Dear humans of the Internet,
I have some news, and it might result in instant facepalming.
You know the phrase “Netflix and Chill” that you find yourself hashtaging liberally every weekend? Yes, that doesn’t mean what you think it means.
In the innocent and modest days of 2009, “Netflix and chill” actually meant chilling on the couch while Orange Is The New Black played in the background. This slang started as a “I’ve had a tough day at work and all I want to do is roll up in child’s pose and re-watch Friends With Benefits,” but it has now become a euphemism.
A euphemism for something very R-rated.
In April 2014, the phrase was added to the Urban Dictionary with the definition: “Code for two people going to each others houses and f–king or doing other sexual related acts.”
Enter a multitude of memes and selfies where people realised what “Netflix and Chill” really meant. This happened two years ago. The realisation.
But now, we’re in 2016. And people still don’t know what it means. I find myself an audience to Snapchats and Facebook updates of people sitting with their dogs/cats/pizza boxes and captioning “Netflix and Chilling.”
NO. You are not. You are sitting on your own, or with your pet, binge watching Making a Murderer.
So please, stop using that phrase unless you’re actually “Netflix and Chilling.” And if you are, don’t post anything at all, because really, no one wants in on what happens in your bedroom.
Alright. Great chat. Laters.
“To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.”
Words by the brilliant travel writer, Freya Stark in her 1932 book “Baghdad Sketches”. Words that I want to swallow and then spew them out so I can claim them to be my own.
Jumping into the unknown has become my favourite hobby. As ridiculously intimidating as it is, not knowing what the next morning will bring, it’s just as exciting to know that there is a next morning – full of adventure – staring right at you. You don’t have anyone to report to or no one to please with how you plan your days. And this drug-like feeling of the unknown is what I’m chasing for in 2016.
It started with a Christmas break to Bali, back in 2012. I didn’t know what I was going to do, where I was going to stay, who I would share a cocktail with but I knew that I was going to be on my own for Christmas, and perhaps embark on a spiritual journey on a bicycle.
Today, that little bug has spread like wild fire in my life. Be it in south of Spain, the islands of Croatia, the windmills of Mykonos or the olive farms in Puglia. From going on a month-long European adventure on my own, to sun baking on a private luxury beach in Maldives, travelling alone has become my thing, just like strumming a base guitar or baking cookies might be yours. I have watched sunrise after a messy night with strangers in Hvar and sang Spanish songs on the streets of Seville at 3am after an intense session of tapas and flaminco. I’ve crashed a couple’s babymoon and gone snorkelling with manta rays and hiked with another couple on the hills of Santorini. I spent 2014’s Christmas Eve in Florence and attended a midnight mass where I became part of the ceremony and saw my first snow in Vienna the weekend after. These solo travels have given me stories worth a lifetime, and I know I wouldn’t have them if I didn’t find the courage to go on my own.
Have you ever dined alone in a fancy restaurant? Or watched a movie in the cinema on your own? That anxious moment when you can’t decide whether you’re being judged by others or you’re judging yourself is a very familiar feeling when you first embark on this solo journey.
What will I do? Who will I have breakfast with? Won’t I get bored? You might find yourself asking this genre of questions until you realise that, in fact, the luxury lies in not being able to answer any of these questions.
I have invested my life into the idea of travelling alone, and it’s so profusely prominent in my life now that I never find myself explaining to anyone as to why I booked a holiday just for me. Ticket for one, FTW.
It’s become my thing, and 2016 is going to be the best travel year of my 20s.
I need it to be.
I have been on a diet for as long as I can remember. You would think I’m kidding when I say this, but I have not stopped counting calories since I was 15-years old. How pathetic, you must be thinking. But hey, you weren’t the size of a baby elephant on a tiny human’s body!
I’ve forever lived with the guilt of ‘OMG! how dare I smell that buttery croissant!’ The voices in my head always said, ‘Shitika, how dare you even look at that cake?’ OK, that part is a lie – cake is one thing I eat (and a lot of) without any guilt. You’ll rarely ever catch me say no to a big, chunky piece of creamy, spongy chocolate cake, with perhaps some fluid ganache running through the middle. And a soft layer of airy mousse on top. Mmmmm!
What were we talking about?
…. Right, calories!
I’ve been away from London for just over three weeks now. I have hiked in every country, told strangers my most intimate life details, ate fresh salad straight from farms, danced with Greek men on questionable house music, and for the Italian part of my adventure, I have eaten all the food available in the country. Yep, that’s correct.
Since the past 11 days, all I have done is eat. Eat and perve, but mainly eat. I know women who go on ‘bikini body’ diets before coming to the Italian coast, but me, nah, give me all the cheese and bread, dude! As for the perving, have you seen the men in this country? I cannot get enough of them – young, old, middle-aged, in a pram, on a bicycle – I’ll have them in all shapes and sizes. If you are one and reading this… call me! Chances are, i’ll ask you to make me some rustico filled with mozzarella and then jump you, and most definitely in that order.
Now without getting distracted by the irresistible sex appeal of the inhabitants of this country, I am here to tell you that if you’re planning on holidaying in Italy anytime soon, be prepared to not fit in your trousers on your return back home. This is why:
- Refills of bread at every meal: You wouldn’t even have to ask for it; the bread basket will be sitting on your table, even before you arrive and it will stare at you with its carb-filled, white eyes until you eat it all. Usually made with durum wheat (which is easier to digest; yeah keep telling yourself that, Shitika), the bread is soft, fluffy and incredibly airy in this country. You needn’t dip it in any oil or smother it with butter, it’s orgasmic just as it is. Multiple orgasms, might I add.
- The waiters and bartenders sex appeal: As I said earlier, the male species of this country is so damn sexy, you wouldn’t be able to resist from ordering that cheesy pizza or a chocolate-filled croissant. Another little bonus for solo female travellers, give these handsome men your best smile, say ‘ciao’ and see the extra magic that lands with your order – mainly in the form of another sweet, fat-laden treat.
- Blame the hotness around you: No, not the temperature, but the human hotness. Every male or female Italian who walks past you, will have the most enviable physique, that while inadvertently make you drool over your margherita pizza. So much so that you will not be able to come to terms with the fact that the cheese on your plate is one hundred percent capable of marrying your love handles. And when you go for your morning cappuccino, and see the girl in a bikini eat a very creamy puff pastry delight, all available courage in you body will commit suicide and force you to order the same whilst forgetting how disgraceful your metabolism is.
- The organic and fresh element: For about 5 seconds, you will feel really good about the fact that your plate is filled with all natural, handmade, organic and local produce. Everything in your gnocchi is grown on the farm behind the restaurant and there’s nothing that’s come out of a tin, packet or powdery bullshit of the Western world. Ooh la la, the joy of eating organic.
- You won’t waste anything: Everything is made with so much love and attention; sometimes restaurants will even use the grandmother card and allure you by saying that the recipe is a 100-year old family dish that’s made by the oldest lady in the house. Damn that bitch! How could you leave anything on the plate when the grandma is making it for you? To top it all, the bread basket we spoke of, yeah that’s just there so you can clean the sauce off your plate with the lusciously fluffy bread. You will literally want to leave nothing on your plate.
- Cheap wine: Even when you go and order house wine with your dinner, and pay about quarter the price you will pay in your respective countries, you will get the best of the best vino. Half a litre of vino russo will cost you about 3 EUR / 2 GBP / 4 AUD / 3 USD / 200 INR. Get the point? It’s bloody cheap; how can you resist from drinking 5L of wine with dinner? No, I didn’t do that. Of course not.
- Gelato. It’s illegal and rude to not have gelato every single day of your time spent here. Full Stop. You wouldn’t want to mess with the law.
Now, if anyone needs me, even all you London-based Italian men (CIAO!), I will be living at the gym for the rest of my life to get rid of all the excess baggage I’ve piled on.
A crossfit date is sexy, right?
It’s almost like the monk who sold his ferrari, except there are more calories involved in this scenario.
I’m going vegan for six weeks, and only kidnapping haloumi and camembert for the ride.
Here’s the deal, my best friend is getting married in six weeks, on a beach, and during Indian summer. There isn’t just a necessity for me to survive an Indian summer after eight years of not knowing what it entails, but I somehow have to make my body appropriate to wear rather revealing clothes for three days in a row. The agony doesn’t just end there, on top of all this, Netflix is single-handily ruining my life.
Enunciation to follow.
I have always imagined a wheel of camembert to be a living proof of heaven. That’s where after-life is, I’m certain of it… amidst the soft, creamy milkyway of this Normandy baby lies an ocean of enigma, spirituality and zen. I can feel it in every chewy bite of it, can’t you?
How great is cheese? And yoghurt? Oh yoghurt, with fresh blueberries and a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg – mmmm, sex in a bowl.
So why all this vegan talk?
Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all preachy on you with a pro-PETA talk – especially with some really questionable outfits hanging in my wardrobe, as I type this.
But just like you, I’d heard and read about why veganism is a thing: 70% of our antibiotics are fed to livestock so they can produce more to meet our demands; vegetarians are 40% less likely to develop cancer cells and 64% less likely to have their arteries blocked; factory farming is by far the most nasty and inhumane sight in the world; vegetarian girls will always stay single (truth!).
I knew all of this. Despite being an animal lover, I never cringed at fur, ate dairy like my life dependent on it and devoured the life out of roasted chicken, literally. Until one lonesome Sunday afternoon, Netflix flashed the documentary ‘Vegucated’ at me: a guerilla-style documentary that follows the lives of three meat-loving, cheese-eating New Yorkers who take up the challenge to go vegan for six weeks.
Now, I’m a healthy girl. I might have been on a perpetual, self-implemented diet since the age of 15, but I take care of my body in a healthy manner, I try and eat organic when I can, I exercise pretty hardcore, and medically, I’m ‘healthy’. So when this documentary popped up on my ‘Suggestions For You‘ list, I felt like Netflix understood me. It was like he and I were ready to take our relationship to the next level. He wanted to see me healthier and happier without being too in-your-face. He subtly asked me to watch a documentary about obese Americans attempting veganism. Ha! So much fun.
And it was. Until I was a crying mess, writing down the statistics of poultry farms, carbon footprints and animal torture. The brutality of the ‘not-safe-for-children’ videos of farm animals being ripped apart made my brain and heart summersault into vegan land, instantaneously. I soon wiped my tears, FaceTimed my parents, narrated the horror movie to them and announced I was going vegan until the aforementioned wedding.
While this would have initially been a more verbal attempt to lose a few inches and tone up, but as of now, it’s about setting my conscious right and saving that one chicken from being tortured. Not saying that I’m going vegan set-in-stone, I might dream of my dad’s chicken curry and succumb tomorrow. But right now, I’m strong, real strong to stay vegan for the coming 42 days (starting only after I finish my current batch of organic, free-range eggs. Wastage is bad for landfill).
But you know what, you don’t have to go all PETA on yourself when trying a vegan lifestyle. This isn’t a competition. It’s not a celebrity trend (as much as Beyonce wants it to be; sorry Bey, not happening, yo!). And it’s not a diet. It’s a lifestyle change that you can make for whatever goddam reason you want it to be. Bey did it for a ‘spiritual cleanse’ and I’m doing it to save myself from the horrific nightmare of me not fitting into any wedding outfits in the middle of a 45C heatwave on a Goan beach.
*TOFU FOR PRESIDENT*
*And… Haloumi for VP and camembert for governor, because I love them more than I love my own self and CALCIUM, I need my bones to survive all the Body Pump classes*
Well, I suppose I’m telling you this because if by some bizarre coincidence, you and I were to have a drink tomorrow night, you wouldn’t dare ask me why I’m drinking tequila on the rocks (98% of tequila brands in the market are vegan – there is a God!), now would you?
Pick me up at 8… with a wheel of Camembert. KThanksBye.
He walked into the coffee shop, tortoise shell-rimmed glasses in one perfectly-manly hand and 600-pages of a Charles Dickens’ classic in his other. The cover of the book looked like an old library edition of ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’. He ordered a soy latte.
“Gosh! So perfect,” I thought. “I wonder if he’ll stay for another cuppa, if he does, I will ask him something that sounds intelligent about the book he’s reading; just to make conversation.”
He sat down by the window with the natural light making him look even more handsome. He rested his glasses on the rugged spine of Dickens and positioned the ivory mug precisely to its side.
The sun, the steamy java enveloping his face, the thoughtful eyes sunken on his annoyingly perfect face, the generously calming smile; it was all too perfect to be true.
Then he took his iPhone out, framed the poetic setting, clicked, set a filter, posted to Instagram and left.
(… Thank you, technology for single-handedly ruining my prospective love life.)
There once was a boy who loved to laugh.
He was a hard working guy with a good job, an enviable social life, a healthy family, but everyone knew him for his mirthfulness. He laughed when he was happy. He laughed when he was sad. The stressful times were dealt with a chuckle, as patronising as they may be, and so were those anxious days. A good belly laugh was the boy’s ironical version of crying ‘wolf’. People expected to see this chirpy side every time he set foot in public.
However, while they enjoyed his gleeful company, they questioned his joy: ‘How can you always be so happy?’
Was he playing a trick and fooling the ones around him with his selfless laughter, or was he really that happy? How can a laugh that pure and inundated not come straight-from-the-heart? Was he being dishonest to himself with this fake joy? Or was he just masking a deep, inferior pain?
Witnessing his chuckle was the kind you see in silent black and white movies from the ’50s, where you don’t understand why a fall down the stairs is funny, but you still join for a giggle. You do it with a sense of mystery and awe.
Was the boy really this happy all the time, was the pressing question…
He laughed when he got booted out of his job. The dream job that had him going swiftly on that ideal career path. He thought, jobs are part of your life, they are not the entirety of your life.
He smiled when he found out his mum had stage II blood cancer, because that was the only way he would be able to survive the emotional pain. Plus, his mother hated seeing him cry; he had to be strong, for her.
He had a falling out with two of his best friends, but he still kept laughing. He realised that it’s never easy to part ways with someone whose played such an important part in the majority of your life, but isn’t that what ‘growing up’ is about? After all, you can’t be young and stupid all your life. Someone always grows up, and the other one always moves on.
But then there was a day when all he wanted to do was be cynical, miserable, grumpy, whiney and everything the world didn’t expect him to be. He just wanted to be vulnerable, honest, raw and mask-free in front of the world, so they could stop taking advantage of his joyous personality. That was the day when he was tired of being a polished media version of what the world wanted him to be. He just wanted to express himself authentically, without any inhibitions. It was the day when he didn’t want to reach the peak of his happiness, instead he just wanted to crawl in a little cocoon of sadness and weep. Weep like a baby.
But it never happened.
Because, sometimes you just have to keep smiling, however unauthentic and fake it may be, because that alter ego version of you is what ultimately defines you.
It’s what ultimately defined the boy. He became known as the boy who cried with laughter, and never cried tears.
Romantic-comedies is a genre in films that deserves to die in hell while sitting on a chair made of gold.
They are annoying, yet heart-warming. They make you believe in the universe’s ways of finding your soulmate while leaving you in a snotty, sniffling mess. They trick you into buying high-end designer clothes, while you continue live in your shoebox of an apartment. They teach you about the empowerment of having a vagina, while you’re still stuck on ‘why he didn’t call? Why doesn’t he like me?’.
See, absolute demons!
Rom-coms have the power to tap into our basic human desires to love and be loved; whether you’re a 15-year old teenager, a 40-year old single mum, or a man who watches the sap as a crash course to a woman’s crazy mind. You clever lot!
Think about it, where would all the Katherine Heigls, Kate Hudsons, Jennifer Anistons and Drew Barrymores of Hollywood go, if we didn’t buy into the crap they sell about love, life, relationships and career.
They force us to get bikini waxes from incoherent Ukrainian women before the first date, just as much as they make us want to magically meet our versions of ‘the ones’ at the local coffee shop (trust me, I’ve been trying for this one; my baristas are cute Italians too. You’ll read about it here if I succeed).
From powerful careers, to perfect blow-dries, to a sassy gay bestie and a token dickhead; chick flicks have the power to make women around the world ooze out optimism, enough to make us sick to the stomach, laugh till the last breath and secretly cry, all at the same time.
Here are five lessons we must all learn from a rom-com… coming to a Netflix/theatre near you.
- Female writers/journalists/reporters first fail in love and then they fall in love.
You have the job, you have the social life, you have the kick-arse wardrobe, but as per the rules, you have to fall in love with the biggest jerk of an asshat before you can meet your Prince Charming. And this offer is exclusively available for television reporters, newspaper columnists and magazine journalists. You cannot, absolutely cannot set sail on perfect shores right from the start because no other leading lady could do it, so how can you? Plus, you won’t be able to write about your unfortunate love life, if you don’t swim in the wrong end first. But once you’ve shed the tears and ‘learnt’ from the misfortunes of the break-up, you’re allowed to marry that dreamy bloke who, turns out, is your ridiculously good looking best guy friend from high school. Oh.
As seen in: Never Been Kissed, Bridget Jones Diary, Sleepless in Seattle, Going The Distance, The Devil Wears Prada, Morning Glory.
- Move to New York City if you’re serious about love.
Despite the men to women ratio in NYC being completely against the favour of the ladies, chick flicks want us to believe that the Big Apple is the place where true, inconvenient, uncompromising and mad love can be found. Single and live anywhere else; you’re doomed! It could be the magic of the park or the optimistic bright hue of the cabs, but roms-coms see something in those five islands. Remember how Carrie finally found love after six season and two (awful) movies, and how Sally and Sara tested destiny with their serendipitous moments in Central Park. Apparently, this city narrates a better love story than what Paris, London, Los Angeles or Tokyo could ever tell.
As seen in: Serendipity, How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days, Breakfast At Tiffany’s, When Harry Met Sally, New Year’s Eve, 13 Going On 30, Bride Wars.
- Interrupting a wedding always works. Almost always.
This is an easy one: be shameless, ruthless, heartless and stupid. Don’t stress if the love of your life is marrying someone else. Who cares about the wedding costs, presents, venue bookings and broken relationships to follow? Bring out your inner-Julia Roberts and kiss your goddam crush on the day of his wedding so he can toss his future family and marry you. Do check if you can borrow the ex-bride’s dress…
As seen in: My Best Friend’s Wedding, Made Of Honor, The Sweetest Thing.
- The stud finishes last, the common man always win and the prostitutes are the nice guys.
You won’t find love at the Christmas party because your dream man is actually that nerd from high school who always helped you with your homework. No, it’s not that bad boy with tattoos and piercings who your mum disapproved of, because he’s now serving time in jail. But say you’re in your 30s and still single, go for the tried-and-tested option, get yourself a prostitute or a gigolo, because roms-coms are proof that this breed of humans have a heart of gold and bodies of Greek Gods. Yes Channing, I am talking about you… say hi to your Tatum!
As seen in: Pretty Woman, Magic Mike, Girl Next Door, Grease, A Walk To Remember, Legally Blonde, Love Actually.
- It’s time to farewell Matthew McConaughey’s pretty face from chick flicks.
Ladies, let go, the man is gone. Our beloved Steve/Ben/Tripp/Finn ran for the hills when he got offered a role that didn’t just revolve around a wide-angle and a close-up of his washboard abs. Can you imagine the man getting an Academy Award for his pimp-tastic role and body in Magic Mike? Sigh! Adios, hottie.
Hello, my name is Shitika and I’m an Astrology-oholic.
It happened five years ago, when my best friend and I were trying to justify the adversity of our sleep-deprived lives and blame it onto an external force. Quite literally. It was pouring with rain at the time and we were on our third soy cappuccinos for the day (that I secretly hoped had alcohol in it to help me survive the rest of the week).
That was the moment when we decided to read astrologer Susan Miller’s essay-type report on our star signs on her website (those who follow this stuff would know who she is; she’s like the Freddie Mercury of astrology). Reading that 2000-word+ monthly report on the walkabouts of the stars, planets, the moon and the sun was like having a drug slowly injected in our veins. I was frantically nodding in awe and wonder, almost scared to see how much Susan knew about me. She was narrating my life, right back at me, and then saying, ‘look dear Scorpio, you will be alright. This month will end and you will survive’. The shit, it will be alright!
Susan soon became my guiding angel. I waited for the first day of every month so I could read what the next 30 days would bring. Due to its length, I would also go back after a fortnight to revise her words of astrological wisdom. I then started marking dates in my diary for when would be the most ‘romantic day’, when I should expect to be ‘stressed’ and when the full and new moon were, so my sleeping pattern had something to rely on.
Half a decade later, I now have Susan’s app on my phone. I’ve gotten my family members, best friends, ex-lovers and editors addicted to Aunty Susan’s bread and butter. And I have someone to blame when I get a sore throat (‘Susan said I would get sick. Damn her!’)
About 70% of what Aunty Susan says about my sign, every month, comes true. A small preview – the month I decided to move to London, she said I should start looking for a new country code. The month I got a huge freelance gig and a major hike in Twitter followers, Aunty Susan said I would become ‘famous’ for a fortnight. She predicted an emotionally-challenging week for fellow-scorpions, and it was the month when I became a shameful sentimental mess, so much so that even I couldn’t stand me. Eugh!
Was all this happening to me merely because a woman sitting in America predicted so? Or was I forcing everything onto someone cosmically superior so I didn’t have to be accountable for my life?
My life’s become a cosmic mush where all the planets are drunk and they’re throwing up all over my pre-destined astronomical cycle. I am addicted to knowing what kind of person I am, what mood I’ll be in today and when I should buy a new piece of furniture, as per Neptune’s guidance. There are times when I want to go against the will of Mars and Mercury and RSVP no to parties I don’t want to attend – but Susan said I would meet my ‘someone special’ at a social gathering, so maybe I should go?
When I tell the cynics in my life about astrology and why I believe in it so profusely, they raise eyebrows, laugh at me and say, “nothing is destined, you make your own destiny”.
And this makes me wonder about destiny. Is everything really ‘written’ or do we create our own fate? If every kiss, every friendship, every failure and success were meant to happen, then wouldn’t our lives just be a monotonous prediction? If a lady from hippie-land tells me that I will fall in love on the next new moon and Jupiter’s retrograde will force me to exercise more, does that mean there are no surprises left in my life?
If every relationship you have, every freelance job you reject and every first date you go on is pre-ordered by the stars, then what happens when you miss a step? Does the cosmic buffet take away your pudding? Is there a calling from the sky, saying ‘Stop! Turn around, you idiot’.
What if the mistakes we make, away from the universe’s allocated boundaries, is when life happens? If we didn’t venture off, would we still meet the people we are destined to meet? Would we still fall in love with the wrong people? Would we still have failed marriages?
If everything is written… then shouldn’t we be more prepared to handle the sad, unfortunate moments of our life?
I don’t know… I don’t have answers.
But, I do know that people come and go from our lives for a reason, the planets continue to revolve… and those who are ‘destined’ to be part of our cosmic cycle will always be in our lives… and perhaps, even in Aunty Susan’s monthly predictions.
First published on Birdee.
I met a boy. A boy who made me smile uncontrollably, my heart leap, and my stomach clench, for no apparent reason.
This feeling, as alien to me as those creatures in Independence Day, is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Just as Bob Marley would melodiously wonder, “Is this love that I’m feeling?” Surely not. I haven’t even been on a traditional date with this boy – you know the one: dinner, cheeky hand-holding and a goodnight kiss. But there have been many moments and conversations where we’ve been on intellectual and sexual fire, which is probably why I’ve come to the realisation that this isn’t lust anymore, and I’m in serious trouble.
For the past 24 years of my life – or at least since the day I figured out that boys made my nether region tingle – I’ve protected my heart in its cocoon. I was that girl in high school who intimidated the boys in her class with a very Destiny’s Child approach to life. Sing it with me: “I buy my own diamonds and I buy my own rings!”
For all these years, proudly enough, I’ve always put my career and life’s priorities first, and catered to my heart and romantic feelings second. I thought I was too strong and independent to let a guy get beyond the ‘let me buy you lunch from the school canteen’ stage. And if I did feel someone crossing the emotional brick walls I had built for myself, I’d turn cold and make them repel me in some way or another. I was scared. I was terrified of feelings.
Throughout my 20s, I’ve kept my guard up with men because I felt I was too strong to be vulnerable to anyone else. Call it snobbery or a strong mind, but I have always been my most favourite person. How could I ever let a guy take over and ruin my relationship… with me? After all, you need to love yourself first before you let a guy love you, right? I considered it a weakness to fall for someone, because then I would have to invest in the relationship and abandon my feminist Beyoncé attitude. Never!
A Byron Bay psychic once told me, “Shitika, men see you as their mum. You are emitting this energy of ‘don’t come near me, or else’. Continue doing so and you’ll be alone”. Geez, thanks hippie lady! Deep down though, I truly was afraid.
And then – just as they always do – things changed.
This boy walked into my life and left an impact powerful enough to blow my mind. My heart is currently strapped into a ridiculous rollercoaster and I’m unable to rationalise my thoughts. I have let a boy affect me, and I’m scared to the bone of what this might be. I’m starting to think from my heart, and not my once-strong, independent head.
As I pen this, I realise that I sound like a 15 year-old girl stuck in a grown woman’s body. I find myself standing in front of the mirror, every single day, and wondering out loud, ‘what is wrong with you, Shitika? Can you stop being a cliché girl out of a Kate Hudson movie?’ I think it’s helping.
There isn’t much reciprocation from the boy’s end, and that’s OK, because this isn’t about him. This isn’t a narration of a potential heartbreak, this is about the emancipation of my heart. This is about me, and how this entire process of letting my guard down, after two decades, has left me with an open can of worms. I’m now excited by with what can come from me exposing this emotional side of myself.
I have had all these years to practice valuing and treasuring myself, and perhaps, it’s now time to let someone else share that job.
I’ve started to realise that the definition of ‘letting go’ isn’t fluttering around town in a red dress with flowers in my hair. I don’t need to be a result of that cookie-cutter image of a woman who loses her sense of self-worth and value when she starts falling for someone. I can continue to feel empowered and kick butt in all other aspects of my life, whilst letting this little feeling of vulnerability accompany me along my new ride.
And after all these years of being a cynic and cringing at couples melting in PDA, I wonder, will I finally be able to understand love? Will this crazy experience make things easier for boy #2 (if he does come along) to break through my weakened walls? Most importantly, will I be able to feel these feelings, again?
Surely, this isn’t what love feels like…. is it?
Someone very sexy once told me, ‘Journalism is a sexy profession’.
Indeed, it is.
We interview good looking people, we drink expensive champagne, we get to stay ‘two nights and three days’ in luxurious island resorts and we get it all for free. Sexy (and smug) on all grounds, damn straight!
While it’s bursting off its seams with sexiness, there’s also a very dangerous side to journalism that very few are aware of. Well, apart from all the sleepless nights from unforgiving deadlines that make them crazy delirious, there’s another alarming factor.
There are many reasons why journalists make the best partner one can ever have; but there are also reasons why they can be your absolute nightmare. Taking optimism by its balls, I’m here to talk you through – and warn you – of the latter.
- They will make money off your life: Not the gold digger way, absolutely not. Sure they earn peanuts for 70-hour working weeks, but they’ll never date you for the money. If you do end up with someone who doesn’t write about finance or sports all day, aspects of your life will appear in a newspaper, magazine or website. Your height, profession or skin colour might be altered, otherwise it’s you. And on most occasions, you won’t be asked for permission, because they will counteract your argument by calling their article a piece of ‘fictional’ writing that’s ‘inspired by real events’. What, you think Bridget Jones was all pulled out of a donkey’s arse? Don’t stress though, this just means you are interesting enough to have left an impact in their life – congratulations!
- Deadlines > Sex: One pays and the other doesn’t (unless you’re Belle de Jour), need I say more? Pulling an all-nighter for a hot date with MS Word and an avalanche of scribbled paperwork is much more lucrative than a sweaty session on your black satin sheets. Because someone needs to pay for those sheets, and that free bottle of Moët from a press event, sitting on the kitchen cabinet will definitely not do that. Sorry, but not sorry.
- They are ridiculously observant: They know when you’re lying, when you’re speaking from your heart and when you’re goddam bored. They’re trained to sense the tone of an interviewee through the phone – they’re like guard dogs at an airport – so never think you’ve said or done something that’s gone under the table. Chances are, it’ll come back to haunt you about four months and 18 days later, with a proper reference to the original scenario. Plus, some journos even come with photographic memory – that’s a whole new level of freak show!
- They will remember your words: Whether you say it in writing or over the phone, journos don’t forget words. They will remember whatever you say – in lust or disgust – and remind you of it. They are programmed to remember events and interviews, so to do follow-up stories, and they are fast-learners (hence amazing at their job), so be careful with what comes out of your mouth around these fellas. And while you’re at it, know that they can manipulate the thesaurus a little too well; they will say words that mean one thing on face value and a crazy level of WTF when really read into.
- They will correct your grammar and spellings, all the time: A snobby trait that is really difficult to let go of – journalists are trained writers and English language is part of their DNA. Ensure your punctuations and spellings are under a vigil eye when you text or email them, because they will pick it within seconds, and won’t be afraid to correct you. On the flip side, they will be the first ones to notice if your vocabulary is better than theirs, and just quietly, that’s a big turn-on!
- They are social media addicts: Just like your spreadsheet dramas at midnight, being constantly on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest is part of their job. Being a ‘social media expert’ does not equal ‘liking’ Mean Girls memes on Facebook (don’t ever say that to them, for the sake of your pretty nose). This job is rather tedious and stressful. If you don’t understand terms like SEO, boost post, organic reach and retweets – it’s best you stay shut, or walk away.
- They will be picky with the bar or restaurant you choose: Journos are a little bit smug when it comes to where you take them out, especially if you end up with a lifestyle or travel journalist. If you take them for a kebab at that corner shop or Starbucks for a coffee date (eeeek!), forget about date #2. You don’t have to go all Michelin star on them, but show that you made an effort in researching the venue; a quick search on Time Out is all they ask.
- They need their me-time: Due to all the small-talk with colleagues and clients at work events, journalists are suckers for moments of isolations. That much-needed time to clear their headspace and filter the army of thoughts doing the dance of agony. When they come back to the ‘real’ world, they want to be left alone, preferably by the beach or a lake, sans any technological device. This is their time to recharge and come back with more story ideas and intellectually stimulating conversations. No amount of cuddles or spooning can replace this.
If you can handle all this, in addition to the stained cups of tea, half-eaten pieces of toast, a big pile of books and magazines on their bedside table and more bad-hair days than good, then… call me!
Ha ha. Totally kidding.
Go find yourself a journalist; it’s a sexy profession aka they are sexy. A jackpot is staring at you in the face.