You celebrate your half birthday???

As I mentioned in my previous post, I celebrate my half birthday every year to make up for my actual one which rarely fails to deceive my low expectations. Besides, twelve months is just too long a wait!

I was born mid August, mid summer, a leo supposed to celebrate in warm sunny weather; however, every year precisely on my birthday, wherever I am at that moment, it rains, and I have checked, it only rains where I am. Usually in France in the countryside during that period, I have celebrated twice in Paris and once in Lebanon and believe me when I say it has rained in the exact region I was in when candles were lit, every single year since my 5th. If I recall correctly, my parents had prepared a surprise celebration on that day and upon my return home from my summer day camp, I found a kiddy pool in the garden and little presents on every step leading to my room, bathing suit and accessories spread out on my bed upstairs. I got dressed and came down excited and giddy only to find the garden submerged in water from a sudden summer storm. It may have been the saddest sight I ever beheld as a child. Ever since, I have always celebrated carefully, preparing myself for things that often ended up happening, whether friends getting ill at the last minute to the ice skating rink being closed just on that day to being stuck at work on a Monday with colleagues I had to force a smile for.

Today is my half birthday, and from the looks of it half way in, it’s apparently a year-long curse I suffer from. Cheers!

The clumsy chronicles pt.2

If you’ve been following my ramblings long enough, you’ve probably noticed that I have already talked about how clumsy I can be, but in all honesty, I reach new levels each day and therefore have to update this public diary of clumsiness.

I woke up this morning dreaming of the decadent cake my mum had promised to make for my half birthday, my actual birthday almost always ending up a complete failure due to some bizarre curse – I’ll expand on the subject in another post. So I got up, brewed my coffee, added a splash of milk then toasted a nice big slice of crusty bread and slathered homemade chunky marmalade on top. Breakfast in bed is something I particularly relish in and have had since I was a kid (mostly on weekends), so nothing was really different than my regular habits. My phone’s battery calling my attention, I deposited my plate on my bed and went to plug in the weeping device, then sat on my bed’s side as I took a sip of my comforting warm beverage. Looking around, I couldn’t locate my breakfast which I was certain I had brought to my bedroom. Lightbulb. I get up and realize I had sat on it and the plate I was staring at was, apart from the occasional crumb…empty. My sandwich had gotten stuck on my bum! Furthermore, as I tried to detach the sticky mess from my pyjamas, I inevitably spilled half my coffee on my slippers.

Needless to say I decidedly have no better luck on my half than on my actual birthday, and my clothes have already had more sweets than me today.

Too little too much

Ever since I was a child, I have been taunted by the fear of being too much of anything, too loud, too different, too nice and yes, even too loving.

In a society that promotes distance, casual relationships with no profound attachment, caring too much has somehow become a defect of the human heart, something we’re doing wrong. Every time we get too close to another, whether friend or more, an alarm resonates and we pull out of our mischievous trance; today’s society is based on nonchalance and vapid companionship, anything more can turn out fatal. We call friends people who make our hips dance but our souls stand still, lovers those who offer us everything but their hearts, and for some inexplicable reason, this has become completely normal, synonymous with happiness.

I remember watching old films with my parents, listening to fabulously written dialogue and loving diatribes spoken with passion and glistening eyes, and I dreamt of the day I’d be old enough to have someone come up with words as warm and tender as those uttered by the likes of Cary Grant and Gene Kelly, swoon under the riveting gaze of chivalrous men burning with untamed passion. Instead, all I have seen of courtship has been reduced to strangers finding solace in strange bodies, short-term internet-made friendships, divorces happier than weddings and a world much less inviting than my innocent heart had dreamt while watching those films with the only two people who ever made me dream of more than society allowed or taught me to seek.

In the end, it isn’t being too much of anything that truly scares me, it’s the world being too little endowed with what makes my soul flutter and my heart beat faster; I will always do and be more than is advisable, and maybe someday society will finally decide to catch up.