The pressure of the ticking clock

There are these stages in a normal girl’s life when she concentrates on certain things.

Of course the one thing her life revolves around is always going to be the opposite sex, no doubt about it. From 10 to 14 you want to be around guys so you’ll be the cool kid who’s playing football and learning how to spit. From 14 to 18 you can’t really thing about anything but guys because that’s what your hormones say. From 18 to 23 you’re having boyfriends because that’s the normal thing to do and after that RELATIONSHIPS, big scary word with a lot of intricate knots.

But what about the individual? The girl, the person?

I say 30 is the limit. The age you draw the line for drunken parties, the carefree lifestyle, the summer in Vama Veche, the art classes, the girls nights out. After that you’re just a lame old hag who wants to relive her golden days.

This is why I’ll make my friends promise they’ll never drag me to one of these shindigs after I turn 30 no matter how much I love the sea.

After 30 you climb up the social and professional ladder and start making something of yourself.

That’s how I see a modern woman.

I hate seeing twenty something girls dragging crying toddlers after them in the park when I’m there reading my book on the freshly cut grass and smoking my Lucky Strike’s blue. And I’m not saying “hate” in the sense that I pity them, but I hate their nagging glances, their judging glances or from time to time their “where did I go wrong” glances.

The judging glances come from their utter “proudness” of being a mother. Yes, kids are great. I plan of having a house full myself and I love the children at the kindergarten like they’re my own and I pain every time I skip a session cause I admire how their brains work, how creative they can be, how fear free. But gully gee, I can’t take care of myself at this age, how the hell could I take care of a kid?

Plus I’m afraid that at this stage I’d name my kids Sid and Nancy and put blue dye in their hair which would immediately end up with them in the foster system.

But is my thinking throwing me back or propelling me forward?

Every time I start up a conversation with one of my girls we end up talking about our jobs. We’re not making enough money, we’re not buying pretty things or go to cool places because we’re not making enough money, we’re not happy because we’re not buying pretty things and we turn up thinking of seeing shrinks because we’re not happy.

Shit! If I knew from the womb that the world and my own happiness will revolve around money I would’ve dropped hints to my mother to get me an Ivy fucking League education since I was 2 months old. I would’ve become a bad ass lawyer or a bank manager and all my dreams would come true.

And while we’re in the Mary-go-round our lives fly past us like they were never there.

Am I the only person in this whole God forsaken world who thinks money is not that important?

Put me in the Art Museum one day a week and I’m happy as a clam. 32. 32 fucking lei a month to be happy. Is that so hard to accomplish?

Sure, I enjoy the occasional movie, but that can be done with 0 money at home. Plus the 2 lei on the huge bag of popcorn from Kaufland that nobody can ever finish. And at home you have the advantage of talking and also not hearing the asshole next to you talking on his phone.

When did these people who think they need money to be happy just put on some Velvet Underground, lay on the floor and smoked a cigarette like is 1984?

I’m happy in the park. My God, I’m happy in the park. I like to roll down the hill in freshly cut grass or snow any time of the year.

The point is: we’re so preoccupied with living our lives in style that we forget to live our lives period.

I forget that sometimes as well and I’m sad. And I feel like I’m being rejected by society because I don’t have a grown up job, like advertising or economics, instead I play around in watercolors with kids and go to work in my ripped up jeans and my leather jacket and a book stuffed down my back pocket.

Let me tell you something about my book in my back pocket: I made a plan, with a friend who’s so obsessed with her work she sentb me home after waiting for her in the center for half a day. As I was walking back thru the park with my book and my jacket, so mad, that I have forgotten to put on my head phones, there were two kids behind me, “whispering” so loud the entire alley could hear them.

“Look at the boots, those are cool boots.” The boy said. “I like her hair.” Whispered the girl. “No you fool that’s how is in fashion these days. It’s her phone or her tablet.” Said the boy. And I understood that they were talking about the book in my back pocket. As I arrived to my favorite reading spot in the park I pulled out the item. “Awwww it’s a book, that’s cool.” The little girl exclaimed. After I sat down they passed in front of me so the boy said, as loud as he could “But she’s so beautiful.”

Yup.  That was a beautiful moment.

 And maybe I, in my own way, let my life fly past me for not getting an upstanding job or looking to get hitched but to me the little things are important and I have plenty of those. 

Do I feel pressured by the ticking clock? Yes I do, because society norms dictate that I should. Am I going to start freaking out? No I won't. 

Hai sa NU mai scriem pe pereti

Gata, m-am saturat, asa ca ma adresez asa zisilor microbisti bucuresteni si vreau din start sa imi cer scuze pentru vocabularul vulgar si neacademic:
Ce dracu scrieti pe toti peretii sa plece ala sau celalalt din conducerea echipelor de fotbal. Eu inteleg ca n-aveti destule scoala sa faceti o petitie sau sa-i invadati p-aia cu scrisori (lucru care ar fi mult mai eficient decat scriul cu vopsea pe peretii metroului) da' ia tineti-va spary-urile cu vopsea acasa natarailor si nu mai vandalizati orasul. Inteleg grafitti-ul ...i'm all for that, e arta urba si unele lucrari sunt mai bune decat lucrarile din expozitii de arta dar un scris de-o schioapa cu o caligrafie de cacat NU E GRAFITTI.
Pai ce mama dracu! Eu stau la Stefan cel Mare si e dinamo la o aruncatura de bat. Au vopsit aia peretii (desi nu sunt de acord cu metoda lor pt ca era un mozaic din faianta tucoise pe pereti si-au spoit cu galben peste dar totusi hai sa le recunoastem eforturile) au pus temopane (ca aparent asta e cuvantul de odine in bucuresti la ora actuala) si supranumitii microbisti au scris peste vopsea "pleaca...."(cineva ca nu ma uit la fotbal si nici nu stiu cine da rateuri prin conducerea echipei) arata ca un cur si nici nu da cine stie ce roade asa numitul protest pentru ca ala cine o fi el, dupa ce-si face treaba se urca in tuaregul, sau land rover-ul sau q7-le lui si conduce pana acasa, in niciun caz nu ia metroul asa ca spuneti-mi voi mie ce rost are sa mazgalesti peretii?
Eu inteleg ca ati vazut Green Street Hooligans, ca a devenit biblia voastra si ca aspirati toti sa fiti Charlie Hunnam da' mai suflati dracului bulele alea si afara din ochiu' public. Eu una fac eforturi supraomenesti sa n-aud stirile "din sport" care ar putea la fel de bine sa se cheme "stirile din fotbal" ca nicio redactie de stiri care se respecta nu mai recunoaste alte sporturi in afara de fotbal.

Bucurestiul - oras artistic

Dupa cum stiti sunt o persoana incredibil de matinala insa ziua de azi, acumulata cu noaptea trecuta mi-am depasit limitele, am spart bariele, am am am stat treaza toata noaptea pentru ca n-am putut sa adorm. La inceput din cauza unei dureri insuportabine de masea si apoi din cauza calmantului care Dumnezeu si producatorul lui stie ce are in el. Asadar eu imi aranjam hainele in dulap la 3 jumate azinoapte si pentru ca pana la ora 9 pentru mine trecuse deja o zi am hotarat sa ma echipez si sa plec la vanatoare de oferte intr-unul din nenumaratele hypermarketuri ale Bucurestiului. Inutil de mentionat ca una scria in oferta alta era pe raft, de unde si zicala “Socoteala de-acasa nu se potriveste cu cea din targ”.

Deci, in vanatoarea mea de oferte m-am impleticit, mai mult adormita decat treaza si pe la Teatrul National moment in care m-a izbit, in cel mai crud mod posibil, mostruozitarea, oribilitatea, caricatura, etc., etc. ce intruchipraza personajele lui Ion Luca Caragiale.

Unu la mana: cum isi permit, intr-o tara asa-zis subjugata de o criza finaciara aparent fara frontiere, sa arunce bugetul statului pe opere de arta si ceasuri aurite, plastice de delimitare a sensurilor de circulatie si cine stie ce alte rahaturi inutile.

Doi, si probabil cel mai important: de ce? De ce sa denaturezi si sa denigrezi in asa hal munca unui scriitor national? De ce sa ma vad eu, ca simplu trecator, obligat sa o admir pe Zita in nud?

Orisicum, sa-l stapaniti sanatosi, apoi sa vina o tornada, s-o ia pe sus si sa o aseze fix la ala care a aprobat-o in curte, sau IN casa sau PE casa sau PRIN casa.

As putea incheia cu preaiubitul slogan “Sa traiti bine” dar ar fi prea crud din partea mea.