Prose before hos

I'd accounted for every hour during the weekday, the first week of this year to be precise. Everything down to the meal planning, how cold it was gonna get and what time I'd return home and exactly how long I'd workout and what I'd do. 

I'd even measured how angry I'd allow myself to get at the stupidities of others; how I was gonna be calm through the day of a big release at work when I knew we'd be working with skeletal staff. 

The first weekend of the year, the pressure is high. To be leisurely. To perform. To hibernate and make the most out of it. 

I'm struggling. 

I found myself struggling in the morning over something unceremonious that marked my morning between a busy day. When I recalled it to my friend later in the day, almost as a revelation that maybe it was the reason I was feeling low, she told me to forget about it and move past it; it doesn't matter. 

But reading, man, it's a punishment. Books are a bitch in terms of unlocking pieces of your broken heart that you'd hidden under the weight of work and performance. I was watching something I did on 'gram, a video about my work outfits. 

Who tf am I outside this job?

A close friend said insane. She said it as a matter of fact; repeated it twice last month, and then once during lunch this week—lovingly though. I had explained to her how my mum started her business and that I was fucking heartbroken after I crossed many oceans for a man and he fucked me over, which led me to help her on the strategy end of things when she set operations running. That's what eventually led to my mum selling pickles. "You've lived a colourful life," she added before returning to her chila. 

I found myself giggling over this revelation to another friend who's known me through multiple lifetimes—one through three colleges and work and shared grief of losing patriarchs in our respective lives. 

"Do you know people in my life are calling me insane right now? Can you believe they think I'm insane right now?"

It's a badge of honour. A matter of pride to think I'm able to pull a con this well. I took this job recovering from long covid, grief, heartbreak, and immense hurt to my heal my pride and financial statements. On the other side, now, I'm a changed woman. A woman consumed by her work, to the point I've made enemies who think I'm always angry and rude (among other things and insane, lovingly). 

He answered in the affirmative. No explanation, "y" and I left it at that. 

These days, when I stare at my phone I feel pathetic. 

I'm somehow taken back to two painful evenings. One as a child, who'd wait for a corn-on-cob seller with his cart every Summer evening. He knew I'd buy one so he'd choose the route crossing our residential gate and I'd pretty much go out to play because the end of the playtime would be rewarded with a cob. Soft, smokey corn kernels drenched in lemon juice and rock salt. Overcooked, hot and juicy, no Colonel Sanders can compare. I don't think anything holds my attention the way a roasted cob does. That seller would cross my place daily, and I would wait for him.

Except one day. He didn't show show. I remember sticking my neck out till 7 pm that day, just because I was hopeful he'd come. I wanted my dopamine. My snack. My ritual and routine. I used to pray at the alter of consistency and safety and that was the one time when I felt an immense sense of uneasiness about my evening snack seller disappearing without a notice. 

Kids have horrible heartbreak stories about their dads leaving. In my case, it was a corn-on-cob seller who broke my brain. 

The second time I waited for someone like that, with the same hope in my eyes and fearful intuition that shit was about to be rocky, was, unfortunately, not too long ago. It was at my workplace, I had a dinner date and a reservation at a restaurant. Not only did the man not show up to honour the reservation (that he should have made but I'll bring a grudge for the next time), he didn't bother informing me in time. 

I remember staring hard at my phone and just waiting for his chat to appear "online". Anything that could indicate to me how terribly sorry he was and how he was going to sprint for his life and make it. Just to heal the inner child wound of so many things, people, and the cob-seller who never showed up for me. 

"You need to stop staring at your phone. If you keep staring at it, he won't ever reply. I'll come with you, fuck him," a wise, young colleague offered. It was exactly the side character support I needed at the moment and probably deserved too. She did stick around till the last minute, approximately 90 minutes later when he did show up casually, without any remorse, and said he was glad I moved our reservation. 

I will never forget those 90 minutes and how the hope went with every passing second. They passed like broken glass through skin, piercing through my safety net that he had once created over time. "He wants to be there for you, has he given you any reason to doubt him? You can trust him one time and see how that goes"

Instead, I could feel my face heat up, my ears bursting in rash and my hands warm. I had to keep the composure because we had plans to hang out post-dinner and I had planned my day accordingly. When he finally showed up, I could sense he was far from being remorseful. Instead, he was mad at me for multiple reasons and if earlier I'd felt the safety net being dragged under my feet, I then realised I was living through a moment that would radically alter my faith in relationships and fade trust. 

Somehow, since opening this can of worms earlier this year, every time someone takes their time to see me or revert, it sends me down in a spiral. 

I calculated today, how if my cuff's on a date with someone else, he'd be home at a certain hour and then respond back at a specific time. Now, I don't know, man, call it intuition or being a rockstar planner, he did respond at that exact hour. I can't be pissed nor can I be arsed, we're not there and we don't owe each other anything. And yet, the wound was scratched. Of making me wait, of making me hold on to the hope that my worst fears will be proven wrong and that I'll be filled with hope, for once. 

I wish I had this luck in gambling, so I could win big but unfortunately, the only time it works is when it comes to men I'm dating. I can tell you looking at a list of 2k followers who is he fucking and cheating on me with and then I can also perhaps tell you if he's wavering and finding your Ali Express dupe without him leaving any digital footprints. My cuff called me scary and that I am. 

Even if not, the storyteller in me likes to tie loose ends. The cob seller didn't get good produce so he didn't show up that day. He ran out of coal and his child got sick so he prioritised staying with his child. 

The man didn't show up to pick me in time to celebrate my appraisal over dinner because he realised he didn't like me enough and had decided he had enough of me so now he's looking for excuses to run away. 

Winter cuff went on a date with someone else cause I badgered the living daylights out of him that he doesn't want to see me again and isn't putting enough time in cuffing the fuck out of me. 

All stories need to be tied. All stories need to be told. All stories need to be lived. 

I wish I had taken into account that PMS would clash with the first weekend of the year and that I'd be unhinged and spiraling. 

I missed being awake at 1 am but not at the cost of howling through a writing activity in the first week of the year. 

I should be detaching myself from this job that I am leaning too close for comfort. I used to do it with people and now I do with my day job—put my heart into it and hope it'll be there for me in my times of trouble. No passive person ever stood by those who needed help and no passive activity ever repaid anyone in their times of distress.