Pretzel

When I say I like to dance, I am thinking of my tendency to shimmy around somewhat crazily on my own in my room, or occasionally in public. I know very little about structured forms of dance, so I grasp dancing as an extension of my enjoyment of music. I do it when I listen to a song that makes me want to move.

I went to the Future music festival a while back, and the thing I loved most about it was the fact that at a few points, it didn’t really matter who could see me, or that I looked like a hot mess, or that I was dancing alone at the back whilst people were up front near the stage. It did not matter, nothing mattered! I was dancing underneath a night sky lit up by stage lights, and the music was so loud, and I had as much space as I could please. I don’t think I thought about much, I did not worry about work, I did not dwell on where I was with God, I was mercifully distracted from thinking of people that have been on my mind, my insecurities and self-doubt did not matter. How blissful it is at times to think of nothing. I am, moreoften than not, grievously far too self-conscious to let myself go completely, so when I am able too, it’s brilliant.

I screwed up at work the other day, and as a result I am mortification personified. I try not to linger on the matter, but I still feel like I’ve been hit with a pie in the face every once in a while when it crops up again. I’ve come to think of my mistake as a sly little creature with pointy ears whose chief motive in life is to remind me of his presence and throw pies in my face, the sneaky little bastard. He did pretty well yesterday, I left work feeling like an incompetent idiot, and I was disappointed to find that going for a run did not work its magic this time; I was still emitting audible groans whenever I was unfortunate enough to remember the whole shebang after I finished. I have to ride this godforsaken incident out, and I suppose 6 months from now I’ll be humorously recounting this incident to whomever. But in the meantime, I shall resort to food, because I feel glum and want a pretzel.

I like people who smell good. Does that sound creepy? Maybe it does, but I’ve been riding the train to work this week, and I like how in the morning, people have just sprayed themselves with one perfume or another, and everyone smells so pleasant.

I have to admit, I like to people watch. I was taking the train last Saturday, and it was filled with young people heading for a day out. There were a couple of girls sitting opposite me, and they were dressed up, with their jeans and trendy tops and warpaint on. The girl on the right was wearing wedges, she was plump and her outfit was mostly over the verge of being too tight, but there was something slightly glorious about her. Her hair was long and luscious, and she wore casually flipped over one shoulder. Her plumpness seemed curvy and voluptuous, and she came across like the kind of girl who would be mischievous, with a sassy attitude and a sort of playfulness. You got the feeling she would know how to flirt.

On the other end of the train were another group of girls, a couple of them fashioning the Yuna-style of wearing the tudung(is it officially called tudung Yuna? I’m imprudently assuming Yuna pioneered that particular style) and clutching handbags, and they looked young, maybe form 3? They were giggly, and I noticed a man standing nearby smiling at them appreciatively.

I suppose I was watching these girls with a sort of fondness, because I did the exact same thing at their age, and have various memories of my mom dropping me off at LRT stations so I could meet up with friends at KLCC or Midvalley for a movie. Dressing up, going out at 10.30 in the morning, excited at the prospect of hanging out with friends or perhaps the idea of who else we might bump into? On the whole, I felt glad for them and I felt old, but at the same time I had an acute sense of relief.