Brown sugar

I knew it!
Do you remember when I hypothesised that Emotional Incompetence might be linked to discipline and therefore I was going to try (and fail) to tackle my addictions to demonstrate it? Well, there you go, I have just been proven right by a group at Stony Brook University who demonstrated in an MRI study that 'intense romantic love seems to function much like an addiction'. These researchers looked at subjects who had a recent break-up and found that the pain and anguish they were experiencing appeared to be linked to activation of parts of the brain associated with motivation, reward and addiction cravings. In their own words, 'what is unique to romantic rejection includes elements that are very much like craving for cocaine'.

To the point, I recently shared some knowledge I acquired in the field of heroin addiction with friends who were going through some complicated emotional times. They thought my insight was about love, not opiates. They recognised in the typical behaviours depicting a heroin addict their irrational and irresponsible need for the object of their desire.

So, if 'the passion of romantic love is a goal-oriented motivation state rather than a specific emotion', and you are rubbish at goals, what are you left with? I bet you know the answer already: Emotional Incompetence!

I am therefore wondering: doctor, doctor, where is my medicine?

Strike

No comments, no blog

Danger, danger (high voltage)

Yes, it is true, the majority of accidents happen within a few hundred yards of our homes.
And I can demonstrate it.
In my life I have broken several bones, including: an arm, skating in my parents' garden; a toe, in my own bedroom; a hand, in my parents' flat; a foot, running near my house. I also got hit by a cricket ball walking past the village green.
My latest adventure. I tripped and smashed my arm against the fireplace. Now, I have a forearm the size of a watermelon. So sore, it keeps me awake at night..

I can guess what English Rose and Male Friend #2 may be thinking. It is not the environment, it is me. Fortunately, as we say in the business, 'what happens on site stays on site', as I have been known for falling face forward in restaurants, conference centres and hotels (notice, plurals). And all this when stone-cold sober.
Which probably explained why, when, as a certified First-Aider, I ran to rescue a colleague, a booming laugh arose from the office floor.

My dad used to blame my university education, my scientist upbringing, for a perennial 'head in the clouds' state. I blame a certain disconnect between my vision of the world and the harsh, cold reality.
Yes, dreaming can hurt, but boy does it feel good most of the time.

Ode to burger

It is time, my friend, to write about our long-lasting, life-time relationship.
From cheap meat on drunken dawns, to Kobe beef on crunchy buns. From New Zealand to Germany, you keep me company in lonely hotels, in an endless repeating of late-night room services.
Not an easy life, when chefs refuse to cook you rare, when you can be let down by soggy chips and stale bread. When bad beer can spoil an evening, when too much onion or tasteless lettuce can put you off.
And yet, I have to admit, even I, your great admirer, even I have, once or twice, betrayed you. A baseball game, a mini selection, I know, it is no excuse. But I too have surrendered to your poor cousin. Yes, I have to confess, every now and again, I have preferred a hot dog.
That's it. No more lies. Please forgive me.
Because you, burger, will be my favourite. Only pizza can compete. But that's another story.

Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Can it be that all it takes to get rid of Mr Hyde is an 11-hour sleep? Yep, 11.. What a dormouse!
Today life is smiling at me again. Or, to be precise, I am not biting anybody's head off. Even in the super crowded Regent St shops on a Saturday afternoon.
Or.. Maybe.. Maybe somebody secretly added valium to my drinks.. Whatever. I am not complaining.
You know, it is really scary to be possessed by some angry, impatient, loud, aggressive, mad woman taking over your body and mind. Lack of sleep and rushes of adrenaline strip all my inhibitions and I could happily yell at strangers on the underground, in pubs, in queues.. With happily being the operative word.

...And relax...

Karma is a funny thing - Part 2

There you go, victim of my own misdemeanours.
This morning, in huff, a puff and a grump, I skipped my usual morning good deed. Result: a rubbish day. Worse, I turned into a horrible shouting monster and annoyed everybody around me. And now I am sitting at the hairdresser's, terrified at the idea that if it all goes wrong here too I am condemned to months of really bad hair..
Yes, with work, stress and lack of sleep, the crazy chick is back. I hate myself for being this side of me. And soon everybody else will too.
A long weekend walk is urgently needed..

In the meanwhile, where's everybody gone?? This holiday thing is 'like totally unacceptable'! Someone needs to tell me juicy stories.. Actually, I am starting to think that fear of ending up on this blog is stopping my friends from sharing their adventures.. Hmmm, detective EI will investigate and report back.
PS
In the end, my hair is OK, not as good as usual, but something I can live with. Too tired to bother with picking dinner venues, I had a massive bust-up with The Man in the middle of Chinatown. Then had to apologies to all the people I pissed off during the day. So glad it is almost midnight and today will soon be over.

Baaad blogger

Back to the eternal dilemma. How to fit work within a normal person's life? I am too busy for these 10-12 hour days! I have a life, friends, interests! This is just unacceptable!
So there you go, that's all I am posting today.
I am tired, nothing interesting is happening (or if it is, nobody is telling me), and I just want to sleep (should carry pj's to get changed into on the train, so when I get home I can just go to bed).
Puah!

One - 7

George tried to open his eyes. He wanted to test the light before committing to a full-on stare. His head was slightly less sore. The nausea still there, but bearable.
It was probably around midday. And he could not get out of bed, despite trying a couple of times.
George had the distinct feeling that there was somebody in the room. Maybe he was still asleep. Yet. Yet, wasn't that the silhouette of a woman at the end of the bed? Why wasn't she making any noises? And why wasn't he scared?
As George blinked, she disappeared. Was she ever there in the first place, George wondered.

Freedom

Back on the Heath running. The first time since my spring of leisure. And despite the summer rain (jee, it was bucketing!), the aching knee (why feeling young inside doesn't seem to translate to the outside?), the slight hangover and the exploding lungs (that's why it doesn't), it was brilliant!
I also realised why I don't like exercising with other people. It is an issue of mental space. Do you remember the Nike pitch in 'What women want'? When Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt come up with the running woman for whom it is just about ‘her and the road, where she doesn’t need to worry about being sexy or funny, about how to behave around men or colleagues, about how much money she makes. Nothing, nothing but the road'? (Don't quote me on this, my memory is not that good) Well, they did the cheesy work for me, and I don't need to come up with something similar. But that is it, really. My brain is connected to my feet. I need to walk or run to clear my mental clouds, to sever all ties, to feel free (nope, no getting away from cheesy today). Because, you see, as Male Friend #1 reminded me recently, quoting yet another film, breaking free is easy (even if painful and exhausting), the difficult part is to stay free. And if total freedom is impossible to achieve (although being an EI is a pretty good start), reliving the escape, reminding yourself of your uniqueness and independence, of who you are, of what you stand for as a person, not a girlfriend, a professional, a wife, a daughter, or a friend, is key to staying true to yourself. Hence the running, the walks, the lonely afternoons. Solitude can be a friend if you are not scared of it. Freedom can be a goal, a purpose, a choice, a cause to fight for. It is what you make of it. And can be found in the most unexpected places, even in the most unexpected company. Sometimes, your own.

Karma is a funny thing

While boredom is not funny at all.

Everybody is either on holiday or busy working. Nobody is answering my emails..
Sad, abandoned EI alert..

One - 6

George admitted that being ill was one of the few occasions when he missed living with someone. His stomach was curled up for maximum compacteness, his temples drenched with sweat, his legs weak and unsteady. At least his medicine cabinet was well stocked all the time. George avoided going to the doctor's as much as possible, and preferred self-medicating. Having medics in the family helped with the prescriptions.
George thought that he could have called her. She would have most certainly gone to see him and looked after him. But George did not want to be seen like that. Being unwell is personal. It takes a lot of sharing to get to that level of intimacy. And he could hear himself whining in his head.. A winging man is never a good look. Not very sexy, no. George buried is head back under the pillow and pretended the phone wasn't ringing.
George tried to float away towards pleasant memories to ignore the pain in his abdomen. The pebbles thrown in the sea when he was a kid at his parents' summer home. He could see his hand rummaging through the shore, selecting the flattest, most elastic ones, weighting them through his fingers. Stepping back, aiming, his right arm describing a horizontal emi-circumference. The pebble bouncing once, twice, three times, four times! His mate Ryan admiring his technique - never able to repeat it. His father slapping him on the back of his head for almost hitting a German tourist.. No, that wasn't a memory, that was a throbbing headache grabbing him back to present days.

One - 5

It was 03:05 in the morning when George woke up. He immediately reached out to the night stand. To then realise he didn't know what he was looking for.
As he turned the light on, George found himself covered in sweat. Small drops running down his hair at the base of the neck, curving towards the collarbone, plunging down his chest.
George could not remember what kind of dream (nightmare?) elicited such a reaction in him. The room wasn't hot either. On the other hand, he suddenly felt cold. George got up, put a tee-shirt on and went in the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked uncharacteristically pale. A sense of nausea grabbed him. He had to sit on the edge of the bath.
George went rapidly through all the options. Food poisoning (nope, no dinner), drunk (after one beer? Give me a break), flu (I am not running a fever), a new fashionable disease (?). There was only one option left, George concluded, he had to be pregnant.
As he started to feel better, George climbed back in bed. His eyes heavy. A new desperate sense of need. To sleep. To let go. To stop being annoyed by that shadow at the edge of his field of vision.

Before he knew it, the alarm clock was shouting away. Nausea, again. George decided to call in sick.

Sign o' the times

We all tend to believe that in the good old days, when friends were in an address book, not on Facebook, when computers were large plastic boxes on a desk, not cute little gizmos in our pockets, things were easier. We went to school, maybe university, got a job, got married, had kids, a house, a car, a holiday once a year. We were friendly with our neighbours, children played on the street, people aged gracefully and dressed accordingly. Ah, the good old days. No time for ennui. No time for navel gazing. No time for organic lacto-free cheese.
Whether you believe this pile of clichés is entirely your business. But one thing is fairly easy to agree upon. Not much is easy these days. Oh no. It is pretty damn complicated. Should I? Do I? Want I? The sheer amount of choice is paralysing.
Look around. How many options are available? Job-wise, love-wise, friendship-wise. And are these getting in the way of commitment? Of the ability to decide where we stand? Sometimes I cannot even pick the selection of fruit and nut for my weekly delivery of snacks! Actually, the little boxes that bring joy to the office on Monday mornings have just given me an idea. Because, you see, inside the cardboard box there are four sealed plastic trays, with four different mixes of healthy crunches. Boxes within the box. So, can we separate all the different compartments of our lives, box them up in a tiny container and open them only when appropriate? Can we split our day in four equal parts and move from one section to the other every six hours? Is life a stationary department or a minestrone? And what if your brain works in parallel and not in series? What if logical progression defies you every single time? What if romantic thoughts get hold of you while you are supposed to be a cold business person? What if you need to write a work email while cooking dinner?

One thing is worrying me these days. What if the relentless optimism is abandoning me? What if my feet are glued to the asphalt? What if the tiny boxes stay sealed all day long and I just stare at them from a distance? Would it be a very sad day, or a very healthy one?... Naaaaa, it will never happen. I am still the same EI, just a bit less dramatic about it.
PS
Beer does not go in the fridge if it is real ale

One - 4

George realised, as he walked inside his flat, that resistance was futile. He was not going to go to the gym. Third day in a row. Almost automatically George looked down. Stomach: still flat. At least another week worth of laziness before it would show. George also realised that he had left all the lights on in the kitchen for at least two days. George liked to think of himself as a positive person, so decided to carry on forgiving his own weaknesses. It was only when he realised that his fridge was empty, that George had a moment, albeit just a moment, of disappointment. For he didn't want to go out again. In a way, George thought, the two actions cancelled themselves out. No gym, no food, no fat. He opened a beer, undid his tie, lit a cigarette and sat on his sofa for a couple of hours of mindless television entertainment.
And yet, there was something nagging him. Like an itch at the back of his brain. George could not figure out when and how it started. Never mind, George thought, if nicotine doesn't bring back the memory, nothing will.

One - 3

'So, how are you doing?'
'Good, good. I am good'
'Still working your ass off?'
'Hmmm, kind of'
'And, what's her name, how is she?'
'She is fine'
'Are you sure you are OK? You sound pissed'
'...I am not! I only had a glass of wine.. Ah, you mean pissed off. No no no no. Of course not. Why should I be?'
'Dunno. You sound strange'
'Just bored. And busy. Busily bored. Or boringly busy. Take your pick'
'You could always come and work with us. You would be great'
'Thanks, but, no thanks. I know you guys. I am too old for your immense working hours and late nights out'
What an ass hole! Of all the people I know, did I really need to have lunch with him? "What's her name"!? What an ass hole.
George wasn't very pleased. He also didn't like to drink at lunch time. It did make him sound grumpy and frustrated. He blocked off the sound of the guy's voice and looked around. The restaurant was packed, as per usual at that time of the day. City boys. A few well-cut suits. A lot of cheap tat. George liked clothes. To be a straight man and to like clothes this much it was considered either an asset or ridiculous. But it didn't bother him. A stylist, or a fashion designer. Those were job offers he would have considered. Not to move to a firm of obscenely paid wankers. Although the money was most certainly appealing.
'So, what do you think?'
Crap, no idea what he was talking about.
'What do you think? I am very interested in your own opinion'
Easy. The man just loves the sound of his voice.
George wished he was still in school and someone could come and take him back to the classroom urging him to finish his lunch. But school doesn't happen in your 30's. He had to find an escape route by himself.