Sliding Doors
For some reason, I feel quite reminiscent today. Maybe it’s because I had too much fun yesterday (I love dancing), and, in the usual Russian manner, I’m just trying to spoil things for myself. I don’t know. Incidentally, there’s no direct translation in Russian for ‘are you having fun?’. In fact, translated ‘as is’ it sounds pretty clumsy. Something like: ‘Are you being engaged in active act of receiving pleasure’. Brr… To my ear, anyway. Another thing, which is best not to ask a Russian person, is ‘How is it going?’ At the very least, you’d get a detailed report on all recently deceased relatives. Anyway, I’m getting off the topic.
What I’ve been thinking about recently (in between having fun), is different people I could have been. And how come I’m not them.
- Chess player. This one is quite easy. None of my parents were really into playing chess. I learnt to play it one summer. I was 9 years old at the time. We usually spent summers on the beach (the datcha concept, if you like). So, I met a boy (who looked about the same age as me). His father, who was a very keen chess player, taught both of us every day. I think we got reasonably good at it. I guess, we also quite liked each other. Eventually, though, we discovered that age did matter. He was only 6 years old. Looking back, I think we were both quite heartbroken 🙂
- Librarian. I always liked books. But when I mentioned it to my teacher she was almost in tears. ‘Nooo. You can’t do this to yourself’, she wailed. ‘You’ll be stuck there, and your husband will leave you’. I was only 13 at the time, and having/not having a husband didn’t really bother me. I did reconsider my dream though, because I think I wanted to read books, and not to catalogue them.
- Microbiologist or Genetic Engineer. This one is a bit more complicated. I was absolutely crasy about genetics, and very very interested in it. Liked microbiology too. So, why didn’t I do anything about it? Because I’m not a man. That’s why. If I were, I’d go for it. Being a woman, I decided I cannot get married to this vocation. Because it would have taken over my life. For better or worse, I’d decided against it. Another door shut.
- Ballerina. Gosh, this one is also pretty easy. I spent, what, 3 years in the proper ballet school. Every day, from 9 to 13, and then regular school, from 14 to 18:30. Wasn’t too bad at it, but wasn’t burning with desire to be the best ballerina ever. We were supposed to practice every day, and to diet like crazy. I wasn’t that motivated. I do regret not graduating though. Would have been fun. It’s too late now. All I can say is, at least I’d tried.
- Surgeon or Psychiatrist. This one was the most difficult one to give up. Again, I’ve spent 4 years studying medicine, 3 of which I actively worked in hospitals. Was good at it, as well. This is why I can’t watch Scrubs. Reminds me too much of what could have been. Another case of me resisting being married to a vocation. Plus, there is no money in it, not in Russia. And I don’t like being poor. Not really. So, I slammed this door myself. Quite firmly. And went to study English.
- University Lecturer. My mum’s pipe dream. I actually am supposed to become a professor, and lecture somewhere (Cambridge will do) for 3 hours a week or something. Well, you never know…
OK, I think it’s quite enough. There may be a few more doors I can’t remember about. But, who really cares?!
My musicovery for today
This is a very quick post, as I’m officially having a day off! I’ve just stumbled upon a great interactive web radio. I like it, because it looks funky, and I like it because it’s interactive. It just may soften the loss of my beloved pandora. I’d listened to it from the beginning, until the licensing issues killed it first in Spain, and then in the UK. Who knows, this one may be the one…
Those pesky Russian stereotypes
OK, where do I start? We are rude, ruthless, bad-accented vodka drinkers in fur coats (those are meant to stop us from freezing to death). What else? We have bad teeth and no sense of style. We either live in cities and wear gold chains, hot pants and leopard prints, or farm the land in rubber boots and thick cardigans. Our men are chauvinistic pigs, who are either mobsters or would like to be mobsters. Our women are man-like creatures capable of lifting up trucks. Those women who do not look like men, are either prostitutes or spies, and surely work for KGB.
And why would this actually bother me? Honestly, I don’t know. Every time there’s a program about Russia on TV, I try to watch it. So far, I’ve never seen anything about the Russian middle class. It’s always about the bottom of the society or the nouvo riche. I guess, the middle class is too boring to waste the screen time on. Jonathan Dimbleby‘s journey shown on BBC2 is, how shall I put it, very educational. I was quite mesmerized watching all my nightmares materialize (and all those pesky Russian stereotypes raising their ugly heads yet again). The guy is good. So where are the stereotypes are coming from? Well, for example, he travels the 3rd class (or even 4th) from what I can tell. (Yes, I’m a bit of a snob. But honestly, nobody I know has EVER travelled the 4th class – it’s a suicide). His interpreter is not as good as one could have hoped, and has got no idea how to translate a lot of Russian realia. Yes, I know. Showing Russian Bohemian circles is NOT as interesting as showing dirty smelly working class migrants on their way to work. Nor showing Russian writers/research scientists etc. is as entertaining as filming new Russians spending money like water. Sometimes I miss the Bohemian soirees I used to go to with my parents. Yes, vodka did feature there, but so did literature, philosophy, art, and music. But I guess, things change, and yet another sob story about the decline of Russian countryside is the key to viewers’ hearts.
So, it’s with a great sense of foreboding, I’m awaiting the new Indiana Jones. A rude sex-crazed dark-haired Russian woman, if I’m not mistaken, is going to feature quite heavily in the plot. Of course, I’m going to see the film. If only for a good laugh!
What is it all about?
OK, I’m officially freaking out right now. I’ve always been scared by the idea of dying. Yes. I know. We are going to die one day. Unfortunately for me, the moment I realised this simple fact, I was completely and utterly mortified. Oh, yes. I was six years old at that time. Suffice it to say, the whole idea of death never stopped bothering me ever since.
A manager I used to work with 8 years ago contacted me with a job offer. He was never a friend, but we really got on. I’ve got a fantastic job right now, but it was really nice of him to think of me. He even googled for me (and got some results, isn’t it amazing?!) I have asked him how he was doing, how many children he had, the usual things. Turns out his wife has just been diagnosed with liver cancer. And you know what, it scared me deeply.
There are so many things in life I haven’t done, so many things I’d like to do. But we’ve got no way of knowing how long we’ve got here. And once we are gone, it’s like we’ve never existed. 9 months before my dad died, I asked him if he were afraid of dying. He said no. I told him I was scared. He said that was because I was still young. He also said that I should take care, and talk to him while there’s still time. I laughed at that. I said there was plenty of time. He said there’s never enough time, and he was too late to see his father before he died. I said this would never happen to me. It did happen. And I wasn’t there for him. He also wrote about being alone. Yes, he had a great family and all, but ultimately, he felt lonely. And isn’t this the scariest part of all?
Sex and the City
When would I ever learn? So, this is a lovely sunny day in London. I’m walking past the Leicester Square. Oh yes, and it is the day of the world premiere of Sex and the City. Two reasonably good looking French reporters stop me for an interview. Stupidly I say, yes, I’ll do it! Now, what do you think they ask me? No, it’s not whether I like Sarah Jessica Parker’s dresses or shoes. No, it’s not whether I’ve ever been to the Big Apple. I guess, I should have seen this one coming, but I didn’t. So when one of the guys asks: “Do you remember in which city did you have the best sex ever?”, I’m actually pretty speechless. Which, if you knew me, doesn’t happen often. (And, if you knew me really well, doesn’t happen often enough!) So, I say into the mic: “No”. Both guys stare at me: “You don’t?” “Nope”, I say. “But why?”, emplores the cutiest of the two. “Because it actually was on the train”, I answer. Now, they didn’t see this one coming either. One of the guys winks at me, and I walk away thinking: “And what the hell has just happened? Did I actually shared something that private with people I don’t know?” Well, at least they didn’t pin me down to a particular location (no pun intended)!
Of mice and men and Salsa partners
I love dancing. So why have I actually stopped doing it, and for the last 10 years sat quietly in the corner, so to say? I don’t have any real reasons for this. Just excuses. Here’s a little taster:
- I was waiting for my husband to show some interest in dancing;
- I was too busy studying and working at the same time;
- I lived in a remote rural location and couldn’t drive;
- I didn’t think I could go and do it on my own;
- I was trying to tie my interests to those of my husband etc.
Now, it almost makes me look like a victim of some wicked conspiracy to keep me from enjoying myself. Which isn’t true, not really. What it boils down to, is my own inability to organize my life, and pursue activities that I actually find exciting. The last five years I have spent in some form of lethargy, having lost interest in absolutely everything. I didn’t want to socialize, I didn’t want to do anything, and I couldn’t even have been bothered buying nice clothes for myself. If I could stay in bed all day, I think I would have. Does this sound like a form of depression? I guess so. But the truth is, I don’t actually believe in depression. I had lost motivation for doing things because I was doing the wrong things, and doing them with the wrong people. Having said all that, recovering the motivation is a very difficult process. Why? Because it’s very easy to put the blame on everybody else. Like, it’s not my fault I’m sooo bored.
So, salsa it is. And no silly excuses, not any more. This brings me to the next problem. Like where does one get the dancing partners? Nooo, I mean the proper dancing partners. Because you wouldn’t find many men around there. In fact, good looking men seem to avoid salsa classes like a plague. The last time I had a nice dancing partner was at school. We were both 9 years old. We didn’t do too bad with cha-cha-cha. Each time I missed a step, he used to tag on my ponytail. See, this brings back really nice memories. And the best time I ever had dancing was in Miami. Of course, the tempo was absolutely crazy fast. But I was 22, and loved every second of it.
And what about now? Well, the current teacher is just great. Very cute, my age, nice clothes, and of course, can he dance or what! Well, and the downside is? There are only two more guys in a group. One is OK, the other one is on the weird side. His hands are all sweaty, his hips are all over the place, with various parts poking in the wrong direction, if you know what I’m saying :). But is it going to stop me from having fun? Nope, not this time around. I’m absolutely determined to have fun! And so I shall.
The white paper syndrome
Ok, I’ve written thousands upon thousands of words in my head. I can’t sleep at night, with ideas attacking my brain, stories asking to be put down on paper. Great. So I tell myself, today’s the day. I slam the door to my bedroom, and tell everyone to REALLY keep away. I sit down. Open my laptop. Bingo? Of course, not. All my ideas have evaporated, all my plots crumbled, all my characters turned to dust. At best, I can write a ‘character profile’, at worse, I end up googling for writing tutorials. Am I fed up with this? You bet. So I say to myself, fine. Have a go at blogging then. Fantastic. A few days to set it up (yes, I’m that slow). Ideas buzzing in my head, my fingertips itching to type things out. Finally, all systems go. Blank HTML page, here I come. Bingo? Of course, not. The white paper syndrome doesn’t care that it’s an HTML page. But, I bet tonight I will feel very very creative yet again. Around one in the morning, that is. Am I going to get out of bed and write? Nope. I’m far too lazy for that. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, isn’t there?!
About
I’ve finally come to conclusion that writing a blog is not such a bad idea. In fact, it’s a great idea for people who do not like sharing personal stuff with those nearest and dearest. After all, the need to talk and get it off the chest is still there. I guess, I see blogging in the same way as talking to a stranger on the train. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. Things can never get awkward between us. I can be as stupid or as clever, as interesting or as boring as I choose to. And you can choose to ignore my ramblings. Free will at its best…
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