Off and on, I dissect my days. I rip apart the little things. I risk destroying wholes by analysing them. And doing so makes me feel smug and incisive. I feel like I have a finger on my pulse. That I too can see dead people, except in a less morbid way.
I used to write my diary before turning in. I would reflect on my day a couple of times a week and note down the gossipy tid bits that would ensure I laugh at myself later. Of late though, if I have cream on my hands, I don't like getting my ink pen 'all slippery'. So I do this all-important pondering at other times. This does not make me a bimbo. No, it isn't a thought that is consciously put-away. You don't postpone analysis, thinking I'll mull over why this person's demeanour rubs me the wrong way once I get air filled in my car tyres. Never mind who am I to dispense judgment. All that doesn't count. But during a meeting at work, or while feigning interest in others lives, and often while bathing, I let my mind wander. Banal, outrageous, sinful, tickle-worthy, I simply let it go. I form those 'heh' situations. Sometimes I talk about them. Because something has to amuse you. And if I acknowledge I'm lazy, it is for not reining in a thought process. I don't see why I should have to.
I have a problem with homonyms. Till very recently, I was forever mistaken in spelling it like reign in. But there seems to be no order to thoughts, spellings, feelings, mood. And I spend time examining whether there need be order. I can't think of an answer, so I consider myself cool enough to even have got thus far in self-psycho-assessment.
I make lists on my phone. I keep the oddities clearly drafted. Like why, when on the occasion that I do have tea at home, I like it cold and sugarless, the way my mother does. Surely 'genes' can't be the be all and end all of all arguments. Why do the five-odd grey strands on my head fascinate me so perversely? Why do blackheads not disgust me? Why can I not make my peace with beetroot? What is it about thermocol that unsettles me so? And why, even when I'm not PMSing, do I put trivial aspects under the scanner for no larger purpose than to keep myself amused? Because I get a kick out of being detached. I weigh my choices and my tendencies, my habits and my weak spots, my instinct, my reactions, myself and my relationships. With my parents, my boyfriend, with my best friends, their siblings, with my colleagues, and with Sinod of parking lot attendant fame.
In a just as hop scotch a fashion, I think of myself as a late bloomer. Not physical-attribute wise. I have not had a a problem with snug tees that make you look like an unflatterign and surfboard-like. This is more to do with little(er) things, specifics and those less peripheral, that come to me a good while after the rest of my world has taken a call. Taste buds are a classic example of this late development. Beer, I suspect, nobody likes at first. But once upon a time, I could never drink coffee. I still can't go near bacon. Both smells would make me nauseous. Pepper used to offend my nostrils. Now I like it freshly ground and sprinkled over every bit of my fried eggs. And sturdy wooden pepper mills make me want to own them. I also want to own an SUV but that's not what this is about. And I wonder why I like talking about food and looking at it and eating it (in moderation so that tees look the way they do), but I haven't been able to shrug myself off to make it. The food. I eat it, I don't make it. It's illogical.
And I'm growing to believe, that ignorance, really, is fine too. I don't want to be like one deputy dickhead at work who knows the headlines and reads the books. He has the economic trends memorised, and might earn a fair bit. But his wife left him and I can't blame her. He's the fear. That at some point I might, might, become so pathetic. That I might, I could, have all this information, the right contacts, and a working laughter perfected. My social graces would have been executed so bloody often that someone might mistake them for inherent goodness.
But that can't be, I tell myself. I love people. People love me. This man eats chowmein everyday for lunch. Sometimes twice in a day. I'm not like that! And he works till late, and bounces when he walks. It's just so sad. I don't even like chowmein! I'll be damned if I work later than I have to. I'm not that ambitious to begin with. But lifeless at 35, rich or not, is a pretty fuck-all nook to be in.