Day 1 & Day 2

Day 1 was easy enough once I made the decision. A salad before bed and the excuse of "I felt like something healthy tonight" got me through until the morning.

Day 2 loomed with the prospect of black coffee - yuck!- with too much sugar in it and a banana. Gone was my dripping-butter-toast, and overly-milky coffee, followed by a cigarette to jump-start the day.
The next challenge came less than an hour later when 2 friends invited me to Insomnia for breakfast. Black coffee, please, I'm still not awake. No, thabks, I couldn't possible have pastries this early in the morning. Chocolate this early? No way!

Awkward explanations averted, although possible taking the coward's way out. What made me think that my friends wouldn't understand? Maybe so, but this way, I didn't quite have to get into the whys, the whatfors and whatnots of it quite so soon.

Later on...as I was waiting for the bus into college, the last 2 cigarettes were burning a whole through my coat pocket and mmy throat was aching for a taste. If you've ever been denied a cigarette, then you'll know that's exactly when you want to have it. But no, I kept fiddling my fingers through the pocket, I won't smoke, I won't cave in. Just when my thoughts were turning to why I should give in and have that blooming cigarette, a bus pulled in right in front of me. The first thing I heard was the laughter, young, enthusiastic, and simply delighted to be alive. The face that waqs lit up by that laugh, I didn't register. But the red-painted lips and kohl-lined dark eyes, holly smokes, those were some incredible eyes. Behind her, 1,2,3...7 other girls, not one of them over 25. Their hijabs in swirls of red, gold, purple, black&ivory. The high heels, the swirling skirts, the illusively-applied make-up, the modern leather jacket, or lady gaga's face on a t-shirt...and most of all, the smiles and easy flowing banter, that gave the whole picture a charm that I can't begin to put into words. Behind them, quiet and sobre, dressed in a pair of jeans, runners, t-shirt and jacket, "the chaperone", the male accompaniment out in public. So as I sat there mesmerised by the easy-going, joyful pack of muslim girls - young women - walking past, owning their faith and their beliefs in such a personal, individual way, I lit my cigarette and enjoyed the thought that so will I own and make my own this challenge I decided to undertake the day before.

Christmas Lent

Yesterday, Monday, the 15^th of November, Orthodox Christmas Lent started. After a banging “ash-Sunday” the night before, when you are supposed to have a bit of a bash and use up all the no-no foods in the household (a literal translation of the Romanian term would be “leaving your house dry”), Monday morning should loom full of hope, good thoughts and fortitude. So what is Orthodox lent exactly?

From wee-school-age, we were taught in religious class that it was a personal choice, a contract, if you wish, between you and your God (“the” God, whatever...). A bona fide agreement to lead, for the next 40 days, a life of purity of mind, body and soul. Alimentary changes means giving up meat, milk, all dairy products. Cigarettes and alcohol are also a no-no. Sex outside of marriage should go, as should petty and mean thoughts, gestures and behaviour. There are easier and harsher ways to keep lent, and even at its harshest there are allowances for fish, wine and butter on certain specific days. All this should be accompanied by a renewal of your personal relationship with The-Man-Upstairs, a time of prayer, introspection and overhaul of your entire persona.

And since you've been such a good boy/girl til Christmas, I would normally cinically say, maybe even Santa will show up on Christmas Eve.

At best, this always seemed to me an extreme, almost fanatical way of manifesting one's faith, a one-sided “contract” with for few, and reasonably long-term (after-life-long) results. At worst, a task humanly, and psychologically impossible.

So as I was sitting there enjoying my big weakness, a large caramel cappuccino with vanilla sprinkles on top and a menthol cigarette, discussing the cons and ridiculousness of lent - rather flippantly - with my classmates, the choice was made.

I don't come from a religious background, I have faith, but don't practise it, and as for prayer, well... I like some coffee with my milk, I'm addicted to pastries and I love cheese-toasties. I enjoy a beer or three at a party, love my coffee+cigarette routine, and have mean and/or “impure” thoughts several times an hour. I have little to no will-power, and explaining this to friends, family and, oh, hell, the boyfriend, will be a nightmare.

But, for entirely selfish reasons, I am taking this as a personal challenge. I will strive to keep as much of lent as is in my power, stubbornly, making excuses when I can't or won't do it, probably adapting it to suit my needs and moods along the way (and stating high and mighty it was like this all along), and all in all moaning about it the way through.

Well, for anybody out there reading this, the little exhibitionist piece of me thanks you and adores it. It is the age of blogs, you-tubbers, and reality TV shows, after all.

As for myself, diary, journal, blog, whatever I choose to call this, it will either remind me why I set out to do this, or make me realise that I am totally, and utterly, one nut short of a pecan-pie.

The Madness Within

Oh, no, you think, opening this page. Not another of those female-wisdom, "sex-and-the-city" type blogs that talks about the joys and troubles of being a woman! Haven't I seen enough of these bloggers-turned-wanna-be-writers things?

Well, i say to you, read it or move along, buster. And if you decide to stay awhile, welcome aboard!

So, what's the madness within? Well, as some of my male friends and acquaintances have pointed out throughout time, the madness is, quite simply, being a woman. It's this "je ne sais quoi" lurking inside us like a highly-unstable Loch Ness monster. It's everything that makes us, that makes me, as a female, tick.

So this is what my blog is all about. My journey, day in, day out, through the joys, the tears, the embarassments, the accomplishments and the pains-in-the-ass of being a woman.

I don't really know when exactly i realised the diference between being a girl and a boy. (non-anatomically speaking, of course). I just clearly remember a time when i was turned away from the football field because i was a girl.

I also remember using all my dad's scotch tape to sello-tape my incredibly-fast-growing chest (and then telling him that no, i have no idea what he could have done with it.) That didn't help the boys accept me on the football pitch any faster, but let me tell you, it made for an incredibly embarrassing, not to mention ridiculously painful memory . (Please, girls, do NOT try this at home without having some good quality solvent, and a ton of moisturising cream close at hand).

When i was 13-14, i would have done anything to hide my boobs and get boys to see me as one of them, so i could play football, climb trees, and get the inside scoop. It wasn't until later on that I discovered those same pesky apendages could be used in other ways...say, to get guys to help you with projects, or carry your backpack. Of course, by that time, i was too wrapped up in my tom-boy ways, and I was only learning this by looking at all my other absolutely-gorgeous, exquisitely feminine classmates.

Eventually, though, me and my "inner woman" came to a mutual agreement. If we had to co-exist, then why not make the best of it?

So, with aceptance came understanding, and a whole lot of that so called, and as-yet-unharnessed "feminine power". And even though i'm still learning about it every day, and I suspect I'll keep learning for many years to come, let me tell you, it's been one hell of a journey.

I Blame the Silence