Awkward is the New Black

Using the word "awkward" to describe a whole slew of mishaps and door traps (okay, I just wanted to rhyme) seems to be all the rage. However, I am here to put a large mammal on the tracks of this roaring trend train and argue that the term has lost its meaning. Tripping over your own feet or choking on air is at the most mildly embarrassing and inconvenient, but not awkward. Allow me to enlighten you with more apt examples:

1.  Losing your balance and falling face first into a stranger's groin, then having said stranger bore holes into your eyes with his accusatory stare as he demands an explanation for your carnal behaviour. (True story.)
2. Asking your friend what time his birthday party is starting while simultaneously finding out the party is a surprise arranged by friends, with subsequent interrogation by the birthday boy to spill the beans. (True story.)
3. Walking in on your parents doing the diddly-doo. And making eye contact. (True story. Also traumatizing. Sorry for the mental imagery.)

Well, if you don't feel sorry for me now, then you probably need to work on your lack of empathy.

Even though I would rather have those events erased from my long-term memory, the lesson I gleaned from them is that your response to your circumstances is all that really matters. The degree of awkwardness/humiliation/embarrassment you experience is completely up to you. Yes, you may fart trumpets at a workplace meeting (true story), but you can either laugh it off or curl up into the fetal position and beg for Mommy. The great thing about your response is that others will mirror it, too. If you are worried what people will think of you, people will think about it and pass judgement. If you don't give a single dang and act like you were born to entertain, people will realize you are easy-going and can roll with the punches. And that's a pretty sweet image to have.

Even when things get painful, like running into someone who grinds your gears the wrong way, it is up to you to either avoid eye contact like you're trying to impose blindness on your perfectly-functioning eyeballs, or to graciously accept this perpetrator's presence in your life and give a quick, polite nod of the head and carry on. In the grand scheme of things, it is really no big deal.

Let's face it, we are all blossoms of the awesome (Rhymer of the Year, am I right??), we have all had our cringe-worthy moments. So let's toast to more for the sake of humanity.

Here's to your pants dropping unexpectedly or walking into someone who regards you as the scum of the Earth. Go out there, be awkward beyond comprehension, and create your own anthology of true stories. Trust me, they make for great conversation.

Happily Never After

When it comes to romance, if there was a prize for throwing all caution to the wind, I would be the all-time world champion. If love is the laboratory, I am the heavily-drugged and always-willing guinea pig.

This post is about my exes, bless their wonderful, handsome, loving souls!

"Dang, Samaa, are you still in love with them? Who else gets that excited about their exes?" No, I don't doodle their names on notepads, nor did my break-ups with them end in puppies pooping jellybean rainbows. Quite the contrary. I am an intense person, so getting out of a relationship has always been a torturous process, regardless of whether I was the heartbreaker or the heartbroken. I don't even know if "ex" is the right word, because a lot of my youth has been spent dragging my reluctant butt out of one-sided crushes, where there was never really a relationship beyond friendship to begin with. Heck, sometimes I would fall for a guy without ever being within a five-meter radius of him.

I do, however, wish to ship each of them off to a land of sweet honey and all the riches in the world (honey and money make Samaa sunny). That, too, with their significant others.

"This chick needs to calm down on the meds." No, concerned friend. I am genuinely indebted to all the failed relationships in my life because they taught me to say yes to myself and no to situations that weren't serving me. These men have contributed to my growth in ways that would not have happened if they hadn't sent my heart through an industrial meat grinder. And what's more, every time I said goodbye, I was pushed one step closer to my soulmate (yes, I believe in soulmates, sue me). Do you know how much time these people have saved me? What if I had spent years with any one of them only to find out they were the wrong person? I have been spared excessive tubs of ice cream and Kleenex!

Now I know what I want in a partner and what I have to offer - resilience, faith, and optimism. And a nice bum. I like my bum.

Confessions of a Hermit

Dance class is always a humbling experience for me. When I freestyle like a freak in the privacy of my bedroom, I feel like no one can compete with my grace and booty shaking. Then, in the presence of my talented, skillful dance mates, and under the tutelage of my superhuman teacher (seriously, her abilities are off-the-charts good; I suspect she may be an extra-terrestrial), I am reminded that, yes, I have potential, but my booty also has to do a lot more shaking before it can win a prize.

Anyway, I am here to talk about my desire to live in the Stone Age, which, in today's terms, means pre-social media.

I have nothing against what Facebook, Twitter, this blog, etc., does for society. They are a great way to share and discuss ideas and events on a global platform.
However, I also feel that there is a fine balance between using it as a fun means to connect with others, and forming a codependent love-hate relationship with it as I have. I can hardly open my eyes every morning without hankering after my phone to check up on the people and groups I follow, instead of appreciating the arrival of a new day. And - getting to the heart of the matter - I really just want the high of being notified that someone has liked, commented on, or shared my post. This is where things get nasty.

I always struggle with social media because I start to rely on it for external validation. I have friends who will attest to the regular deactivation and reactivation of my accounts. This yo-yo behaviour occurs because I start comparing myself to others all the time. I get addicted to feeling superior based on the quality of my posts, but then my inflated ego writhes in agony when I see how much more popular, well-liked, and accomplished my contemporaries are. Of course, this is all an illusion. What we portray on our profiles is just a snapshot of what is happening in our lives. That's the whole point, but my perception of profiles as the be-all and end-all is what gets me into trouble. That is when I feel the need to send my electronics through a cheese grater, 'cause, gosh dangit, why isn't my life as great as theirs?

I'm not sure if occasionally shutting myself off from the world is the right solution. This is most likely a matter of working on my self-esteem. However, using social media in small doses seems to keep me in a happy medium while I figure out what the heck my deal is.

That is all. I wanted to end this post with an inspirational message about not comparing yourself to others, but I am still on a journey of practicing what I preach, so I will hold my tongue (and typing fingers) for now.

Call of the Uterus

I am lying in bed while my uterus protests its existence. It is that time of the month, and no babies are being made; my ovaries are not pleased.

Anyway, tolerating my organs' inner turmoil got me thinking, our bodies are pretty bomb diggity. While we go about our days, tackling dirty diapers, footballs, office files, whatever it is we do, our bodies operate without asking for direction or even a thank you. At any given moment if you were to stop what you were doing and think, "What is physically going on inside of me right now?" I'm sure you could come up with an inexhaustible list.

There's a plethora of articles on body image, so I won't go there, but I implore everyone to stop waging war against the beautiful vessel that holds your powerful, intangible spirit. Everything your body does, it does to protect you. Excessive weight gain/loss, exhaustion, maladies are simply by-products of your body trying to save you from stress. When we focus on our unwanted condition - "I need to lose weight!!!!!" - what do we tell our bodies? "This is stressing me out!" and your body dutifully responds by tinkering with your metabolism, expending unnecessary energy, taxing your systems - all to prepare you for battle against your imaginary demons.

I used to be overweight. Not by a lot, but enough to take a hit to my self-esteem. I deprived myself of "bad" foods, I exercised diligently, I fought and fought against the fat, the fatigue, the absence of vitality. And nothing happened. I didn't lose weight, I was tired all the time, and the disappointment hacked away at my feelings of inadequacy even more. So I gave up. I ate healthy when I felt like it. Other times, I ate junk to the point of sickness because I felt like it. I irregularly got off my butt to do yoga and dance, because they were the only activities I enjoyed.
Guess what happened? I lost all the weight. I got my energy back. My acne subsided.

As soon as I LISTENED to my body and ACCEPTED the extra lumps, my body heaved a sigh of relief and worked at its optimum.

I'm not saying I have the figure of a supermodel or that my complexion is porcelain doll-esque. I just don't care anymore, because I love my body for whatever it is right now. It keeps me alive, for God's sake.

So throw your scale out the window, your "cheat day" schedule out of your mind, and your diet books into a raging bonfire. Bless every morsel of food that enters your mouth, even those chili cheese fries. Your body lets you do what you love, connect with the people you love, and it also unconditionally takes care of you. Let it be. And go live your life.

P.S. If you do enjoy fitness, body-building, specialized nutrition, etc., that is great!! You do yo thang. I'm not preaching otherwise. As long as it brings you JOY. You could be living off earthworms for all I care.

So Much Cringing

Every time I look at my past writing, I am taken aback by how hormonal and angst-y I was. Which is okay, because I was (still am?) a hormonal, angst-y person, like many people at that age.

I almost always read over my past work and think, "Pssht, my writing is much more SUPERIOR now," as if it was once a warty toad that has blossomed into a wartless toad (horrible analogies live here). However, five years from now, will I look back on this post and think, "Dear God, please forgive me for being a loser?"

I think it's important for me to embrace my overemotional, melodramatic past self because it obviously shaped me into who I am today. I should also relax about how I am now. Self-judgement is a very strong force, and I choose to just accept what I am, what I write, and how I behave. Some days I am the epitome of grace and class, other times I have boogers hanging out my nose and wear the same clothes repeatedly until I cannot stand the stench of my own odour. It is what it is, people.

P.S. To my future husband: I will be considerate of your nostrils and aim to smell like a fresh petunia once we meet.
P.P.S. To my friends who are disgusted I would not extend them the same courtesy: I don't have such friends.

Complimentary Compliments

I am the type of person who very openly likes to appreciate people. This is usually well-received, except sometimes younger members of the opposite sex (I speak of you, teenage/young adult boys) think that any mention of their nice shoes/good looks/talent is my way of flagging them as fresh meat, targets for my powers of seduction.

To be honest, that is a perfectly reasonable assumption. Flirting very much involves flattery. However, I wish for the male species to know that even if you do register in my psyche as a hot tamale, all compliments come from a place of platonic admiration, as my ability to flirt is that of a potato.

I very recently told someone I found him handsome and I think it made our acquaintanceship/budding friendship spiral dramatically into the awkward-avoidance zone. I am sorry, handsome acquaintance! I didn't mean to come onto you like a rabbit in heat! I just wanted you to know you are well-made!

I know I could easily just bite my tongue and express my appreciation later, when the relationship is more developed. Or I could precede the compliment with a warning: "I promise I'm not trying to hit on you, but..."

I find that really lame, though. If you give someone a compliment, how they react to it should be none of your concern - if they think you are nutso or desperate for sexual healing, then that is their interpretation and has nothing to do with your delivery.
For me, everything that comes out of my mouth is meant to be taken at face value, because most times I say it without any undercurrent of a deeper meaning. Perhaps when others start dissecting my words to find the hidden message, misunderstanding ensues.

Also. Since when did "conversating" become a word? It's CONVERSING, people.

End

Hello, Stranger

Oh hai, world.

I was told by a most kind and beautiful soul today that I am such a good writer, I should leave all other pursuit of work with wild abandon and focus on my talent. And I replied with, "Yes, I am quite good at writing. I am indeed." And then I thought about how I spend my days fretting over my less-than-ideal grasp of biological science (a.k.a. my university major) instead of celebrating this seemingly God-given gift. And then I thought about this blog and how I leave it to shrivel and die without love and attention, like many a holiday fruitcake. And then I realized I use conjunctions to start new sentences. And then --

So (doh!) I figured, why not hone my amateur skills on this blog by writing about whatever drivel spews out of my mind. Let me tell you, my gray cells register "above average" on the randomness scale. If randomness was measured by skyscraper privileges, I would have a penthouse suite in the stratosphere.

Enjoy.