Tag: me

  • I Hate Skinny Jeans

    It’s been a while since I felt an inclination to post any reflective thoughts about my current state. I’m 100% primed for a mid-life crisis right now, but it seems like the only crisis I’m managing to acquire quite successfully is a mid-drift one. My chest is still pretty much where it used to be for the most of my life, so I’m quite comfortable that this is not a case of having a drop-chest. I’ve accepted that I am firmly part of the horizontally challenged brigade that still struggle to squeeze into their jeans of yesteryear. However, the situation is not as dire, nor as disgusting as it may sound.

    I have a very simple philosophy when it comes to maintaining my weight over the years. I’ve reached a point where my pants’ size is as big as I would ever want it to go, and I’ve been convinced of this for many years now. So each time when I feel it getting really uncomfortably tight around my waist, I know that’s a sure sign that I need to shed some baby fat. Incidentally, it turns out that baby fat is not as cute on a grown man. So the simple philosophy really just says that when my pants get too tight, instead of buying a bigger size and giving in to the bulge, I make a concerted effort to lose weight instead. My tolerance level to put up with that discomfort has obviously grown, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m only maintaining my pants size because of my anatomy extending over the belt line, rather than being constrained by it?

    Ok, enough of the disturbing mental imagery and on to the real point of this post. Going shopping for new jeans (of the same size I might add), has turned into quite a frustrating chore because of the insistence by retailers to shove all men (including us real ones) into that girlish designs that suggest that skinny jeans look good on real men. It doesn’t. It never did, and it never will. A man that wears a skinny jeans is probably a man that is either still living with his mother (for her to take care of him and not the other way around), or a man that gets his nails polished and has facial products to keep his skin looking soft and youthful. I hate skinny jeans. Especially for men. And I hate men that pamper themselves as if they’re women. We have more women than men in this world, literally and figuratively, so give it a rest already. Try being a man for a change. You’ll be surprised at how refreshing that can be. And no, being a slob doesn’t mean you’re a man, it just means you’re a slob. Usually a blob of a slob, now that I think of it.

    Shopping at several local retailers has proven that there is a pervasive assumption that men want to wear what women wear. I’m old school and proud of it. I yearn for a time when men were men and women were women, and each had equitable roles, and chivalry was still admired. But the feminists and the apologists will not allow such wholesomeness to survive, so they decided to force men into bootlegged jeans, skinny fit everything, straight leg jeans, low rise jeans, and everything but REGULAR FIT jeans! What happened to the good old regular fit? I don’t want some fanboy designer look. I simply want a comfortable pair of jeans that will allow me to do the chores around the house without having to shift my jewels back in place after each movement because of the feminine crotch that someone thought would be a good idea on a man’s jeans. It disgusts me to say the least, and physically pains me at best.

    No wonder we have such a dysfunctional society. Men are trying to prove that they’re as sassy and polished as women, and women are trying to prove that they’re equal to men. Neither are comfortable being their natural selves any longer except when they’re alone in their homes without any social stigmas to comply with or judging eyes to appease. All this is blatantly reflected in our children when they develop that vacuous mentality that allows only for self-promotion and a desperation for affirmation, while believing that any challenge is a reason to be diagnosed with a mental illness because the support structure that should be there to guide them through the insanity of adolescence is suddenly replaced with self-centred adults trying to compete with their children in appearance and social status resulting in social ills that leave even anarchists cringing with fear.

    Seriously. Can someone simply point me to a retailer that stocks men’s clothes for men in the men’s section, so that I don’t have to constantly look around me to reassure myself that I am actually shopping in the men’s section of the store?

  • Perhaps…

    Farting against thunder. That’s often the sum total of my state of mind these days. For a moment today I felt as if sharing my thoughts on this and other blogs of mine was in fact perpetuating the whispers of insignificance that taunt me. It’s an insane cycle. Needing an outlet, not necessarily creative or emotional, but just something to release the noise, make space for the clutter to fall into an open space so that I might be able to look for clues on how to unravel it all.

    I sometimes feel repulsed by what I write. At other times, I’m repulsed by the fact that I write at all. I wonder if all my efforts at unlocking the logic behind the ridiculous labels is in fact me denying that those labels actually apply to me. Perhaps I have a mental disorder but my arrogance and obstinacy prevents me from acknowledging it. Perhaps my views on what is or is not good in this world is in fact tainted with a sense of idealism that is unachievable.

    I shy away from debates that used to impassion me. I look at others and recede believing that my attempts at getting them to understand, or appreciate, or simply entertain an alternate view is futile. I seem prone to taking up lost causes as if doing so may spur on some global reawakening about something simple that seems pivotal to the resurrection of old school values that I cling to so dearly. Perhaps I only cling to them out of fear of not being able to embrace the new? Perhaps I’m not farting at all against the thunder. Perhaps the thunder is in fact the clutter in my head, seeing chaos where only randomness exists, and seeking order where none is possible.

    Perhaps the days of my sanity are numbered. Perhaps the purpose of life that always seemed so poignantly obvious to me was in fact a figment of my own imagination. A conjured ruse of a troubled teenager’s aspirations lacking in substance and form, with a life breathed into it from the seat of desperation that wrestles within my soul. Perhaps I was feigning sanity all along.

  • Is this the real life…

    I’ve been faced with a daunting realisation these last few days. Perhaps I’m not so average after all. I’m not better, nor am I worse, but I’m starting to realise that I’m probably just fundamentally different. This may sound like a romantic notion to some, but to me this is potentially life altering. The reason it has such an impact on me is because it calls to question every observation or piece of advice that I ever offered anyone. If my disposition and point of departure is so significantly different from most others, it means that my criticisms and insights are distinctly biased and potentially useless for most of the people that I ever engage with.

    These are troubling thoughts for someone that has found much comfort in being able to offer advice to others so that they may avoid the mistakes that I’ve made. But this realisation now suggests that my mistakes are not likely to be repeated by others because I am not part of the normal crowd. I guess in many ways I’ve been resisting this realisation all my life. I’ve thought of myself as normal but different. Now I just think I’m different, and I’m not sure I grasp the concept of normal at all. I doubt I ever did.

    My ability to detach my emotions from reason is a quirk not appreciated by most. It helps in times of crisis, but it causes me to look distinctly uninterested and often annoyed when others are freaking out while I fail to see a reason to freak out just yet. Given that most people don’t live in true crisis mode all the time, it makes this skill of mine somewhat tedious to deal with. And surrounding myself with people that are in fact living in crisis mode continually will just drain the last drop of optimism from my gut. So I guess I’m in limbo.

    Silence is the only comfort I seem to enjoy these days. Everything else demands a presence of mind and a demand of my attention that has become quite an effort. I’m distracted most of the time with thoughts of…everything. What was, what is, what might be, what might not be, what could have been, what should have been, what I’m glad hasn’t been, and it goes on. It goes on painfully and tediously. But through it all I’ve managed to remain somewhat functional and able to offer some purpose in my presence. The more I experience, the more jaded is my response to life.

    Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like? No, it can’t be. If it were, it would negate the realisation that prompted this post to begin with. I look at others my age and I struggle to relate to their frame of mind. In some ways I relate to the mind set of those 15 years my junior, but I find myself at odds with how they approach their sense of purpose in  life. I’m disjointed from society, from the community, and often from my family. But I’ve been revelling in that disjointedness until now under the misconception of it having been a valuable skill that allowed me to view the world with a fresh perspective.

    Who was I fooling all this time? I’m cynically jaded. There is no fresh perspectives for a jaded one. Suddenly Bohemian Rhapsody is mocking me.

  • Unfollow if you wish

    As expected, after those last few posts in response to questions I received, the followers have started trickling away. Good riddance if you’re that fickle. Fortunately I wasn’t whoring for your attention, otherwise I would be devastated right now. 

    Frustration and a desperate need to be understood is what influences the tone and focus of what I write. But each time I think I’m one step closer to that goal, something happens that convinces me yet again that being understood is most likely a foolish endeavour in this lifetime. 

    It’s easier to make assumptions than to engage meaningfully. Engaging meaningfully requires effort and sincerity, and it often acquires a sense of responsibility that is too taxing for most. 

  • Who am I?

    Ask me any question you’ve ever wondered about me. I’ll publish all answers (unless specifically requested not to). In my efforts to understand others, I sometimes fail to see myself clearly. It’s only through meaningful engagement with others, especially those that have no vested interest or natural bias in my life, that I am able to get a view of how I appear to others versus how I perceive myself.

    I’ve been contemplating a career change by becoming a life/career coach as an option. But in the back of my mind I’ve also been entertaining the idea of moving into the holistic health industry. Alternate healing methods have always fascinated me, and my research and personal experience in tracing back physical ailments to emotional triggers further cements my views that most modern medicine practitioners focus on symptoms rather than root causes. Worse still is that often enough they use a broad sword approach to remedies where the finesse of the scalpel is called for. 

    So go ahead. Entertain my pathetic attempt at crowd sourcing and tell me what you think of me, or ask me what you may have always wondered about me, my sanity, my dysfunction, or anything else. I’m morbidly curious to know what you think of me. What image does my blog conjure in your mind about its owner?

    P.S. This is honestly not a fishing expedition for compliments. 

  • Random thought

    Reading through some of my recent posts, I realised how much I annoy myself. I hate that I constantly tend towards speaking of ‘we’ instead of ‘me’. There’s a strong undertone of arrogance in such a presumptuous position, by assuming that I am capable of speaking on behalf of others when in fact my observations are nothing but a reflection of my own life’s experiences. 

    It seems sincerity and humility are still whiling away in  the distance whilst I delude myself into believing that I’ve acquired it already. Like they say, the mere profession of humility is in itself arrogance. 　

  • Brain Dump

    My mind is a mess. Articulating even the most simple thoughts are proving to be a challenge. There’s a haziness in my thought processes that feels angst-y and unnatural. I hate almost every post I write these days and I feel like a superficial moron seeking attention more often than not. For the first time ever I had to remind myself that this is my blog and not a public bulletin board.

    This is supposed to be my space to rant and rave and ramble without apology yet recently I’ve been addicted to affirmation. As is the case with affirmation, it’s rarely there when sought after. I despise this state of mind that tends towards attention-seeking behaviour while simultaneously feeling disgusted at the thought of writing for an audience. I feel agitated and irritated and unnatural in my space. I feel like something is amiss. 

    There’s a consistent dis-ease within me that is exacerbated the moment I step into the house after a light hearted day at the office. Writing this all down has required constant conscious effort to dismiss the thoughts of who would read what into what I’m saying. I cannot afford to care. If I do, it will add to the weight of self-imposed responsibility that claws at my conscience every waking hour in my quest to constantly consider the needs of others before my own. I tire me out and from that there appears to be no…repose. 

  • I enjoy your blog a whole lot, thank you for the suggested links. My question is: do you feel like your perspective would change if you lived in another continent/country?

    I wish you’d come off anon. 🙂

    I’m glad you find some value in my ramblings. I doubt my location would have influenced me much at all. Growing up in South Africa during apartheid has given me some unique experiences and insights, but I can’t say that it actually shaped my perspectives much. As per my previous post, being the kind of kid that I was, I believe I would have been ostracised in any society regardless of community or place. The odd ones are always soft targets for the shallow ones. This is true throughout the world if some of the blogs I follow is anything to go by.

    So I guess I am me independent of location, because even when I relocated to other cities or countries for work, I didn’t find any notable change in my personality or perspective. It simply reaffirmed the universality of the inherent traits of people. Some people choose to resist the urge to be cruel, but others give in willingly.

    Unfortunately I realised at a young age that being cruel is the easiest thing to do in the world. That’s why so many people don’t put much effort into being kind.