Letter to Neglected Ageing

Dear increasing number of women,

Allow me to be blunt: that plastic surgery does not make you look younger. It makes you look weird. Chucky-meet-E.T. weird. 

Eyes are meant to blink. Lips should move when you talk. A nose has sides; plural. Your face should allow you to express feelings.

All this re-arranging of skin and bones does my head in.
And don't get me started on other parts of the body... For all the guys out there: if they don't move when we do, they're fake.

My most sincere congratulations if your objective was to confuse people. Chapeau. We don't know when you're angry because you can't frown. We cannot tell if you're happy, because you can't smile. (You can always turn to the "if you're happy and you know it and you really want to show it, if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!")

Plastic surgery does not make you look younger. It makes you look nothing like yourself and exactly the same as all the other women who have had cosmetic surgery done. So alike that I used to think there was only one surgeon in the world creating this new specimen in batche. Why would you want to go voluntarily through this painful surgery? And even do so repeatedly (plastic surgery is like Pringles: "Once you pop, you can't stop"!)?

You would be doing yourself, the ones around you and your pocket a favour if you took another approach to ageing.

Sincerely,
Someone who hopes to look older than her grandchildren.

  

Guilty Pleasures

Brace yourselves, because it's time for a confession: from time to time I'm rejoiced at mischievous acts. 

Although I prefer calling them guilty pleasures. Small actions that cloud my conscience but fill me with delight. 

Don't judge me, we all have things we feel guilty about enjoying. Some of mine?

• purposely breaking the first cookie of a package in a supermarket's shelf
• getting into [insert here: Zara / AWear / H&M / other] with the sole mission of unfolding perfectly folded clothes
• going out of my way to step on the grass after seeing a "Do Not Step on Grass" sign
• putting random items in people's trolleys at Tesco
• standing in the middle of a crowded area and staring up at the sky
• giving directions to someone when I have no clue of where the place they are looking for is

Guilty as charged!

It feels kind of nice to confess these and I invite you to share some of yours  (I'm always open to new ideas!). 

Sorry, I'm not Sorry

I've been raised up to be polite - all thank yous and after yous. Lately, however, I seem to have taken these good manners to the extreme of self-condemning - all sorrys and excuse mes.

The straw that broke the camel's back? Realising that I apologised when introducing myself! 
Here's how the conversation flows when meeting someone (let's call them 'Mary' for illustration purposes) for the first time :

Mary: "Hi, I'm Mary."
Me: "Hello Mary, nice to meet you. I'm Mireya."
Mary frowns and stares blankly with no intention of hiding her confusion.
Me (slow and loud): "M-i-r-e-y-a."
Mary frowns harder and stares even more blankly clearly revealing her confusion.
Me: "I know, I'm sorry."

I once read that people with names that are difficult to pronounce are less popular; but apologising for a name that I love (thanks Mam & Dad) is simply absurd.

So here's my new resolution: I'm dropping the "Sorry" from my name. If you can't pronounce my name, that's fine, I'll repeat it as often as you need. Don't worry, I'm used to it. Unless, of course, you are the taxi company - to whom I am and always be 'Monica', or Starbucks - who make tall one-shot skinny lattes out for 'Olive' (who cares? if they won't get it always right either way).

Little White Lies

Even after knowing that Hugo the hamster really never went to that happy hamster farm after he left the comfort (not) of the tiny cage in your room, we never seem to grow out of telling white lies, do we?

Why not, if it spares us from a harder truth? I'm all for damaging facts concealing!

• Running 5 minutes late - in a world where every minute lasts for 10
• Chocolate is good for you - because that chocolate bar is magical and will totally give you wings!
• It's time to wash this shirt... and these pants -  I'm sooo not in the mood of finding a free hanger in the wardrobe
• I need that new pair of shoes - to come closer to my 100th pair :)
• I've read and agreed to the terms and conditions - who has the time to go through this page of text anyway?
• My home is your home - but take your shoes off, sit on that chair and leave everything where it is.
• I need that new pair of shoes - to come closer to my 100th pair :)
• Window shopping - and buy all of those things I don't even need

Just tossing ingredients for a happy life!

On the Verge

I'm turning 30 in a couple of days.

My social media feed is literally inundated with wedding pictures and cute babies which all my classmates seem to be currently popping out (very politically incorrect use of words, but some are already on their second!). Me? Well, let's see: I'm boyfriend-less, child-less and renting (choosing my words carefully here, since thank to God I'm not 'homeless'). Falling out of the norm has convicted me to a set of society where confusion and questioning oneself reigns. "What am I doing wrong?" I find myself further and further away from those who were once so close, with less and less things in common. Whilst the girl sitting next to me in 2nd grade is engaged delivering a human being into this world, my major accomplishment to date is that I've finally managed to hold my Bakāsana for longer than a second (I know, well done me, right? I mean, it happened once and that still counts). 

I guess I should have stopped comparing myself to others waaaay back. Let's face it: at 5 I was probably eating snots but surely not composing symphonies (Mozart), at 12 I was writing boys names in the back of by school books and not plays (Lope de Vega), and the fake sickness that kept me out of lectures at 19, were never granted with a nomination to the Academy Awards (Leonardo di Caprio).

As the 3.0. version of myself becomes a reality, I've decided to care less and count more. Care less about what other people do (as long as they are happy and don't hurt anyone) and count more blessings. I don't seem to adhere to any 30-year-old stereotype anyway - which, by the way, creates a lot of amusing confusion in people. The other day I was buying cigarettes in Spain (where, literally everyone smokes) and the guy asked for my ID! Didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. It must be the Johnson's baby oil that I diligently use after my daily shower (hey, maybe I do have things to talk about to my toddlers' mums friends!). Other times, I'm taken as ancient for I find true happiness immersed in the pages of a book with a mug of tea in my hand. 

Let the laughing at oneself begin!