worry

Take no thought for the morrow

I give up worry.

I refuse to waste another moment of my life worrying. I am in withdrawal. There are no rehab centres for people who abuse worry. I am on my own. The urge to re-offend is strong.

I have, since I can remember, always had something to worry about.

My first worry was burglars. In my confusion as a child, I thought that the word was bird-gular, and that they were giant birds that came in through windows and stole things. This belief was reinforced by stories of magpies fluttering through open windows and stealing shiny things for their nests.

Soon my worry of burglars was joined by a worry of house fires. When I used to go and stay with my grandparents, my grandmother would tell me to unpack my clothes and put them in a drawer, and I used to do this. But, then at night, I would pack my things back up in the suitcase, so that in the event of a fire, I could flee with all my stuff.

If I ever have to wait for something , I worry. When I go to a restaurant, I worry constantly. If we have made reservations then I worry that they will have somehow been erased. If we have no reservations, I worry that they will seat people who arrive after us before us, and that we will end up spending the entire evening waiting to eat. When we do manage to get seated, I cannot relax and chat, because I am too busy worrying: will they remember my food? Did the waitress get the order right? She seemed a little hesitant; she was not writing anything down: is it possible for someone to hold that amount of information in their head without making a mistake? Will she remember the extra rice? Will they overcharge us, because we never did get the extra rice. I worry that I will forget to check the bill for the presence of the rice that never materialised. I worry that we have ordered too much food and that we will end up having to throw half of it away. While all this worry is going on, other people might be trying to talk to me, but I cannot pay attention and enjoy the conversation, because I am too busy obsessing about the the waitresse's ability to do her job, about the chef's ability to cook the food, and about the cashier's ability to process the bill...

If someone is handing leaflets out, I get anxious: what if there are not enough to go round? What if I don’t get one? I will never know the important information, and obviously it is important, someone has gone to the trouble to write a leaflet and distribute it. It must be important. And, so the worry continues. I pick my way through the rock pool of life, jumping from worry to worry. But, now I have had enough. On Saturday, I decided to banish worry from my life.

I am having a hard time. There are some matters clamouring loudly for me to worry about them, such as my 7000 dollars lost in the banking ether, but no, I must not worry. The bank says that sometimes international transfers can take up to 6 working days. The fact that I have never had to wait more than one day before is irrelevant -- there is no cause for worry. I will wait, and then, when six working days have passed, I will ask for the money to be traced. I will not worry. I must have faith that the money will turn up. Thoughts like, "what if they did not get the account number correct?" keep creeping into my mind, and I have to slap them down. If that is the case, it will be discovered once the bank investigates. No amount of worry on my part will speed up the appearance of that money. But it is hard, not to worry about it as I sit here all alone, trying to break a habit of a lifetime.

My second test came yesterday. It was Pamela’s birthday. I decided to drive (even thou I don't even hev a drivin license) to Dataran Pahlawan, sp I can buy something for her. I set off earlier than usual, as I planed to park the car and go to the mall. I had only driven a few meters down the road, when I was alarmed by a rattling noise. Visions of the engine blowing up as I sped along the freeway immediately filled my mind.

I pulled into a side street. Got out of the car: all looked normal. I got back into the car and drove a little further down the street, but the rattle continued. Clearly my stern look had fixed nothing. I fumbled around beneath the dashboard, feeling for the leaver that releases the bonnet. I found it, looked at the engine, but nothing appeared to be dangling.

I called Hadi (my BIG bro): “The car’s broken. It rattles whenever I drive.”

“Look underneath the car, perhaps a stick has got caught.”

I got out of the car, and just where I bent down, I saw a two 50 cent coin. This I took as a good sign, a reward for not succumbing to worry, I put the coin in my pocket, and peered under the car, indeed there was a rather large twig caught underneath. I pulled it out, and I felt good that I had stopped the rattle, and thus avoided a worry-filled journey.

Today, apart from the lingering money worry, and try as I might, I cannot completely banish that insidious worm, I have been worry free. So I have decided to take a day off from going to school. Yeay! free from worry and free from school

Sinking

“I don’t want to get in,” said Pamela Geronimo.

“Why not?” I asked, usually getting into the pool is not a problem.

“I don’t like the water.”

“You liked the water last week. Why don’t you like the water today?” I asked.

“It’s too deep. I might sink.”

“You’re not going to sink. The teacher is in the water with you; if you start to sink, he’ll rescue you. Now, jump in.”

Pamela stood at the side of the pool not moving.

“Do you want me to throw you in?” I said deciding that today was the day to get tough. I am fed up with Pamela playing up in the swimming lessons.

“Stupid swimming!” mumbles Pamela.

“Jump in or I’ll throw you in,” I said.

“Stupid, stupid swimming,” shouted Pamela.

“Ok, I’m throwing her in,” I shouted to the swimming teacher.

“One, two...” the swimming teacher began counting. On three I picked Pamela up and chucked her in the water. She sank to the bottom of the pool. The other mothers gasped.

“That was excellent,” said the teacher as Pamela’s head popped above the surface. I’m not sure if he was talking to Pamela or to me. Pamela has been going to the EzySwim classes for over a year now, and progress has not been easy. On the weeks that she is feeling cooperative, Pamela can swim and do everything the teacher asks her to do, but on other weeks, she refuses to do anything and spends the lesson, clinging to the side of the pool, sobbing: “I want to go home.”

“Right, now you’ve sunk and survived, you don’t need to be afraid of sinking anymore,” I said on the way home.

“I was a little bit scared, but then I used my arms to get back up,” said Pamela demonstrating her swimming arms.

“Exactly, and that’s what you will do if you ever find yourself sinking again,” I said.

“I want you to throw me in again next week...”

So, Pamela feels fine about it. I, however, feel guilty. For two reasons: firstly, the gasps of the other mothers made it clear that they disapproved, and secondly, I was never thrown in to the deep end of a swimming pool as a child, but I know that if I had been, I would have hated the parent who did the throwing. But, sometimes you hev to show ur friens what is expected of them, and although I do not expect Pamela to be a perfect swimmer, I do expect her to get into the water each week and to give her best effort.

Facebook

On early of January, I know everyone else has been doing facebook for years, but I am a slow adapter and have only just joined. People like me become extinct in times of global catastrophe, hindered by our inability to move with the times and adapt to our new circumstances, leaving the gene pool cleansed of our tardy genes.

“You’re not on facebook,” said a friend, almost accusingly as I squashed into the beach tent, with two cappuccinos and a green tea, during the last weekend.

“No,’ I said letting a handful of sand run through my fingers. Signing up to facebook is like inviting Mafia or any pervert in, begging them to tap your telephone and to eavesdrop on your every thought. I like to shroud my life with secrecy and mystery.

However, as I sat under the shade of the tent, sipping the green tea, I began to feel uneasy, left out; everyone was in this facebook club but me. What were they doing there? What were they sharing? My nosiness triumphed my desire to remain aloof and secretive. I joined facebook, and now I spy on my friends, and satisfy my hitherto dormant stalker-like qualities from my armchair. I even indulged in a bit of furtive facebook chatting this morning before I got my skul uniform on.

Street life

“Ping-pong, ping-pong, incoming chat request.” I looked at the computer screen. A photo of Jessica Simpson without a top on. It was clearly another pervert. I should click “ignore”. But, then I thought, “sod it. Even if she is a pervert, at least I will have one more friend on this site and thus look a little more like a trusted and legitimate user.”

Amadine: hiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Ricky: Hi [I use the name Ricky when chatting with strangers; he is more confident, more brash, than I am.]
Amandine: Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii [I am most disheartened by all the “i”s; this gurl is clearly full of hope, and I know I will disappoint.]
Amandine: how are you?
Ricky: Fine, and you?
Amandine: awesome [I hope she is not describing her state of well-being as “awesome”. I am not good with excessively cheerful people. Perhaps she is just nauseatingly happy that I am “fine”.]

Amandine: i am fine here
Ricky: Where is here? [I may as well find out where this not Jessica Simpson character is from before I dismiss her completely.]
Amandine: where means the place i live
Ricky: And, where is that?
Amandine: It's in India
Ricky: So, what languages do you speak?
Amandine: i speak Hindi
Ricky: Ok. Write “water” in Hindi. [I decide to test his Hindi; it is hard to trust a word of what anyone says in online chat, and to my mind someone using a photo of Jessica Simpson as her profile picture is even less trustworthy than most.]
Amandine: Pani
Ricky: Ok. Write a lot, as in the words "a lot". [“Water”, “a lot” and “dirty” are the only words of Hindi that I remember from when I did voluntary work in Bihar years ago wif my father.]
Amandine: bhut zayada

Ricky: Ok, you are for real.
Amandine: hahha
Ricky: But, why do you have a photo of someone who is not you as a profile picture?[I kindda like him too. hahax]
Amandine: she is my favourite
Ricky: But, she is not you. So, my first impression was that you must be a pervert.
Ricky: not at alllllll
Amadine: I am just telling you the impression that you give.

I felt a bit guilty that I had been so suspicious of her in the beginning, so, even though she was not going to be useful for the project, I turned on the microphone and talked with her about India.

“There are a lot of people living on the streets in India,” he said.

“Yes, it is possible to live on the streets in India” I said. “Of course people live on the streets here too, but not so many; it is not acceptable. Malaysian society demands that its homeless are provided with shelters.”“Some of the people here live on the streets because they want to. They give away all their possession and live on the street because they want to be nearer God.”“People don’t do that here.” I said.

Thinking that if someone here in Kuala Lumpur said that they were living on the streets to get closer to God they would be classified as insane and sent to a psychiatric hospital. And, yet since reading “The Perennial Philosophy”, I know that ultimately the only thing I possess is my free will and that I should give everything else up as it is a distraction. But, I am still having trouble even thinking about this concept let alone putting it into practice. Up until a few months ago, I lived my life trying to get more and more of everything, and now even the doubt that this might not be the best way to live is very traumatic.

“So, what about you?” I asked. “Are you tempted to go and live on the street.”

“I would like to, but I have responsibilities. I have to take care of my mother and my younger brother.”

I remembered a newspaper article that I read back in February about an Malaysian family who had chosen to live in the slums of India. When I first read the article, I felt strongly that they were very selfish for inflicting a life of unnecessary poverty upon their children, but now I am not so sure. I would need to speak to them to understand.

Blood-suckin' Misery

Three months ago, I sat in a cafe @ Dataran Pahlawan, Malacca wif my friend Mei Chern. She put her hand on my arm n' said: “I hev 2 tell u about these books I’m readin'. I’m addicted; they’re 4 teenagers really...” n' as soon as she said that my perception of her changed. Call me shallow, but I pass judgment on people based on thingz like da books they read, da music they like, da holidays they take, n' da food they eat.

“What da hell was tis beautiful gurl, who is alwayz very busy wif home work, doin' readin' pulpy, teenage-romance novels?” was da question tat circled round my mind as she spoke.

“U should read them,” said Mei, givin' my arm a little squeeze.

I din read them. In fact, I forgot all about them, until a few weeks ago, when I bumped into Yi May, a mutual friend of mine and Mei’s, at JJ. (I was shopping for skul-related study books.)

“Hev you seen tis?” she asked wavin' a DVD in front on my eyes: “Twilight”.

“Oh my god, you’re not into that as well?” I said rememberin' my conversation with Mei from months ago.

“I’m addicted,” said Yi May. “It’s about this guy Edward; he’s a vampire.” I looked at Yi May and said nothing.

“U’re not into it, are you?” she said, a look of sadness in her eyes.

“No, may be coz I'm a guy” I said. “But Mei is".

Last weekends, I took the day off from studyin' (by da way my skul was quarantined for 7 days) and went wif these two friends to Stadium Tun Fatimah for a mornin jog (my parents was there too ><).

“I have started doin' quick revision rather bein' too detailed on da subject, so that I can escape back into my own world wif Edward,” said Yi May.

“I’ve hidden da books in da bathroom: it’s da only place I ever get a chance to read,” said Mei.

“My borfriend knows something is going on. He can see I’m excited about something,” said Yi May.

“Edward would never treat me da way my BF treats me,” said Yi May. “In da morning, he only kisses me good-bye for show. He kisses infront of his frienz, so he kisses me, because that’s the thing to do. It means nothing.”

“Edward’s not real,” I shouted as I wondered how meaningful a good-bye kiss in the morning should be (at da same time protectin guyz right, hahax.... come on, not every man are heartless, I know him coz I'm very close to him). Presumably her BF leaves her to go 2 his own skul every morning as part of his routine and so, in that respect, the kiss is just another part of the ritual, as are a lot of thingz in life: but does that make them meaningless? What is this meaning that Yi May wants to extract from a good-bye kiss? Perhaps it is because my own life is so devoid of meaning that I cannot even understand her complaint.

“You have to read the books,” they both shouted at me.

“Why, would I do that?” I asked. “I am happy at the moment. These book have made you two despise your BF. You’re both unhappy, whereas me, I’m quite content with my imperfect life and my imperfect maid who never remembers to buy milk. If I start reading the books, the forgotten milk is going to take on a significance that it does not have, and I will become miserable.”

“I’m seriously considering leaving my BF,” said Yi May.

“What, because he does not measure up to a vampire?” I said.

And, that is the trouble witf modern life. We hev succumbed to da belief that we are entitled to 24/7 happiness. Gone are da days when people endured life, pinning all their hopes on a happier existence in the after life. Now, we demand instant gratification. And in doing so often make ourselves miserable: our self-esteem plummeting as we fail at happiness.

“Look,” I said. “You should forget about your BF. He is not actively cruel to you, so just let him get on with life, meanwhile you should look at yourself. Imagine how you are going to feel if you chuck your BF out only to discover that you are still not happy.”

"If I'm ur BF, I can't understand ur problem too, u need to tell him, n' tat is wat relationship is it's based on trust 2 each other"