A Case For Workaholism

getmorecoffee2
Originally uploaded by blinkingline.

Being a workaholic has its advantages.

Always appearing to be busy, you are therefore seen as contributing greatly to something (even if it's contributing in some way to the aesthetic value of dog food packaging).

You have the luxury of burying your soul, the very essence of your being, under loads and loads of ... that's right: work.

You have an instant, ready-made excuse for anything unpleasant that might crop up: "Congratulations on winning the first prize at the International Parakeet Talent Convention. I wish I could make it to the ceremony but I've got a mountain of paperwork to wade through, man." Now, this lame excuse would only work if you were known to be a workaholic. It would never work if your friend knew that you sped home at five sharp every evening to watch reruns of Mork and Mindy.

The same applies to concocting an alibi for a heinous crime like say, murder, for example. "I was in the office writing a contact report at precisely the same time Mrs Pang was being sliced into giant-sized cubes and turned into carrot soup." Again, this would only be plausible if you were known to be an obsessive, compulsive workaholic.

Workaholism is also great because it gives you an identity. It allows you to identify with workaholics all over the world - it's not all that different from alcoholics, druggies, sexaholics and a whole other bunch of holics. When you have such an identity, it carves you your very own space in this mixed-up world. In a world where war, famine and misery are rife, you can push everything aside, stand up tall and proud and declare, "I work, goddammit!!!"

You will never be lost (mostly because you're always in the office), you will never ponder over the purpose of life (it is to write insanely long emails and draft out boring quotations) and you will always know who the most important people in your life are (the ones who dole out your paycheck).

Whenever life spins out of control or goes out of its way to bite you in the ass, you can languish in the comfort of knowing that with work, you will always have consistency. Rest in the knowledge that no matter what happens, it will always suck. You can count on it to always suck. It will rarely get better or worse (hey, when you're scraping the bottom of the barrel, you know it's pretty much a done deal).

Ahhhh ... workaholism is a thing of true beauty. And the best part is, anyone can be a workaholic. Unlike snooty country clubs, it doesn't matter how much money you make, how expensive your set of golf clubs is or how many BMWs you own. It doesn't matter what race, age or gender you are. Workaholism does not discriminate. All you need to earn your way in is the ability to stare at the computer for 12 straight hours without blinking and have an all-consuming (and therefore, unnatural) fervent passion for pie charts.

There. I have made my case for workaholism. Now all that's left for me to do is to actually become a workaholic. So far, I fear that success has eluded me - especially since I just spent the last fifteen minutes blubbering about the virtues of workaholism instead of doing any real ... you know ... work.

Everybody go "Ohmmm..."

Can we truly control our minds? Why does it often feel as though our minds have a mind of their own? Why do we obsess over things we’d rather not be thinking about?

People would tell you that when you want to stop thinking about something, all you gotta do is think about something else … but aren’t you then thinking of not wanting to think of it, and therefore, indirectly thinking about it anyway?

Are we merely in some sort of tug of war – our conscious selves kicking and dragging the subconscious through the mud? Why the hell can’t they ever get along?

This raises an interesting question: if every one of us houses two different wills within us, does that mean that, in a planet of 6 billion folks, there are actually 12 billion wills at work? With all the ridiculous fighting going on, I think it’s hardly necessary for us to be fighting within ourselves on top of everything else.

But with so many wills at work, which one is truly reflective of what I want? The conscious? The subconscious? Which is superior to the other? Which is right / wrong? True / false? And let’s not bring God into the equation (ie. His will is good and perfect and timely, blah blah blah) because we aren’t always made privy to His will now, are we?

Me? Morbid?!

"Daisy daisy, give me your answer do"
Originally uploaded by Spiralz.

I've been accused of being morbid (yes, all you people - you know who you are). I was actually gunning for deep and profound but obviously, that backfired. In retrospect, I suppose I have been a tad morbid, so in order to counter the impression that I have made, I will now wax lyrical about bright, happy and cheery things like ...

... pretty daisies, little puppies, chocolate chip cookies, teddy bears, sugar doughnuts, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens ....

Ah, I have been liberated from the shackles of morbidity ... rainbows, sunny skies, chirpy birds ... Thanks guys, I really should've done this sooner. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the Brady Bunch is back on ...

Revelations of a Hot Potato: The final OLA

The love potato
Originally uploaded by Edwinek.

9.00am:
Someone flicks on the light switch. Loud groans are heard throughout the office. To keep office interior as dim and romantic as possible, we shut the blinds and keep lights to a minimum. We are accused of being vampires but we don't bat an eyelash. Dark and silent, office begins to vaguely resemble the inside of a hearse.

9.10am:
Willow (in whiny voice): Play something.
Jess Je (hereafter known as JJ): Can I play The Bongo-Bong Song?

Known for her strange penchant for songs like Last Christmas, The Bongo-Bong Song and other hypnotic tunes, we have learned and know better than to give JJ free reign when it comes to music selection.

Willow: Absolutely not. Let's play some jazz.
Self-proclaimed goddess (hereafter known as SPG): I know. We can play Maroon 5!
Willow (thrilled): Yes yes.
SPG: Okay, okay, we'll play it over and over and over again then. [Loud cheers all around]

9.30am:
Songs About Jane is playing repeatedly in the background. We become immersed in our work. We spend the better portion of the morning arguing over topics such as the ugliest celebrity of the week, most annoying talk show host, how in the world Mario could quit American Idol and which reality show contestant we'd like to see crushed under the wheels of a cement mixer.

10.30am:
Bear Bear (hereafter known as BB) makes her usual departure for a movie review. We plunge into our habitual rounds of "What movie you going to see?" and "Will you be back soon?" and "Do they have McDonald's where you're going?", after which BB warns us not to mess with her Legolas/Orlando Bloom poster. We nod, wide-eyed.

BB: Lay even a cuticle on it and you will not live to see your grandchildren. Got it?

11.00am:
We hatch a diabolical scheme to dethrone Legolas anyway by replacing him with a humongous poster of Smeagol. We snicker conspiratorially.

SPG: Why are we doing this again?
Willow: We're doing this to get BB all worked up.
SPG: Oh ya. That's right.
Willow: You should really stop the smoking.
SPG: Why?
Willow: Because your memory's beginning to resemble a pile of sludge.
SPG: Oh ya.

SPG: [silence] By the way, what's the date today again?

11.30am:
The Bongo-Bong Song is playing despite our protests. JJ smiles and nods her head to the beat. She is happy.

12.00pm:
Lunch time - always a time of great, yet fruitless, debate. Discussion revolves around where to eat and what to eat ... which is silly because we always end up in Batai where we spend half the time hovering over other people's tables and giving them the evil eye until they surrender their kway teow soup and scramble back to their cars. The rest of the time is spent grumbling over how bloody hot it is and how we should really look for other places for lunch.

1.00pm:
Back in the office, we engage in a lively debate over the big Question Of The Week, which usually includes harbouring fantasies of becoming Brad Pitt's masseuse, fighting the urge to make prank calls to people in other countries and becoming the sex kitten of a filthy rich man.

1.30pm:
We source for content and images from the Net, which lapses occasionally into bouts of playing computer games and checking out websites where people post pictures of themselves in their underwear and masquerade as their pets [note: Doc must never know this].

2.30pm:
BB returns and sees that Legolas has, since her absence, morphed into Smeagol. She is understandably upset. We get real scared and promise never to do it again. She responds by taking out her Tamagotchi and talking tenderly to it. We are puzzled but know better than to push our luck.

3.30pm:
Reading aloud and laughing at contest entries sent in by readers. We make a game of trying to figure out who are deranged and who are not. We decide they're all losers and suggest that we keep the prizes for ourselves and our grandmothers.

5.00pm:
Parting is such sweet sorrow...

Willow: What time you guys planning to leave today?
JJ: I don't know. What time you leaving?
SPG: It depends. What time you leaving?
Willow: I'll leave when you leave.
BB: I'll leave when she leaves.
SPG: [pregnant pause] What are we talking about again?

Pringle with an M is spotted walking towards the door. We indulge in our customary nudge-nudge-wink-wink, "Where are you going? You're wearing orange ... who's the lucky guy, woo-hoo!". We do this every evening in hopes of boosting our collective chances of a real date.

We eventually go home. But some of us sneak back into the office in the middle of the night with our sleeping bag and Ribena bottle. Since we're always connected, we wanna see who else is impersonating their hamster.

Giving The Ol' Bucket A Kick

Baby Bunny
Originally uploaded by jonathangrubb.

Thought about death this morning. No. I didn't dash out the front door for a truckload of Panadol or arsenic or a Backstreet Boys CD (apparently, listening to it for a straight 24 hours can and will kill you). I merely contemplated the idea of death. The concept of it. Death meaning to slip into nothingness. To be free from all constraints of life. To be free from worries, expectations, restrictions.

I was fumbling around for my car keys when I suddenly wondered what it would be like to just be ... nothing. Of course, mundane trivialities such as how I would die, how long it would take and how it would physically feel did not make as much as a dent in my ruffled brain. No. Only that it would be pure heaven to not have to deal with the banalities to which I am currently shackled.

Then another thought crossed my mind: If I were dead / nothing / free from life, I wouldn't be able to enjoy the freedom that I now have, would I? Especially since I have now become zilch. I would be free, yes, but I would be too dead to enjoy it. To be free and to be able to savour freedom, I would have to be alive. But to be alive is to not be free. Talk about a no-win situation.

People say death is the coward's way out. I beg to differ. While running away from your problems may seem like an unforgivable act of cowardice, I think this simply refers to defecting to another state or country. Because let's face it, wherever you go, there you are. You can never truly run away from life. As long as you're alive, that is.

But dying isn't running away to another country. You are moving from a state of being to, well ... not being. From existing to ... no longer existing. In this case, there's nothing cowardly about it because the journey to death (some people like to call this suicide) is hardly a cushiony one. And to make the conscious decision to take this journey, despite it being fraught with peril, pain, blood, gore and a slim chance that you might make it out (god forbid) alive and thus, wind up even more miserable than when you first started, I think that takes a handsome amount of guts.

Guts play an even bigger role when you consider folks who decide to off themselves even when they believe in the afterlife. When they believe that this earthly life isn't all that there is. That there's life after death. Which means suicide is wrong. Which means you'll most probably end up in hell being licked by flames and having your eyeballs gouged out with a pitchfork and being subjected to all sorts of things that are very, very ... painful. Which means that death is not exactly a way out of your problems. Rather, it is the beginning of a whole new set of problems that will, unlike your sordid life, last for eternity. Because you cannot kill yourself once you're in the bowels of hell. Hmm. You don't get any more from-the-boiling-pot-into-the-frying-pan than this now, do you?

The big cosmic prank

Why does it seem, at times, that life is out to get us? I’m aware that spouting such sentiments makes me sound like the poster girl for paranoia but bear with me: Is life really out to get us? Is this what life’s all about? A huge cosmic setup whose primary goal is to get us?

Why are we given this human nature and expected to fight against it tooth and nail in order to be deemed upright and acceptable? Why are characteristics such as greed, selfishness and lust built into us when giving into these very impulses is tantamount to committing a grievous sin? Why do we spend a big chunk of our lives at loggerheads with traits that appear to be as natural to us as breathing, eating and sleeping? Why are we condemned when we are unable to overcome the very traits with which we were born through not fault or choice of our own?

When put this way, does it not seem that we are hopeless saps attempting to fight a battle we can never realistically win? The more interesting question might be: why do we even bother trying?

We try because of expectations, I suppose. Expectations from the people around us. We’re expected to do the right thing (which is tough sometimes because what’s really ‘right’ anyway?), feel a certain way and not feel a certain way, say certain things and not say certain things, do certain things and never, ever do certain things. Should we have the audacity to flippantly dismiss these expectations, we will certainly suffer the consequences …

Till Death Do Us Part

3263822_1
Originally uploaded by Goodknight.

I'll be brutally honest and confess that I do not understand nor appreciate the concept, the pressure and the hoopla surrounding marriage. Spoke to a friend of mine who claimed that the only valid reason for sentencing yourself to a lifetime of "till death do us part" is kids. If you want kids, it helps for the government to know who made them - at least on paper. It's simply a way of keeping track of where these kids come from. What other conceivable reason can there be for the institution of marriage?

At the risk of sounding hopelessly unromantic and cynical, I must first defend myself by stating that this argument was not bred out of bitterness or cynicism or anything of that sort. To a large extent, I feel that marriage is a concept imposed upon us by society and religion. Because of social pressures and expectations, people are putting on their running shoes and making a mad dash for the altar. I suppose you can argue that no, they do it because they are fueled by love. Well, that statement is flawed because I would take that to mean that every single person who gets hitched does it because they have found The One, and we all know that is simply not true.

Truth be told, at this point in my life, marriage holds little allure for me. If I were to jump onto the bandwagon, it would - to a considerable extent - be because of what society expects of me (society being mother, grandmother and family relatives whose favourite question never rings too far from, "So, found anyone yet?").

I have wondered if I am talking like this simply because I have not found The One. Perhaps once I find The One, I'd be singing a different tune. Perhaps once The One appears in my life, I'd be happily traipsing through every bridal store in town, checking out the gaudy selections of sequined evening gowns and haggling over the price of fruitcake takeaway for the guests. Perhaps when I find The One, my brain will be polluted with nothing but thoughts of screaming pink-faced babies, soiled diapers and the Teletubbies theme song. Perhaps when He comes into my life, I will miraculously rediscover new meaning to my life and find no greater fulfillment than handpicking lint off his clothing and watching him down a gallon of beer in a single masculine gulp. Perhaps.

But since I haven't experienced even the most infinitesimal urge to do these things, it is safe to conclude that I haven't met The One. For now, anyway.

So my point remains: why get married? Doesn't the concept go against every natural human instinct? Forgive me but aren't we humans neophiliacs by nature? Don't we crave the new and exciting? Don't we live by the credo that variety is the spice of life? I mean, we get restless when sitting through a half-hour TV drama, relentlessly channel surfing just to see what else is on. We have about five hundred million different ice-cream flavours. We get sick and tired of the cute little outfit we bought just a week ago. We hop from job to job in scarily rapid succession. Is it just me or is it a tad ludicrous to expect a race this fickle to commit to one single person for the rest of their lives? In essence, what we're doing is swearing to commit ourselves to a lifetime of sameness, of non-variety. A pretty big step especially since most of us can't even stick to the same cellular phone for more than a year.

In this sense, isn't marriage (to put it crudely) similar to buying an electronic gadget? Isn't it a natural human instinct to exchange the current - and therefore, older and crummier - model for something better when the latter comes along? Of course, you can argue that it's utterly ridiculous to compare a spouse to say, a really fancy digital camera with enough features to make grown men salivate. But are the two really all that different? The same impulses kick in, don't they?

So isn't that what marriage really is? Simply a way to make sure we don't give in to what is, at the end of the day, our most basic, natural impulse? Because they know (I confess I have no idea who "they" is) that, left to our own devises, we'd be changing models faster than you can say "in sickness and in health". So, in order to thwart what we would, under very natural circumstances, be very likely to do, they (I confess I still have no idea who "they" is) trap us in this unnatural state where we suffer great bouts of guilt the second we entertain the merest idea of being - dare I say it - bored.

And to think we spend our entire lives attempting to claw our way into such a situation? Scheming and plotting to gain entry into this seemingly hallowed institution? To think that the perceived success or failure of your entire existence can be extricated from your answer to the million dollar question, "You getting married yet?" Is this all that really matters? That you have a rock on your finger and you have somebody to microwave that frozen pizza for?

"Sure she's traveled around the world on a makeshift boat three times and was part of the team that fashioned a sphinx out of chopsticks but does she have a husband to cook and clean for? No!"

The strange thing is, despite how some of us might feel about marriage, we inevitably play right into the whole fiasco. Marriage is like men - you can't live with it, can't live without it (at least you have the knowledge that your family will do everything short of rushing headlong into an elephant stampede to make sure the curse of non-marriage never befalls you). We still want it. For all sorts of reasons. Of course, there are the elite few who would find more fulfillment being chained to a cement mixer than joining the ranks of the ol' ball and chain contingent, but they're a different story all together.

Social conditioning runs deeper than anyone thinks. We've been so psyched into thinking that life is meaningless and purposeless unless we have someone to wake up next to that to be happy is to be married. Even when we may disagree with practically everything we've been brought up to think, we still find ourselves being swept up in the current of popular opinion. To still be single after a certain age is like having the word "loser" stamped across your forehead. The only upside to this predicament is that it saves you the trouble of having to explain why you're still unmarried (which is a good thing since people usually act as if you've just announced that you're planning to dissect a puppy).

Which brings up an interesting point: why in the world do we have to somehow defend ourselves for not being caught up in the ecstatic throes of matrimony? Why is the following question to "are you married?" always "but why?" I think a more fitting scenario would go something like this:

"Are you married?"
"Why yes, I am." Smug smile.
"But why?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"But why are you married?"

Befuddled silence while trying to ascertain true intent of interrogator. Based on previous experience, an answer in the affirmative usually signified the end of the conversation and they would move on to other intellectually challenging topics such as why the tablecloths don't match the upholstery.

"Well, because I love him."
"Uh huh." A glaring lack of conviction can be heard.
"I really do. Besides, we've been dating for eight years and our families were bugging us and we weren't getting any younger and we had these coupons..."
"Uh huh."

When people are interrogated on why they are unmarried, it implies that being unmarried is an unnatural state and being married is whereas we have already pointed out that it very clearly isn't. So what gives? Perhaps it's a numbers game - two are more intimidating than one. It goes without saying that when a married couple (therefore, two people - unless it's one of those bizarre, unorthodox-type marriages) is pitted against a poor, defenseless singleton (one), the duo usually wins. Or perhaps the married couple is floundering in the paralytic state of ennui so badly that anything - even (or especially) the merciless ribbing of an unarmed unmarried individual - can be touted as amusement.

"Are you married?"
"No."
"Why in the world not?"
"Well, I haven't met anyone whom I'd want to touch with a ten-foot pole much less take an oath to spend eternity with."
"Really?" There's so much incredulity that you might as well have told her you were planning to surgically remove your uterus.
"Yes. Really."

Why am I ... sitting on an anthill?

It’s a ritual, that’s what it is. An activity that’s little more than perfunctory. I’m not going to delve too deeply into the specifics of what I’m talking about because, to put it simply, there’s no need to. I think that many of us are guilty of engaging in mindless routines at one point or another.

I myself was engaged in a routine of this nature (ie. mindless) the other day when it suddenly hit me: why? Why am I here? Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this as opposed to say, lighting a match to my scrunchies collection or watching reruns of the A-Team?

Am I being driven by some deep-seated moral obligation? Is it the remnants of a conviction I experienced a year ago (which, by the way, has considerably watered down by now)? Is it simply because I’m a creature of habit? Do I partake in this ritual purely out of guilt? Am I doing this as a way to appease my conscience and to hopefully, alleviate my otherwise morally bankrupt existence? Or is it simply because I have nothing better to do? At the risk of sounding vague and elusive, I think it’s a combination of all the above.

I’ve always believed that unless I can come up with at least one compelling reason to do something, I shouldn’t be bothered to do it. I should always be ready to defend every decision I make – for instance, “I have decided to eat this banana instead of that Toblerone bar for breakfast because chocolate gives me hives.” Because if I’m unable to find a compelling enough reason, then why am I doing what I’m doing? Unless guilt is a compelling reason, thereby making this discussion purely self-indulgent and utterly pointless.

You Went To The ... Where?!

For someone whose idea of a perfect Saturday afternoon involves productive sessions of mall-hopping between shots of cappuccino, I'm probably the least ideal candidate for a ministry dedicated to the mentally and physically challenged. I've never been around these special "kids", I know next to nothing about them and patience doesn't rate too highly on my list of virtues.

But when the invitation to help out was extended to me, I accepted without hesitation. It was just an outing to the zoo. How hard could it be?

Lots of people who've never been exposed to special "kids" are uneasy around them, downright scared even. I was determined not to be one of those people but when the day came and I was surrounded by a dozen of these "kids", I felt uncertainty creeping in - uncertainty over exactly how to behave and what to expect. Rather ridiculous but my greatest worry at that time was that one of them might lash out and hit me - a fear which, by the way, never came to pass.

That day at the zoo, I was introduced to Linda, a short fair-skinned girl whose head was constantly bent down in fierce concentration on her shoes. I was later told why - being barefoot all the time at home, she wasn't used to cumbersome footwear. Being kept in the house most of the time, she was also uneasy around other people and remained mum during the first half of the outing. I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed - relieved because my fears of being violently thrashed seemed lost on Linda who appeared to be totally harmless; disappointed because she didn't seem too interested to respond to anything I said.

The entire train ride around the National Zoo was spent with Linda keeping her head stubbornly bent down. While the other special "kids" craned their necks to look out at the giraffes, elephants and tigers we passed, Linda seemed content with just staring at her shoes. Enthusiasm-pumped cries of, "Linda, look! There's the hippo! Wow!" were met with stony silence.

After the train ride, we were to take the "kids" walking around the zoo. That wasn't easy especially when Linda was insistent on kicking off her shoes and walking barefoot, leaving us struggling to put her shoe back on and re-tie the mud-soaked laces over and over again.

It was at the seal show when Linda gave up all resolutions to stay silent. She embarked on a steady stream of laughing, punctuated with occasional screaming and crying fits right in the midst of bewildered zoo visitors. It didn't help matters when she began hitting people, even going as far as attempting to hit a man innocently standing by the aquarium. As I looked the curious and sometimes, hostile expressions on the people's faces, I realised that society had to be exposed to these special "kids" just as much as they, the "kids", had to be exposed to people and not be kept locked hidden away.

Just like me, society's fear and reluctance to accept these special "kids" all boils down to ignorance. Spending a few short hours with Linda showed me that she was, in many ways, just as human as me - we both have our fears, we're terrified when thrown into unfamiliar territory and we're just as stubborn when it comes to getting our own way. By the end of the trip, the fear I'd initially felt vanished, paving the way for a sense of understanding tinged with sadness - sadness because so many of us don't take the time to understand, to sympathise or to care. Sadness because we don't realise how much we get back every time we decide to let these special "kids" into our lives. And sadness because this description fit me more than anyone else.

It was that day at the zoo when I realised just how beautiful these special "kids" really were. Because of these disabilities, they never really "grow" up. They never really learn hatred, bitterness, suspicion and unforgiveness - characteristics that signify our entry into adulthood. There's a vulnerability, an innocence and a sense of trust that's rare and so refreshing. When Linda grabbed my hand in fear of slipping on the muddy ground, I felt like I was holding the hand of a little baby despite her age being so close to mine.

That day at the zoo, I may have missed out on all the animals we were supposed to see but I gained something much more important - I am now a step closer to understanding and empathising with people who are different from me, less fortunate than me. And that, to me, is a lot more important than knowing how many stripes there are on a zebra's back.

Life: Whever you go, there you are?

Milan Kundera said this about a character in his book Immortality: that his marriage was just an episodic event; a parenthesis in his life after which he returned precisely to the place he’d been before he met his bride. That struck a chord in me. That my own relationship was, in many ways, a parenthesis in my life, leaving me back at the place I was before I met him. Little has changed. I mean, true, on a superficial level, yes, I have gained some experience and my views of certain issues have been irrevocably altered, but fundamentally, I feel almost as if I’ve returned to the embryo stage of romantic relationships. I feel pretty much right now the way I did six years ago.

Is what Kundera said true? That no matter what happens in our lives, we inevitably come one full circle back to the point where we first began? This would be fine if that starting point were something positive but I’m pretty sure, for most of us, it isn’t. I mean, that’s the reason why we moved from it in the first place, isn’t it? Because it isn’t where we intend to stay and yet, we are unwittingly drawn back to it against our will … or is it actually in our will and in some twisted way, fully in our control, and we’re orchestrating events in such a manner that we cannot help but return to point A?

Are we really in control of what happens in our lives or are we simply puppets dancing on a stage? A series of events already drawn up in ink for us? Over which we have little control? I’m not one to resign to fatalism but I can’t help but wonder: do we each have a recurring theme in life from which we cannot escape? If this is the case, then hope is the greatest fallacy of all – it merely gives us sufficient delusion to carry on in a misguided cloud of optimism until we come to the end of our life and realise that hey, we are right back where we started.

Am I bouncing along the right vein of thought or is this something to which everyone has given considerable thought? Is this an experience that is collective and therefore, not exclusive to me? Am I arrogant in assuming that, of all the billions of people in this world, I’m the only one nursing such ideas? Am I thinking needlessly? Probably.

It’s just unsettling to me that life might just comprise nothing more than a series of parentheses after which we find ourselves back at square one. In a way, that last bit does hold a nugget of truth that’s worth pondering over. We’re made from dust and to dust we return when we die. That’s a cycle, isn’t it?

We start off with childhood, go through the mundane rigours of life only to return to what we term as our second childhood in old age. Is it possible that this pattern is played out in every other aspect of life as well? That everything is a cycle? This certainly brings new meaning to the little joke “Wherever you go, there you are”. When put this way, it’s a wonder why the hell anyone makes the effort to go anywhere.

Baby fever: coming one full circle

I’ve always wondered... what do people see in children and babies? Women who do not have children yearn for these little bundles of joy, while those who do often wish the little tykes would just disappear and not reappear till they’re old enough to bring home a steady paycheck.

What’s the deal with baby fever? I’m talking about intelligent women with a full-functioning heads on their shoulders who are actually eager to go through childbirth - one of the most horrific things to which you can subject your body. Nine months of walking around looking like someone just planted 15 pounds of explosives in your tummy, getting morning sickness and wearing atrocious maternity clothes from Mommy Fashions?

Despite all the pregnancy facts published in books, women the world over continue to ache for this torture. In my mind, this sort of treatment should only be inflicted when the woman is evil, has killed somebody, or burnt an animal activist’s house. It shouldn’t be inflicted on innocent women simply because they seem to want it so badly.

So women get their wish and get pregnant. And what do they have to show for nine months of pain? A tiny, fist-clenching, leg-kicking version of George Burns. One look at that little newborn and all at once, you understand the saying ‘only a mother could love something like that’. If nothing else, your faith in unconditional love is restored.

The woman is now satisfied that she’s given birth and Baby takes his time growing up. It’s an incredibly long process because it’s only after five or six months that he even begins to vaguely resemble a human being. This is when Baby enters a stage when he hates everybody, sulks continuously and takes up the sport of clapping.

Then he says his first word, has his first tooth, and if you’ve had the misfortune of being blessed with a bald baby, his first strand of hair. Everything is documented and everybody in the family becomes a historian. Entries are made into leather-bound journals bearing the name ‘BABY’: "15th March 2001, Baby has lunch. Baby burps twice; Baby is en route to becoming a real man!"

Then along comes the Terrible Twos. This is when Baby becomes the terror of the neighbourhood. He takes to biting people and pulling your hair. And for reasons unknown to man, every family member seems to find this absolutely adorable.

Soon, Baby goes to preschool, convinced he’s going to become somebody great once he grows up.
"What do you want to be, son?"

"A rocket scientist! I want to be a rocket scientist!"

"My, what an ambitious little man you are!"

"Or an astronaut! And fly to the moon! I want to fly a spaceship!"

Adolescence sets in and his ambitions begin to change. Baby is now old enough to now realize just how much work it will take to become a rocket scientist. This is also the point when he realizes that he hates studying and decides to bank on a career that doesn’t require dressing up in suits, speaking in full sentences or counting past 10. His choices are now narrowed down to rock star, harmonica extraordinaire and WWF referee.

Adolescence flies by and soon, you are faced with Baby’s graduation and his very first job as an accountant. (It’s important to note that all ambitious talk basically amount to nothing. Extensive research has shown that 95% of all male babies grow up to become accountants while the remaining 5% wind up as used car salesmen).

Time zooms past and one day, you feast your eyes on Baby’s first paycheck. You also feast your eyes on your cut: a whopping RM15. Your joy is finally complete.

Three months down the road, Baby is confirmed in his new job. He gets a pay raise and your cut climbs up to RM20. He also takes you out to dinner in a fancy shop near his office. Life doesn’t get any better than this. It almost makes up for all the suffering you’ve gone through. Almost but not quite. That will come only when he marries a woman who’s just like you.

Plunging Into The Grey

We all have horns hidden beneath our perfectly coiffed hair. Some are more apparent than others but they’re there nonetheless. It’s scary to think that, given the opportunity – or more appealingly, an opportunity at the ideal time; serendipity of sorts – we’re all capable of committing acts we would, under normal circumstances, be horrified even to consider.

I genuinely believe that unless you’ve been tempted and have, by the sheer power of will (not to mention a conscience more impenetrable than most), to walk the other way, one has little right to judge, condemn or proffer advice to anyone else. Say a man who’s up to his eyeballs in financial messes goes to an ATM machine and withdraws a paltry sum of fifty bucks – presumably to pay for his sickly child’s medication for the day. Instead of dispensing the amount he requested, the machine goes happily berserk and dispenses an amount to the tune of an extra zero. To a financially desperate man, five hundred bucks is nothing short of a miraculous godsend. But it’s not his money. Palming it would be tantamount to stealing. In a black and white context, this would most definitely be wrong. It would be so easy to condemn him for even considering the cash (“It’s a sin! You’ll be punished! It’s dishonest and you’ll never have a night’s peace.”) but place yourself in his situation and things become well … somewhat grey.

Yes, I admit that, being human, we have a tendency to paint everything grey. It’s a much prettier shade than say, black or white, which gives absolutely no room for the many wonderful shades, levels and degrees we try our darnedest to concoct.

Life, to a certain extent, can be black and white. This is right and this is wrong. Feeding the orphans is right; tripping the little old lady on her way to the restroom is wrong. Nursing the puppy back to health is right; forcing your way through the express counter when you have thirty-two items in your cart is wrong. But are things really as clear-cut as they seem? Do we invent shades of grey to justify what we know deep down is wrong? Or do these shades serve some therapeutic purpose (other than mollifying our guilt) that would’ve been impossible if our only choices were black and white?

Any given situation can be turned into a grey area when we bring in annoying little factors like pleasure or happiness, childhoods or personal backgrounds, our warped psyches or our damned desire of wanting to “live life to the full” (which, incidentally, almost always means getting out there and doing all the less-than-righteous things your parents warned you never to do). Like the single mother who would have to give up being in close proximity to her child for several years for the opportunity to pursue her dream … in another country. Many would be suitably alarmed that any self-sacrificing mother could even entertain the idea of “abandoning” her child. However, staying put in the white checked box may bring about consequences just as unpleasant: pent-up frustrations, bitterness, regret, a lifelong suffering of the “what if” syndrome (one of the most unpleasant things to which you can subject your mind). Both choices will bring about their own set of consequences – the real question sometimes isn’t what’s right or what’s wrong. The real question, I believe, can sometimes be: which set of consequences would I be able to live with?

When I look at the world around me, I am convinced that we were all bred out of a history of grey areas. The world simply cannot survive on just black and white choices. We’re a species of “yes or no, but…” And for this reason, I am beginning to see and appreciate the beauty of grey. And that’s precisely why I maintain that we all have horns under our hair. When we permit the existence of grey areas, we are, in all honesty, permitting a whole menagerie of other things – one of which is the justification of something that’s, in actual fact, wrong (when measured against stringent by-the-book guidelines, that is).

Take a middle-aged woman, for example, who has never had a relationship with a man, has never known a man (an archaic choice but an apt one nonetheless). Such a situation might be okay with say, somebody like Mother Teresa who has more important things to worry about in life than snagging a dude but it’s safe to conclude that the fictional middle-aged woman in this story is not Mother Teresa. Years of loneliness pass but just when she resigns herself to accepting the fact that the closest she’ll ever get to male companionship is Chucky the hamster, a man appears in her life.

Of course, this being a hypothetical scenario, this man isn’t her knight in shining armour who comes to her doorstep in a snazzy sports convertible, reads books by authors with unpronounceable names and shelters the homeless over the weekend. Instead, he's untrustworthy, lisps and has an unsavoury penchant for stonewashed denims. The plus points: he has a thick bush of hair … on his head.

The question our heroine now has to grapple with is, does she throw caution to the wind and grab this opportunity to have a wild, meaningless affair (and finally, know a man – in every sense of the word) and live to show the scratch marks of the cad who was once in her life? Or does she take the whole notion and flush it down the urinal? Again, both have their own set of consequences. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Or more appropriately, is it better to have lusted and lost than never to have lusted at all?

There are no easy answers to this dilemma (heck, this is a pointless essay on grey areas, what did you expect?). But I do believe that sometimes, taking the moral high ground isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Grey is what makes our lives interesting (it’s also what sends us to hell but that’s an entirely different story).

We’re all familiar with stories of folks who’ve shunned anything even remotely resembling something “bad”, choosing to live their lives in some self-righteous vacuum only to go insane and wind up dead in a smelly ditch, miles away from civilization. Their lives shortened by bitterness and suppression, these are the people who walk around with pinched faces, perpetual frowns and smelling like mothballs.

Grey areas allow us to do things that might wind up with a little fear, a little wistfulness, a little frustration. How in the world will we ever experience the wide range and depth of our emotions if all we allow ourselves into are black and white territories? How will we know guilt unless we lie to our mother about spending the night at Jackie’s when we really spent the night at Jack’s? How will we know stress unless we get pulled over by a cop at 3 in the morning for nearly careening into the neighbour’s dog? How will we know temptation unless we get off our butts and shed off the persona of a perennial do-gooder?

I’m aware that these are flimsy reasons for doing misguided things but perhaps perfection isn’t all that we make it out to be. Perhaps screwing up is a large part of what life is about. Your screw-ups make you who you are; more so than all your stellar, morally upright deeds.