always happy to mix things up a little with science or zoological museums.

It never lasted very long. We weren't allowed to scream, run or make any kind of disturbance, so my parents understood that more than an hour would have made us implode with repressed energy. Museums for me are still sacred ground, echoing the slow footsteps of visitors, a place where you can't talk above a whisper. Paterfamilias would give us technical explanations: how did Rembrandt do his engravings? Why was the blue paint faded? How did apprentices rise up in the ranks? Who commissioned those murals?

My mother is a born story-teller and we would listen to the Greek myths, the Biblical episodes and try not to giggle, because she always added hilarious details. "Do you know who the naked lady is?" she would ask in front of stunned visitors, who then heard my then 5-year old sister make a speech on Helen of Troy.

I have wonderful memories of my first modern art exhibit, during which my aunt stared at a blank canvas entitled "White on White" and told me it was beautiful. My sister and I exchanged bewildered glances, wondering if we had an eyesight defect.

Another time, my father who is a very diffident man with British reserve, took us to the Museum of Mankind in Paris, where there was a special exhibit on demography. My sister (age 7)and I (10) took a test to guess how many children we would have.Among other fun activities, we had to chose between methods of contraception. She chose condoms, and had her chosen number of children, and I chose "withdrawal", wondering what this might mean, and discovered I was destined to have thirteen children. My poor father did not enjoy the walk home after that visit, so full of embarrassing questions were we. "Papa, how do you get vasectomies?"

After museum time, we would have hot chocolate or ice-cream. To this day, after a show or an exhibit, I long for ice-cream. It's become a reflex. Ice-cream goes really well with culture for some reason. I'm a Stracciatella girl, but I've b known to indulge in strawberry sorbet. When the family travelled in Italy, you can imagine the amount of Gelati devoured.

This summer my sister came with me to Berlin and took me to one of the art galleries. She explained many of the paintings to me, in a very didactic way, making connections between painters, telling me about the classes she had followed on such and such, and it was such fun to have a recreation of our childhood.

Whenever I see bored kids in museums, I yearn to take them with me to a fun section, sit them on my lap and tell them all the funny secrets behind the canvases or the sculptures. Like everything, art can be intimidating or boring until you meet a wonderful teacher who opens your mind.

I still don't get blank canvases though...

Snippets (walking back home)

I love walking home after a hard day of study. I like how crisp the air is, and the smell of grilled chestnuts sold by street vendors, and the way elegant Parisian women trot briskly in their heels. I go through some of my favorite bits of Paris, and I like noticing the small things, like the way a laundromat has its windows all steamed up, or the new Xmas decorations in the trees.










Next to my house is a candy floss stand. Candy floss happens to be what we call in French my péché mignon(my sweet sin: usually refers to food).Please note that we use the evocative name of "Daddy's beard" (Barbapapa) for this childish confection. Last night I felt very happy and carefree, so I thought I deserved to celebrate a nice walk home with spun sugar.




Before a long, internet-less weekend of hard studying, I wish everyone their favorite péché mignon in the days to come.

Marathon plans

I want to go to Iceland this August to run my first marathon.
I want to see Reykjavik and the beautiful landscapes. I can't wait!

I think I know what my birthday present is going to be.

I am quite obsessed with running. I offer this story as proof. I'm going through a quarter-life crisis at the moment, what with the red hair and the short skirts, and I've decided I needed to get my navel pierced, although 23 is a bit old for such shenanigans and no one I know would approve. Who cares, I thought, striding in my local Tattoo and Body Art shop.

"Hi, I'd like to get my navel pierced."
"OK, so this is what you should know...blah blah blah disclaimer, disclaimer...Oh, and no physical exercice for 4 weeks. Sweat is bad for healing."

"Four weeks! Really? But I can't not run for almost a month.I'm in the track team of my uni."

"Well, I'm sorry, but that's a fact. I had my nipples pierced and continued the American Football Training season, and let me show you some pictures..."

A few revolting pictures later, I left the shop dismayed. I used to hate people who were obsessed with sport. And now I can't stay on the couch for a month of Christmassing, even for my quarter-life crisis?

Anyway, anyone up for a trip to Iceland with me?

Making faces

I was an extra years ago in "Marie-Antoinette" by Sofia Coppola. I pretended to be a singer, and mouthed Rameau on a stage in front of many extras, and had lunch with famous actors.

But of all the excitement and weirdness, the sheer pleasure of getting out of that corset is my most vivid memory. Oh the discomfort. And that wig I'm wearing? Is 15 pounds of horse hair.You can't see the long pony tail in the back. Hee, pony tail. The funniest part was getting fitted for this get up. I stood in a cold disaffected factory, while dozens of seamstresses buzzed around, and the head costume designer drawled: "Si,si , non è possible, zees hair ees not possible. Vere is Denise? Denise! You, hold your stomach in!"
"I...can't really breathe..."
"You can just skeep a few meals. How old are you? Nineteen? Too old to eat too much! Now let's put more brocade on zat train."

Overanalyse this!

« What’s the use of being overanalytical about everything ? What’s the use of being so emotional ? »
I must have heard this a million times in my life, and it is always a source of mingled irritation and amusement. I am very sensitive to people’s moods and behaviours. I don’t react to things because it’s useful-I just do. I like understanding the way people act. I like wondering what’s the link between a friend’s endless partying and the fact that her father has remarried. I like investigating mentally: why do I suddenly feel sad about something?

I’ll be the first to admit that this overanalytical behaviour is probably a secondary effect of my analysis. When you are getting over depression, you are taught to identify “triggers” that you can then work around. Say you are always depressed after listening to Malher symphonies (check) or after seeing a critical family member, you’ll avoid these triggers when particularly vulnerable.

Being overanalytical also has some social advantages for someone as shy as I am; I’ve become quite adept at predicting people’s reactions (once I know them a bit, obviously), and this avoids awkwardness. Would I be better off by just asking :”What’s wrong?” Often, yes. I’ve been trying actually to stop making projections and just ask when I’m not sure of why someone is angry/sad/perplexed. Being straightforward is also a time saver, since you avoid the endless handwringing of the overanalytical species.

But let me defend my kind: many “straightforward” people are not good at defining what ails them, or how they are affected by events, because they aren’t prone to overanalysis. They’ll just try to solve the problem. It’s much more difficult to solve a problem the source of which is unclear. Just as frequently as my less emotional friends have helped me muddle through a situation by asking clear questions and underlining my overreactions, I have been able to reciprocate by explaining the emotional undercurrents of an argument. As much as I sometimes wish I could be a hermit, we are a social species. We can’t rely on others to behave the way we would. Only our own reactions make sense to us. My sad habit of always wondering why, where and when has helped me be more respectful of people’s choices, especially when they go against my own reactions or beliefs.

This being said, it’s often a relief to me when I spend time with people who are blunt and to the purpose. They pull me out of my own head, and laugh at my interpretations of their behaviour. But in the end, little do they know that for all my histrionics, I am far more accepting of their idiosyncrasies than they could ever imagine.