The dreaded "us"

Let's talk about us. And there shall be a storm, going down so hard, you wouldn't know what happened and why you had a big gash on your forehead. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But, have you notice that any conversation that starts with that line will end up, more or less, like a perfect nightmare?

I had that conversation earlier. It's not even in a "committed-monogamous"-relationship-mode. At all. I shot the question to make a comparison, to state pretty obvious facts. The other side thought it was a waste of time, which later on prove to be right. Waste of time because we then argued. And my discussion partner asked that ultimate question, "Why do women always love talking about 'us'?"

Yes, why do women love talking about us? My answer to that question was because women (I, in particular) want to know the other side of the story. I want to hear the so-called ugly truths (my god I'm throwing so many cliches I think my blog is going to self-destruct if I use more) from the other person. But it's that really the reason? I don't know since I haven't really analysed it properly. This is one reason why I'm writing this now. Assessing. I know by labeling myself and one other person as "us", I embedded a sense of proprietary into the whole thing. It's not you or I anymore. It's us. A unit, inseparable, working together. That's more or less leaning to a certain commitment. Whatever the commitment is. No wonder my friend dreaded this talk.

And why do men dislike it so much? My friend was probably the first one that challenged me with the question "why", but I've had a similar reaction, conveyed in different words of course. I don't think any of my ex boyfriends enjoyed talking about us. As a matter of fact, when it came to the "us" conversation, the relationship was on the brink of irreparable destruction. The last time I had it with a boyfriend, he dumped me straight in... taking the easy way out.

An important point was taken from previous discussion (argument?) with my friend though. "We" need to stop talking about "us", and just be "us" without having the long talk about what "us" is all about. I appreciate that and didn't argue, despite the incredible urge to spit out another cliche: "men just don't talk". And I will add if they do, they're like a four-year-old, answering with (maximum) three syllables: I-don't-know, I-like-you, I-think-so, I-like-sex, and the list goes on and on and on...

I'm glad my blog doesn't self-destruct... yet.

Ramadhan Oh Rah Rah Rah

credit: featurepics

Today is the first day of Ramadhan, the holiest month in Islam calendar; the time when people deprive themselves from any temptations: be it hunger, thirst, anger, lust, anything that is basically your basic needs in day-to-day living. The only thing that it's not deprived from you is air. I guess it's because air is not sexy or filling at all.

Facing the holiest month, some people pray, some people visit the dead, some people make family/office gathering to say and give forgiveness and some people go to their local clubs and get seriously pissed. Because starts from today, you have to resist every temptation. So, I should have expected to see a club on a Friday night, two days before the fasting month starts, to be full-packed, right? Well, d'oh.

Two friends insisted in dragging me along for their weekend's clubbing agenda. I, reluctant as I ever be, tried to wriggle myself out of this plan to no success. I told them that with no heels at all on my shoes, the door bitches wouldn't let me in in. They were stubborn. And for sure, the door bitches didn't let me in. Plus the sinister look on one of their fully make-up faces at me. As if I was a mere flea, improper and disgusting. But the place itself was full. People outside, people inside... there were people everywhere! It was the same on the second club we went to. Less than 500 metres away and several floors from the first club, the smaller club was very much alive. All was excited to celebrate the coming of Ramadhan. Or they just carried on like it was any other Friday: the last day of drudgery, the coming of a short time-off.

Everyone is a little bit drunk and horny in the club, just like the usual. Nothing's changed. I was on the dance floor, sipping my gin and tonic, avoiding people crashing into my drink, while watching girls in tight-fit dresses dancing on a long higher platform in front of me. The music thumped and roared behind me, sending invisible pressure to my chest, making me feel I was going to have a heartache anytime soon. And people danced danced twisted turned leaned and swayed. Falling down into the rabbit hole. Oblivious to other things, their senses were blunt. I was entertained. I guess this is the literal interpretation of celebrating the coming of one holy month: to celebrate as hardcore as possible before you are told to repress yourself. All clubs will be shut anyway for a couple of days. I'm sure when it's open for business, the same people will go back to the dance floor (or table) and dance like they don't care.

I guess moral of the story is like always, holy or not, it depends on one's way of doing it; whether it's going to matter or not, it will depend solely on the individual, not the society, the thugs in white robes, or the so-called high ulema. I am now thinking about the waking up before the crack of dawn... THAT is going to be painful.