The odd one out‏

I have come to the conclusion that emotional and logistical stability go hand in hand.
Such a revelation hit me this morning while freezing my butt off on a train platform for what felt like an eternity (about 1hr). The average commuter was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase or a shoulder bag. Maybe a gym bag. Then there was me. A huge handbag - content to be described later. My customary second bag - this time for my laptop, as I had some work to do at the weekend. An empty trolley, which, yesterday, full of food, was travelling with me in the opposite direction. Jeans, boots, two sweaters, hat, scarf, gloves and shawl.
My handbag? On top of the normal stuffing (wallet, umbrella, torch, hand sanitizers, make up, a pharmacy worth of medicines, tissues, glasses case, contact lenses, book, iPod, two BlackBerry's, several sets of keys), I was also carrying my passport and travel wallet, a bottle of water, miniature toiletries, sunglasses and some fruit. The refugee look was completed when I realised I hadn't had breakfast and extracted a Ziploc bag with leftover canapés to snack on, in order to avoid biting the arm of a fellow frozen traveller off.

As I floated out of my body and looked down on this gipsy with no chance of conforming, I embraced the messiness of my life and smiled. What else am I to do?

Two - 2

George decided that her unconventional beauty was the reason why he kept revisiting the few seconds he saw her. And yet, there was more. A certain familiarity. The memory of her features was already stored somewhere in his brain. Or maybe her dress. The way she stood in the carriage. Incongruous and yet defiant.

But, mainly, George wanted to know who she was. He wanted to see her again.
He was so intrigued, that the woman who was actually sitting next to him, his woman, had to repeat every sentence twice. Until when, fed up with his monosyllabic replies, she stopped mid-conversation, picked up a magazine and ignored him back.

An expert opinion

Married Friend #3 felt like sharing some of her wisdom with me today: 'Darling, you know when they tell you that what is important in a long-term relationship is friendship, companionship, having a laugh together? That at end the of the day, after many years together, these are the important qualities that count? Don't believe them, darling. On day 1, as on day 3650, nothing matters more than fancying each other's undergarments off. Just think about it, who will really miss the shared little habits, the comfort that comes with having seen each other ill, drunk and without make up, if they aren't cemented by intimacy and wild sex? I am not sure what good marriages look like, but I do know bad ones. And I have never seen a marriage going sour for too much action under the sheets. Maybe too much bad action. Yes, darling, that is true, actually. You really need to make sure you have a great romping partner. Otherwise, can you imagine spending your life tied to wrong bedpost?'

We have been warned.

Fistful of love

When a victim wants to me victimized, who is it to blame?
When one jumps out of fear of being pushed, who is to blame?
When a line is crossed because no line was drawn, who is to blame?
When pain is endured for too long without a complaint, who is to blame?
When silence is the only sound to be heard, who is to blame?
When eyes look away for too long, who is to blame?

More questions, no answers.
But all I can say to you, my friend, is: don't look back. Your corner was empty. And all you could do was to walk out of it. You can't look back. The person you are is not the same who cut the ties. And although you could hold your head high now, you couldn't then. Because you had to go through this hiatus in order to regain your strengths. Stop looking back. Stop. Just stop.

Two - 1

It was on his second day back to normality that it all started.
On the Underground, on his way to work.
A train, running in the opposite direction, offered for a few seconds the view of the interior of its carriage.
George looked up, over his newspaper. And saw her.
It was difficult not to notice her.
Standing in between commuters in suits, workers' uniforms, books, iPods and newspapers. Wearing a red evening gown. Her blond hair long on her shoulders. Her piercing eyes staring at him.
She smiled.
The trains separated, left the interjunction and entered parallel tunnels.
She was gone.

Boys

Last night I found myself thinking: where would I be in life if I hadn't spent so much time worrying about boys, relationships, men?
Better grades at school? No, always been a nerd. More time for sport? Possibly. More ambitious career plans? Definitely.

I have to admit: since developing a crush for a scruffy boy at elementary school, I have wasted a ridiculous amount of time worrying about the matters of the heart. Endless conversations, torturing friends with the $1,000k questions: does he like me? Does he like my best friend instead? Does he only want me to do his homework/iron his shirts/pay his bills? Will he call? Should I call? When can I call? Is he coming to the party? Will he buy a birthday present for me? Should I buy a birthday present for him? Does he think I am a geek? Does he want to dump me? Should I sleep with him?
It is exhausting.

In the meanwhile, I could have, in no particular order, mapped the human genome, started my own multi-million company, found a cure for cancer or the Higgs boson. Nope, instead, I obsessed about relationships.

Is it just me? Is it an evolutionary need? Does it only apply to geeky physicists? Shouldn't we be preoccupied with more worthy causes? Shouldn't I have reached the age when only pressing, life-defining subjects should grab my attention?

No idea.