Stuck in a Polar Vortex

My immune system is forming a union to protest the extreme temperature fluctuations that are keeping spring at bay.

Anyway. I participated in a photo shoot with my dance team yesterday, so the day before, I went to get most of my body waxed. Yes, people, I am a hairy animal. I like my body hair, it keeps me warm in winter, but to conform to social norms, I decided to bite the bullet and evict my follicular babies from their anchors. (I have reasons for waxing vs. shaving, but let's not discuss all my bodily functions!)

Let me tell you something about getting my legs waxed: worst pain of my life. "Suck it up, princess," you say. NO. I sucked, slurped, and vacuumed all of it up and it was still so painful, halfway through the process, my body started trembling and sweating profusely from shock. God knows why my dear esthetician didn't call it quits after I turned into a vibrating sprinkler. As I dug my nails into the spa chair, convincing myself not to escape half-naked, I thought about how ridiculous I would look to an alien. There I was, turning red from inflammation because my hair was being ripped from its roots, serving me absolutely no biological advantage. I was removing a natural, functional part of my body because I have learned that doing so makes me more of a "lady." Of course, the hair on my head should be thick and lush, but anywhere else is, "Ew, gross!"

Hair wicks away moisture (underarm hair), creates a barrier to prevent pathogenic bacteria from entering (nasal and pubic hairs), and keeps us warm (body hair). In my humble opinion, hair growth is symbolic of good health, fertility, and vitality.

No, I'm not hippie enough to parade around looking like an animated shag carpet, and I would be lying if I said that being "smooth" doesn't make me feel confident and sexy. However, these psychological rewards are a product of our culture and I don't think young girls should grow up thinking the removal of something so natural is necessary to be beautiful and accepted.

That is all. I will continue waxing when it is required of me, but a message to my future husband: I have hair, it is a part of who I am, and I will remove it only when I feel like it. Caress that, sucka!

Glitching

The other day, my mother dearest was making her way to the kitchen when she tripped over the vacuum cleaner. From a good five meters away, I immediately said, "Sorry."
Soon after, the same word came out of my mouth when my friend tripped over her own two feet while we were traipsing through the mall.

Apparently, I apologize on behalf of all Newtonian laws. These last two instances really got me thinking, what on God's green earth am I sorry for?

Now that it is a part of my awareness, I have caught myself saying sorry A LOT, for absolutely no darn reason. I cringe every time I say it, but it reflexively pops out like I'm a malfunctioning PEZ® machine.

Source: http://www.candywarehouse.com

(For all you non-90s children, this is a PEZ® candy dispenser, akin to my free-for-all "sorry" delivery system.)

I thought of possible reasons for this. I am either subconsciously taking every opportunity to compensate for my own wrongdoings/failures, or else I have the programmed self-esteem of a slug.

Well, that's all I got. My sinuses are currently infected and it hurts my head to come up with anything profound and enlightening. Love yourself, don't be sorry for who you are, etc. etc. All these notions are already within you! That's why they resonate so well when you read the same words on paper (e-paper?).

Alright, I am going to go wallow in self-pity over my illness now. I think a nice, steaming cup of tea will do...

Oh yes, and I shall stop unnecessarily apologizing. The world can kiss my sorry butt.

Somebody Give Me a Prize

First off, I would like to thank my readers for encouraging me to blog regularly.

When I was a child, I used to lose my marbles when someone took credit for work that I did. I had to make sure that my accomplishments were trademarked in giant capital letters: "SAMAA ALI THOUGHT OF THIS." In elementary school, when teachers would pose questions to the class, I would often know the answer and whisper it under my breath to myself (my shyness prevented me from actually putting my hand up). Sometimes, a classmate would overhear my musings and claim "my" answer for him-/herself, subsequently gaining the teacher's stamp of approval. Man, if there ever was a trigger for my transformation into a psychotic rage machine, that was it. How dare my classmate steal my answer! It made me want to take a mallet to that poor, innocent soul's face.

I still struggle with the need for ownership to this day. I have to sit my attention-seeking butt down and tell myself that one day I will die, and all the recognition I cling to will mean absolutely nothing. What's more important is that I learn to share my ideas so that others can help me bring them to life. I have to trust that my contributions will better the world and the benefits will affect everyone including myself. Maybe instead of hoarding what's in my mind like a darn scrooge, I can let it all out knowing I will receive what I give, that prosperity is available to all who act in abundance.

So, if you ever witness me being a selfish brat, you have my permission to tell me to shove my ego up my butt. It's for my own good, you know.

Thank you.

Care Bear Confession

This past summer, I was going through a rough patch (heartbreak and a half, dear God, it was horrible) and a very well-meaning friend offered me advice as I sat next to him and sobbed, snot rampaging out of my nose and onto my clothing. He said to me, "Even though it's painful right now, keep asking yourself, 'Will this matter to me five years from now?'" He is a wise and successful man, so I decided to follow his instructions. I closed my eyes, inhaled and exhaled like one of those Punjabi yogis on daytime Indian television, and asked myself, "Will I care about this in five years?"

And the answer is 100% yes. I care about everything, past, present, future. Yes, I've gotten over painful events so that when I look back on them, my emotions are neutral. However, whatever occurred does still matter to me. I still consider them lessons, important experiences.

Now, everyone fits in differently on the spectrum of caring. I know people who are so unconditionally loving you want to smack them for making you look like a savage baboon next to them. And then there are others who enjoy proclaiming to the world that they don't give a damn fudge brownie about what's happening.
However, I've noticed it is trendy to be the latter, and those who do care are labelled as doormats, passive, weak, overemotional, or fundamentalist loonies holding picket signs to fight for a futile cause.

Well, I say NO (in my most Indian accent). We must care. Somebody has to care. The world would never progress if everyone sat around happy with the status quo. Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. all cared. Even Thomas Edison cared about giving humanity a lasting source of light. In fact, his caring enabled him to persevere through ten thousand trials to finally invent the first working light bulb. Heck, Steve Jobs is a very recent example of someone who cared for technology and connecting people. Every inventor, every activist, every artist, every athlete, anyone who puts in the blood, sweat, and tears to make the world a better place has one thing in common: they all care.

So, I am here to stand up for those of us embarrassed or ashamed of feeling strongly about something or someone. It is our duty to be true to our passionate, empathetic, sensitive, emotional, generous, and unconditionally loving selves. We are designed to be that way for a reason; because it is the strongest force for positive change. Never apologize for who you are.

May everything matter to you five years from now.

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.