TO ALL ADULTS WHO ARE FAILING AT ADULTING

If you’ve ever felt like a complete and utter failure of a human adult; i.e if you ever feel¬†like you really, truly, unquestionably suck, don’t you worry! You’re not the only one that does ūüôā

To those who have snoozed the alarm over four times in the morning even though they mentally promised themselves the night before that they were going to wake up at 8am and run to the grocery store. I salute you. 

To those who have had different flavors of chips as their balanced meal for breakfast. I salute you. 

To those who wore the wrong attire to a business event, those who wore mismatching socks because they were too lazy to do the laundry for two straight weeks and now have to deal with what’s left in their drawers. To those who tried sitting on their shirt to try to remove the wrinkles instead of ironing it because they do not have an iron and absolutely need that one shirt for this one interview, I feel you.¬†(no, mom, I did not actually do this one.)

To those who pretend to forget to brush their teeth at night, you know who you are!

Those who pretend to like children but actually try to scare them when their parents are not looking.

To those who have¬†never even used a treadmill in their lives, and are constantly surrounded and reminded of their lack of physical movement and health awareness. I am here for you. & I hear you. I’m also here to those who promise themselves they are going to sleep at 11:30 max and end up turning off their laptops just around 3am.

To those who have been having the same meal for the past couple of lunches just because they don’t feel like learning a new recipe, and to those who sit WAY too long under their hot shower and even WAY longer in their bath robes just contemplating life and scrolling through their newsfeeds, naked. Rolala mais comment j’vous feel!¬†

To those who break half the egg on the table and the other in the pan, those who forget the oil on the pan for too long, and those who forget to turn the heat on altogether.¬†I’ve recently realized that you can mess cracking an egg open and heating it up even if it’s not your first time making an omelette! Life is really full of wonderful surprises, so let’s just hug, right here, altogether and embrace our mutual suckiness. Take it all in. Take a napkin if you need.

The list goes on and I feel it, because (truly sorry mom and dad, but especially mom, who struggled to make me wear slippers around the house; which I still sometimes don’t.). I really try to “adult” but there is just so much to do and I cannot thank you enough for not loosing your marbles on me (most of the time). Thank you for your patience, and I promise I will try to adult better; but for now, it’s pretty much trial and error.

 

Particulars; and why you need to surround yourself with them.

Think about how much more wonderful life would be if every person on this earth did what they were passionate about and pursued it ’till the very bits of its end. Think about the outcome and how much positivity you will be surrounded with. How great it would be to be courageous and driven enough to run after what you want (and, in a perfect world, conquer all obstacles thrown in your way and find long term success, whatever that success may be.) How much more clear laughs will sound and how truer words will be spread.

Sometimes it hits me late at night (as it did now, I’m afraid), right as I’m trying to draw a close to my day for a few hours before I begin again; I really start to think (and I know you did too, at some point in time, think my exact thoughts), that time is running by. I don’t want to put it harshly but there is a finish line and sooner or later everyone will cross it and that’s about as clear as day.¬†But unlike usual marathons, this one counts on what you actually accomplish on your way to the red band you will tear, because everyone will reach it; and unfortunately the faster you do, the worse it will be for you, because the saddest part about the¬†marathon is that there are absolutely 0 winners. You won’t be given a trophy for finishing first or arriving a few seconds after the winner, what will determine your “success” is how you ran (I hope I haven’t milked this metaphor too much, please tell me if I did).

My mind was wandering around ideas like how much less weight there would be over our tired little shoulders if people really dug deep to find what truly and unquestionably motivates them and makes them happy, and went after it.

Throughout my (still pretty short compared to others) life, I have met a wide range of people, and I have realized why it is that I am attracted to those that I will from now on forward call “particulars”.¬†They are the particular souls that you just feel¬†are different from the rest of the bunch; and that difference usually comes from them being open about what they like, what motivates them, and generally who they are as people. They are the ones who are unafraid to question themselves repeatedly and fearfully (yes, fearfully), but they do, and they try as much as they can to do what they love in a world absolutely filled and overflowing with judgements and pre-judgements and pre-pre judgements and doubt and the fear of what will happen if I do what I actually love doing. These particulars inject what they love doing in their daily lives and you can just feel their presence when they walk into work or when they get back home. They are the artists who, even if they did not become artists, ended up injecting art in their lives so well that they never needed a canvas.

If you know these particulars/ if you’ve felt their presence before, you will know who I’m talking about. These are the people who are not just “good” at what they’re doing, they are the change and the difference. They are what makes this life extremely enjoyable in all its mundanity and unpleasantly usual routines. ¬†They can be that teacher you had that really, really made an impact on you, a person you met in the office that does their job so absolutely brilliantly that¬†you start questioning what you really got from¬†your Masters Degree. They can be a classmate that teaches you so much more than what’s written on the slides, and who knows? It can even be you, particular person. (Because I’ll let you in on one last little secret before I literally fall asleep on my keyboard: we are all f***ing particulars! In our own ways. But for your own mental health, stay around these people, learn from them and let them influence you in the best way possible and let them make your brain itch sometimes because the clock is still ticking! and you’re still running, but by being more particular, in your own way, you’ll learn to forget that there’s a finish line.

*Sidenote forgive the cheesiness in this post if you smelled it, it’s 2:33 am and my brain may be farting bubbles. Hope you enjoyed the read ūüôā

Number 5

“Mon Paris, right?” -an old french woman remarks, as I was telling my friend to smell my wrist to fully¬†take in the scent that I sprayed on a few minutes ago.

I look at the woman just a few feet behind me, surprised by her immediate recognition of the scent.

“Yes, it is” I smiled.

“It’s a great fragrance”

“I fully agree”

The woman was around her mid-sixties, faint makeup on her lips and a dusty rose on her eyelids. She was holding on to the leather she had around her arm with the iconic Louis Vuitton monogram.

“But honestly Black Opium has much more distinctive tones”

“Yes it’s much more bonbon” I nodded in agreement.

“But my major preference is Chanel number 5.”

And Chanel number 5 fit her like a glove. It’s what she had decided to wear on her that day and that’s when I recognized the strongly familiar scent. She was elegant and knew her fragrances quite distinctively. Her collection of perfumes included Yves Saint Laurent, Chanel and Chlo√ę, and she could tell between them, and knew which one fit the occasion; and on that day she had recognized a scent I had barely sprayed on my wrist, that had made its debut in France not so long ago, I believe it had been on the market for only a few months.

The woman was particular in the way she dressed, very chic and elegant; and I knew I wanted to write about her the minute the conversation ended.

As my friend and I walked around Grenoble on a Wednesday evening in January, I saw a few other women with some similarities. They were so elegant and tasteful. Some of them walked in clothing shops dressed in black skirts to their knees, blazers with embroidery and pretty little details. Women with polished nails and statement hats, wrapped in elegance and chic faux-fur scarves, pointed heels and red lipstick, the smell of Chanel number 5 following them wherever they went, and I was fortunate enough to talk to one of them that day.

Holding on

My recent plane trip to Dubai was very far from forgettable, and I’m going to tell you why.

The flight takes about 7 hours total and that was already a burden for me, as I do not like flying, nor do I like sitting in one little chair for hours pretending like we’re not 40¬†000 feet above the ground, while trying to enjoy food that looks like it has been canned for months¬†(Sidenote: Shoutout to Emirates Airlines for making edible food that people can actually enjoy. Thank you for relieving us from the pain we have to endure on other flights.)

Anyway back to our moutons,¬†I’ve honestly been starting to associate longer flights with bumpier outcomes. I know it’s probably completely wrong, but every time I’ve been on what I call “the¬†longer flights” (+4 hours), we seem to have¬†a lot more turbulence, and THAT my friends, is scary for me. It is both life-threatening & stress-inducing for my little heart to handle¬†and I CAN’T TAKE IT OKAY, I’M SERIOUSLY THINKING OF TRAVELING VIA¬†HORSE FROM NOW ON. I just need to be on the ground.

On this stressful-7-hour-long-flight, the first thing the captain told us when we fit¬†our tired little bums into¬†the narrow seats was¬†“folks, the flight is going to be a little bumpy, so please keep your seat belts on when the seat belt sign is switched on”. The man was speaking as if we were on¬†a bus driving 80km/hour on a rough highway. MY MAN, WE ARE FOURTY THOUSAND+ FEET¬†OFF THE GROUND, WHAT DO YOU MEAN A LITTLE BUMPY?

And bumpy it was. I had never experienced such bumpiness actually. And I don’t think I have ever prayed this much on a plane (or anywhere, really). Jesus, Allah, Vishnu etc. they were ALL CALLED UPON. I needed safetyyyyyyyy. After a big “bump” that ended up dropping the plane literally maybe 1 foot in a matter of seconds, I was on edge.

And suddenly, the woman sitting in front of me asks¬†her husband, sitting on her left, if he’s awake. In which he does not respond although his eyes were slightly open. So she looks at him anxiously and asks him again louder, while touching his arm. Things were starting to alarm her (and me, because I was looking at what was happening). She immediately removes her seatbelt and sits on his lap for direct and clear interaction with his face, as the plane was dark due to dimmed lights; and she starts talking louder, her voice shaking, calling his name and pressing her hands against his cheeks. She wanted to call a flight attendant¬†but no one was there so I pressed the blue button you press for them to come. Slowly, people around the couple started noticing something was happening and people offered help, one man even slapped her husband to wake him up. Scary-long -story-short the man did not die, but he ended up needing 3 oxygen tanks to stay awake and breathing, as he was falling in and out of consciousness.

But strangely enough, even though I saw his face and all other encounters we had on the flight, the only image now glue-stuck to my brain is her face, looking at his like it was the last time she will be able to. It is a state you do not wish to see people in, whether you know them or not. It is a state of unfortunate panic, and what sticks to my mind is that mix of incomprehensible emotion I was seeing from a woman I had never met in my life. I saw shock, incomprehension, and all similarly unpleasant emotions, but I saw overwhelming immediate unquestioned love. That woman held his face and started kissing him before any of the flight attendants showed up, before anything started happening she put her face against his and did the only thing she understood at that moment. She held on while she still could.

As often as we see it on social media posts and quotes, do not take the moments we have with with loved ones for granted. Love them everyday and remind them whenever you can, because that moment you have with them is euphoria. Living right now at 7:05 pm on a Sunday in January,  breathing them in to fill your soul with enough of their presence in order not to feel empty when they are gone. And you still do.

Carefully Calculated

You count the days until you get to see them, the years, minutes and seconds you have with them

You count the freckles on her cheeks and the birthmarks on his back,

that now form an exact pattern, carefully calculated.

You count seconds, then you breathe

You count breaths, then you push

You count blessings, then you cry.

You count their little fingers, one, two, three. Their tiny fingers

You count them sheep, because they can’t remember what comes after¬†8

You count all the pieces of the puzzle to make sure nothing is missing

You count stars because you can’t see them all

and you count the stars in their eyes because you can see them all, more breathtaking than the universe.

You count their teeth and still tell them to smile

You count to three then the tchoo-tchoo train arrives

You count letters and numbers and teach them to use their fingers, their not so tiny little fingers anymore

You count dreams, but with time you lose count

You try not to count heartache, because the counting gets too hard

You count the pieces that were shattered and try to fit them back together

You don’t count grudges because there should only be a few.

You count the tears but they keep slipping through your fingers

You count the laughs, and recall them again and again.

You count your friends, until you realize that’s not what counts

and suddenly you start once again, counting but hardly remembering the days that pass by

You start counting the people that forcibly said goodbye

Life now reveals you wrinkles you still have to count,

At one point the counting shifts, They are now counting  minutes and seconds they still have with you

Because somewhere along the way, you’ve run out of fingers.

 

Rim Abla

 

I walked around Beirut with a hula hoop around my arm

Why? You ask

Why not? I protest.

I’ve recently started going to the gym, after roughly 20 years or less of debating whether attempting physical torture was worth it. Turns out it was, so I started using all sorts of machines that would “tone” and “perfect” specific parts of my body, and running on the treadmill for some time, although I didn’t fully enjoy the process or the experience in its entirety. To my surprise, I was not a gym person. ¬†Right until my friend brought a jump rope with her, and the rest was history.

I would jump that rope for hours and it would be wonderful. I would feel powerful because with enough practice, I was able to do fast normal and crossed rope jumps, back rope jumps and all that jazz, and soon enough, maybe double rope jumps? The possibilities were endless, and it was glorious.

So I thought, why not keep this up? Why need to force myself to work with cold machines when I can enjoy a light jump rope? I can even start hula hooping on the side. So I went first thing this morning to get a hula hoop from the shop down the road, I found one and bought it, I was happy with my purchase, right until I physically left the shop.

So I rested the hoop on my shoulder and continued my shopping spree as I needed to get a lot more things today, and I don’t know how I thought purchasing the hula hoop should be first on the list of many things to get, as it needed to accompany me wherever I went.

I started noticing how people would look at me as I walked down the road. People of all ages gazed at the girl¬†holding a giant flashy pink and silver hula hoop, just casually walking around. I realized that when people saw this, they immediately expected you to do something with it. It was almost like they’ve imagined a whole new different past¬†for me. Suddenly I wasn’t just a college student in Marketing anymore, I was the hula hoop girl, chasing her hula hoop dreams since she was a couple¬†years old. Her mother,¬†graceful and accomplished hula hoop champion, passed down the hula hoop that made her win the championships to her lovely daughter, who now works 24/7 to reach her dream, and to make her mother proud, reigning¬†hula hoop champion, it’s in her blood, and she will win this. The girl was preparing a hula hoop flash mob¬†with her¬†hula hoop friends. This was her life, quite literally wrapped around her arm.

You know you’re winning at life when this many hula hoops are needed in one sentence.

It was funny to watch these reactions, as I literally did nothing but walk around from a shop to another, minding my own business. But my hula hoop was screaming and people were listening, as the colors and the size were disruptive to the usual, boring, ethical, colorless, shapeless mundane. Old women were startled, older men were intrigued, little girls were excited, and so was I.

 

A cup a day: Rosehip Peach

On the second day of sickness my auntie gave to meeeeee

a Rosehip Peach tea by Lipton!

Now here’s an interesting one.

First of all the design on the packaging is pretty normal. Twinings’ tea design (reviewed yesterday) basically set the bar very high, so Lipton falls on that, as the design is not very recherch√© *holds tea in hand and inspects it professionally*.

The bag smells just like Amar el deen (basically dried apricot with sugar stretched out as a sheet) we used to eat as kids in Lebanon, mostly during Ramadan time. ¬†Amar el deen tastes too good, it¬†was the ultimate candy back then (and still kinda is), because it’s healthier than any other candy-related product I know.

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So anyway back to our tea: this was a weirder experience than usual because the herbs and things that were in the tea bag, once soaked in hot water dissolved in a bright fuschia pink color, probably  because of the rosehip infusion.  It was visually very pleasing, resembling  fuschia watercolor.

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The taste however was very tangy, almost citrusy. It was too strong for me so I added a teaspoon of sugar to ease things, iIMG_1315.jpgn vain. The taste remained piquant and quite acidic. Needless to say, the visual vibes and the smell were far better than the taste.

 

 

 

Have you ever tried it? If so, what did you think of it?

Tell me if you have any recommendations!

Get well soon cookie ūüôā