Skimming the pond of work.

Y’know when you have approximately one quatrillion projects you want to work on, and you can’t quite seem to get stuck in any of them?

I feel like that. I think it’s because when I do get stuck in a project, I get stuck /way/ in, and can’t really get out again. So I tend to dip my toe in, over and over and over again, until one of the dips results in getting sucked, stretched out and wormhole-like, into the guts of it.

:takes off her sock and approaches the edge…

John Cusack + pre-adolescent years == ’80s clothes now.

Many people are disturbed by the current revival of ’80s fashion. I am also disturbed by it, but I will attempt to deal with it by understanding it. I take my fear, and I conquer it.

The easy theory is that it is simply the ’80s turn in this merry-go-round that is fashion. We just finished the ’70s with peasant blouses and hippie skirts, and fashion, while cyclical, is also linear. As unpleasant as ’80s fashion was the first time around, the fashion ferris wheel must load up the carts in order, and lo, the ’80s are here again. (Oh mixed amusement park metaphors…)

But that’s too pat. Too easy. Too Fashion Television.

/I/ think that while the sequentiality of fashion might dictate the /arrival/ of the ’80s, it doesn’t account for it’s popularity. And it’s the popularity that makes a trend stick to the backs of the young fashion forwards (instead of grinning and bearing it for the shortest season they can manage). And the popularity is the part I think I can explain.

Y’see, the age cohort of your current fashionista is mid-to-late-20s. Juuuust old enough to have seen the ’80s happen, not quite old enough have experienced it in their teenaged prime. Old enough to have watched John Hughes’ movies from their sibling’s collection, not quite old enough have seen them in theatres. Old enough to feel funny when they saw John Cusack standing onscreen in the rain, not quite old enough to understand exactly why (though really, do any of us ever understand /exactly/ why?). Old enough to want to wear a trenchcoat, sneakers and English band t-shirts, not old enough to pull it off. Old enough to want a cut-off off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, not old enough to get one of your own and not a hand-me down.

So that’s what I think it is. I think it’s grown-ups playing dressup. They’ve somehow lucked out and are matching up their hipster first flush of cash years with the fashion looks of their early idols. You can see it in their shiny eyes, glinting beneath their Ducky hairdos. They’re /excited/ about dressing this way. Every day is “wear your older cooler brother/sister/cousin’s clothes” day, and it’s socially acceptable. They’re living the dream. For a few brief seasons, they /are/ the cast of Fame.

Or at least that’s the “aw, that’s cute” story I’m telling myself so I don’t yack all over their hi-tops.

The emergency exits are locked.

Back to work tomorrow, after a delightful amount of sitting on my couch (and some undelightful really-bad-flu). Back to pinstripes and matching outfits as my salt-stained cargos head downstairs to the wash… Meep. Not toooo resentful so far – there is some promise for goodness around my working day, and positive things within it, even if my worklife may be shortly taking a turn for the worse (don’t anticipate don’t anticipate). Plus I basically like all the people I work with, and that’s good times. AND I have a new mug for getting coffee in thanks to Christmas (so I don’t feel so dirty about going to Starbucks).

But I still think something broke in me back in elementary school. I *hated* school

I don’t feel sick on Sunday nights now, but I do still feel that unhappiness creep towards me – lying under the couch and pulling at my ankles. I don’t love what I do. I don’t look forward to it in the morning. I would rather be somewhere else for those 8 hours. Because I’m still taking 1/3 of my day, 1/2 of my waking time, and spending it *not where I want to be*. For now, it is a necessity – I can’t live completely off the land just now, and I have to find some way to keep food in my kitty’s dish – and I have found a job that I like enough that I don’t feel like my life and self slip away while I’m there. But I am resolved to find a better way of being, to keep moving towards work that is my passion, since it must exist out there somewhere. This job is a step in the right direction. No overtime, good pay, great coworkers. And the new year reminds me of the terrible job I was at one year ago… Making. progress.

Perhaps I shall start buying lottery tickets. I would be astonishingly good at being independently wealthy…
In the meantime – best wishes for the new year and hati-hati kepalamu.

Deflated or Debunked?

Three unrelated thoughts for today:

1) Pet Peeve
I was trying to compile a list of my pet peeves (it feels like the sort of thing I should know about myself), but it’s so hard to remember them outside of them moment when they bother me.
Anywho, I remembered one today, so it will be the first on my list. Ready?
Okay, my first recorded pet peeve: washrooms where the door is really far away from the toilet. So like, a giant room with a toilet in it. I hate those.

I didn’t say they’d be lofty peeves.

2) Sprightly old men
I was biking home today, and feeling particularly speedy, when I noticed that I had a tail. Well, not like *I* had a tail like some sort of biking monkey, but I had a cyclist who seemed to be following me. Not passing, not dropping behind, but shadowing me. So when I turned left, I looked to see who was pacing me.
I didn’t see much and I’m not sure if it was the same guy. But it was a man with a long grey beard.
This did not make me feel good. Huh, I thought, am I slower than I believed? Is my speediness just an illusion, the byproduct of passing so many middle aged women with baskets on the fronts of their bikes?
And THEN I thought, huh, perhaps this is actually not all about you (you egomaniac), maybe what you should be learning from this is that old != infirm. And that this should give me hope that I’ll be as go-get-em fit as this guy when I am old and have a long grey beard…

3) CPwr and the kittens
If it hasn’t come up here before, I tell you now. CPwr loves cats. LOVES. CATS. It is not possible for us to pass a cat on the street, because CPwr has to befriend it. Or at least try.
As I was locking up my bike today, I saw that the skittish grey kitty from downstairs was sitting on the ledge. So I said “Hi kitty”, but left him alone. Then I thought about what CPwr would have done. Even if he was super-tired, he would have put down his bag, and cooed and clicked his tongue, and bent down and made petting motions with his hand, until the kitten had been at least partially won over. Then he would try and make further progress the next time they met. And I thought about how key this personality trait was to our coupling. 4+ years ago, I was very much the skittish kitten, wanting to be close, but still running up emotional trees when I got scared. And he sat there, put his bag down, and just kept offering love until I was coaxed back down. Perfect. 🙂

Three thoughts. No more. No less. 🙂