Just Another Tuesday

I turned 28 two days ago. If I should rank occasions and anniversaries in terms of being personally bothersome, my birthday will be right at the top with maybe the retirement anniversary of my orange Suzuki hatchback ranked at the bottom. Personally bothersome, because birthdays that occur after the 21st become as momentous as emptying the cloth dust-bag of my 1400W vacuum cleaner. As the years add on, birthdays become increasingly paradoxical and the reason to celebrate dilutes in its meaning. Yet it is a day that you can’t take for granted even if you try to, and anything less than doing ‘something’ about it; be it a celebration or doing something extraordinary like shampooing your hair with shaving cream, would render the mere 24hrs like life in depressionville.

I recited to myself on the days leading to my birthday, that it is just another day, and if you put your mind to it, it will be just another day. Yet the churning feeling in my gut told me otherwise. What is it about birthdays anyway? What is it exactly that we are celebrating? That I was born? It makes little sense. While you hear common linguistic expressions such as ‘will make you wished that you were never born’, you will notice that nobody ever says ‘boy I’m glad that I was born.’ As such, the essence to the celebration is somewhat murky, and the conflicting fight between making the day an ordinary one, and one to remember becomes confusing as much as it is bothersome.

Fine, I figured that I needed to do something about it. We’ll make it simple, like dinner with two friends over some sake at a decent Japanese restaurant. For some peculiar reason, I was in the mood for sake. There is something about sake and birthdays that make them come together, like yogurt and tandoori chicken. The first person on my guest list was Vietboy, just because he got me drunk in Hanoi so I have to return the favour; that is, despite knowing that his liver was preserved for a century in alcohol prior to his transplant. I guess I just wanted someone to drink with, although I knew that drinking with Vietboy would be like playing poker with the devil himself.

So I have this really cool picture in my head, Vietboy my Japanese colleague and maybe one other friend in a cool, clean-looking Japanese place where we’ll sip sake till the cows come home. Alas, I should have known better that things never work out the way they did in my head. There was the element of guilt, because within my clique of friends, my birthday is as much a secret as knowing which party will win the next Singapore election. The logic is skewed, but that’s how it worked; if I invite so-and-so, I have to invite so-and-so, but if so-and-so was there, so-and-so must come along as well. Don’t get me wrong, if I could help it, I would want nothing more than every person I know on this planet to come together over a few drinks but I don’t want it to be obligatory on my account. Not to mention, there is also the element of presents. It just doesn’t feel right that my friends have to spend money on me. I like presents, but I don’t like the fact that they cost money. Yet they still did it and made me feel like a very blessed man.

It was 7pm on a Tuesday night. There were twelve people in a private room of a pretty decent Japanese restaurant. There were three bottles of sake, there were presents, and there amongst friends was a testimonial that perhaps I have done something right to deserve their company. Birthdays are a special day. Perhaps the supposed meaning to celebrate the birth of a person seems somewhat awkward. However, there is no doubt that it is a day where one can get to appreciate that there are people around who care enough to drop a line, a word of well-wish, or share a sake or two and make him feel that it really is a beautiful world out there.

So thank you all for putting my name in your thoughts on the day that really wasn’t special, but was so just because you decided it was to be.

VD

It is Valentine’s Day. I know that there is a story behind it, some Priest by the name of Valentine who got beheaded and was later canonised a saint by Hallmark. Or something like that. Valentine’s Day is a strange day, more so than mother’s day or father’s day despite sharing the same origins leading back to the days when marketers discovered that consumers lacking in creativity were happy to pay five dollars for a cardboard. It is strange because it is a day when my friends finish their phone calls with, “happy Valentine’s day.” What exactly does that mean? How is ‘happy Valentine’s Day’ different from the regular ‘have a good day?’ At least when someone says happy Chinese New Year, it comes with overtones of well-wishes of good fortune, good luck, and reminders of other elements that I lack in life, such as wealth. Perhaps ‘happy Valentine’s Day’ has the same subtext; single or otherwise, may you find what you may lack in life, romance that is.

This is a day that certainly stirs emotions. I remember when I was eighteen, I was at a beach party when I met this lady. She was older and flaunted a persona of wisdom in life experiences which I found attractive. It was one of those outings where under the stars and after a few glasses of wine, you would feel inclined to share your most personal details even with strangers. I told her that I never had a relationship before. Her immediate response was as cutting as it was perplexing; she retorted “what’s wrong with you?” Yes, what was wrong with me? That inflicting question had me introspective for the next three years, and I have a poem written on each Valentine’s day to show for it.

It has been more than two years since my last relationship. I have spent the same length of time venturing into a new lease of life, setting up my own apartment, living by myself and pursuing new challenges that I thought would help me rejuvenate from some bitter memories. This very evening, I have a glass beside me, a classic rock glass which two pieces of ice swimming in a twelve-year old, single malt Glenlivet. Louis is singing ‘blueberry hill’ on my stereo…….. ….. and I am thinking to myself, I think I’ve done well….. .. life has been really good to me.

I know of people who wouldn’t hesitate to slap a label on Valentine’s Day being ‘too commercialised.’ While it is tempting being the cynic I am to jump onto the bandwagon, I realise that the statement is, ironically a cliché itself. I have my own beliefs, such as buying flowers on Valentine’s Day is really an apology, not a gift. It is an apology for not having sent flowers for the last 364 days. After all, inflated prices are more fitting to be the cost of a penalty rather than the value of a gift. But that is what I think. It is a little like religion, there is no point imposing my faith (or lack of it) upon others. Although it gives me great joy to witness how religion can save a person’s life. Along the same vain, it gives me great joy seeing couples walk along the street holding hands, and the girl parading her stalk of rose with a radiant look on her face that beams ‘he really loves me.’

I really don’t think much about Valentine’s Day, but there is no reason to belittle it. It can still be a day of celebration and I was quite keen to do it somewhat differently. I have already spent too many hours by myself at the office today and I thought it would be sweet to give someone a call. I did. I gave the Vietnamese guy who got me pissed drunk on my first day in Hanoi a ring, and wished him a Happy Valentine’s Day.

Uphill Skiing

I was watching winter Olympics the other day. It was not with any particular interest but just happened to be stuck on the channel after some scrupulous channel surfing. The winter Olympics is the showcase where elite athletes compete in style, grace and seamless elegance. I was therefore taken aback when there were two men on-screen prodding along boorishly like two cavemen spear-fishing in the snow. Apparently it was an Olympic event called ‘up-hill’ skiing. How and why would anyone want to ski uphill? Skiing uphill to me is like a sick joke by the organisers whom in their retired years take sadistic pleasure watching young athletes compete in a game with little idea that the element of fun has already been removed.

Somehow, this seems to be the theme of my week, if not for the rest of my year. I really enjoy what I am doing at the moment; that is research work. I love coming up with concepts and theories to explain things, like drawing boxes and lines to explain to my mom why she has such a high propensity to nag. But like Olympic skiing, someone has to come along to remove the element of fun and turned it into a sport. With my work, the days of gliding downhill has passed. I am now facing the last hurdle which promises to be as pleasurable as skiing up a very tall hill carrying two coconuts with my hands tied to my back. Nevertheless, I do look forward to the challenge, if just to purge this feeling of anxiety out of my system.

It has finally sunk in. The holiday has ended.

However, I did bring with me some very potent memories that will help give me a push along the way; getting drunk like a warrant officer in Vietnam; playing poker till the sun rises; and spending so much quality time with my best mates.

A little further, just a little further……. it won’t be long before it’ll all go downhill once again, in the nicest way of course.

Post-Holiday Trauma

I know that I will suffer from post-vacation disorder; it is a bit like watching Never Ending Story when you were five and your mom comes along to turn off the TV just when the fluffy white dragon was soaring through Fantasia. I wouldn’t say that I’m in the midst of depression and in need of a shrink to make me draw quadrants, but I do feel like a five year old kid stomping one foot on the ground yelling ‘I want my holiday back’ in a way so annoying that has ‘slap me’ written all over it.

It is amazing that after being away for a month and a half, I could still find my way to the office. Well not literally, but it is no easy ordeal to muster the mental strength to drag my ass to sit before this very computer. I have almost forgotten how the entire charade at the office works. That is; the charade of pretending to work as part of the pre-productivity ritual, before spending three hours on the Internet and then spend half-an-hour later to do enough to return home without guilt. I wouldn’t say that I’m terribly thrilled to be back, especially when today marks the start of my final year meaning that I will spend a lot of time stressing over what I was supposed to do.

First day in the office and there are already signs that this year will be anything but a smooth sailing Disney ride through midget world with little plastic munchkins singing ‘it’s a small world after all.’ I was told, or rather, the last one to be told that we will be moving offices. I got really stress and I had to quickly recite the ten commandants from Who Moved My Cheese to curb with the hyperventilation. I will so dearly miss the serenity in this office which induces sleep like a swaying cradle on an autumn’s day. I am stressed because I have no clue how the new office will be like; will I be able to prance around in my singlet and slippers? Will I be able to sleep without students disturbing me? Will I have enough power-points to charge my mobile phone, digital camera and Bluetooth headset? There are important issues at stake and surely the administrators would have considered some sort of congress for this purpose.

Then, I was told that my supervisor has recruited two more doctoral students this semester. I never knew how my sister felt when I was born, but it was probably a little like this…….. She (my supervisor) doesn’t love me anymore! I was the apple of her eye, her favourite student, her only student (literally), and now I have to share her attention. I’m not sure what it is, but maybe the reunion with my primary school mates last week has unlocked the child-like persona in me and that spoilt brat has been coming out to play rather often lately.

Welcome to 2006, day one in the office. The journey appears to be arduous one, the last hurdle may be the most challenging of them all, but one final leap, one final push will probably bring me to the finish line. As some wise old man whom I never knew and probably never existed would have said, “grit your teeth and take the leap; all you really need, is a good place to sleep.”

I wish my new office has pillows.

The Second Quadrant

The Johari Window, a popular fill-in-the-blanks psychological tool that over-paid shrinks use to kill time with their patients. I’m going to talk about the Johari Window today. I’m not sure why (actually I do, but for the effect of an introductory suspense knowing now that people actually read this hogwash, I’m saying ‘I’m not sure why’ for effect), but I figured that it will give this entry a different feel, instead of the typical, almost predictable sentimental outpour.

Although the Johari Window was originally designed to describe interpersonal interactions, I found it to be a very useful model for teaching my students the multi-dimensional concept of the self-image. In my interpretation, the Johari Window is made up of four quadrants. The first, describes the subjects’ open self-image that is known to both themselves and known to others. The second, describes the self-image that the subject is clueless about, although these are the same attributes that invite extensive bitching from so-called friends. The third describes the residual revelations after long sleepless nights spent starring into the void introspecting. The last which makes little sense, would have served more purpose if it was called the chocolate pudding. Therefore, for the purpose of this blog, I’m calling the last quadrant, the chocolate pudding.

If you have not figured out by now, I’m really not serious about dedicating this entry to the Johari Window. But there is some relevance here. I was on MSN earlier today catching up with a long lost friend, one that go way back to the days where you need to raise your hand to ask for permission to use the toilet. 15 years it has been and it is amazing how people remember you for the most embarrassing things you did such as confessing to be infatuated with the girl in class with shoulder-length hair. The conversation we had opened the Pandora box of repressed memories and skeletons came out to play as if it was Halloween. They were revelations about me that I have been oblivious to, and stories which I starred as the main villain in a script more commonly found in a poor soap opera. It all came in place like the second quadrant of the Johari Window gone wrong; it is like watching yourself being personified over oil on canvas by the hand of Picasso with Parkinsons.

I knew that I was a bit of an arrogant twit when I was about 8 yrs old, but little did I know that I was branded a prancing peacock with a feathery brain. I was horror-struck, dumbfounded, flabbergasted when it was revealed that I had a hand to play in getting a female classmate slapped in class. I have no recollection of this event, except a strange churning feeling in my gut which suggests that it may indeed have occurred more than a decade ago. Me appropriating violence on a member of the opposite gender? Never! Well, there was this time where I kicked Elaine in the face during a martial arts tournament, upon which she complained to my ex who later broke up with me. Okey, it didn’t happen that way in that sequence, but it would have made a good story. Anyway, me appropriating violence on a girl? Never! I only remember that I developed a certain phobia for girls by the age of ten, partially due to a childhood scar of being made to cry by a girl when I was eight and later to learn that girls are like some unfathomable entity designed by mother nature to give ten-year old boys a hard time. I left for a boy’s school straight after that.

Interestingly, tomorrow will be the first gathering with my primary school mates after more than 15 years. Initially, I was excited over the prospect of making ‘new’ friends without having to go through the charade of an ice breaker. But alas, now knowing that I will be walking into dinner with preconceptions placed over my shoulders, some which I am quite unaware of, I’m actually anxious over the ordeal. Fascinating sensation, anxiety is. I’ve not felt this way since high school prom, when I was late to pick up my Indonesian date who struggled to chain two sentences of English together. She was cute though. Anyway….. yes, tomorrow. There is an angelic persona somewhere inside me, which perhaps may be more fitting at a reunion with four lovely ladies, but that will probably take too much effort to conjure and sustain. It is probably easier to be my regular happy-go-lucky self, but that will probably further endorse the label of a prancing peacock. This is getting increasingly frustrating, it is like venturing on a blind date with nothing to wear save poker-dotted boxers.

Take a pinch of salt. It ain’t that bad. I love reunions. Despite the less than virtuous reputation I’ve maintained during my childhood, tomorrow may be an opportunity to show that I’ve changed;…. … I used to be an arrogant vertically challenged loudmouth, now I’m just an obnoxious vertically challenged loudmouth.