Weekend's Over

#246: What have you done?

It's Sunday afternoon, Andrew is away playing soccer and I'm at home filling my time with little bits and pieces of things I have to do but have never really gotten around to properly starting. There's checking out car dealers for the looming purchase, there's reviewing for the driver's test I have to take, there's preparing my dress for tomorrow's Grammy Awards luncheon (nothing flash - an old dress that hopefully still fits), there's preparing for the new hire who's arriving tomorrow (who will most likely be taller than I am, looking more like my boss than my subordinate), there's vacuuming, there's wrapping my head around a presentation for this huge sales conference next month... LOTS. Ask me what I've accomplished. NOT LOTS. I did vacuum though. And throughout Mika's "Happy Ending" song, I was able to organize my thoughts for the sales conference presentation. But as for the immediate stuff which will determine if my next few days will be miserable or smooth, well, those will have to wait till I snap out of the denial stage.

I wake up in teardrops, they fall down like rain.

Well, that's what Rascal Flatts are singing right now in the background but reality is mostly just waking up tired after dreaming of all the things I have to do but haven't done. And coming home in tears because yet again, it rained while I was waiting for the bus to arrive.

I need longer weekends. And sunnier days.

The Beef

#245: Two All-Beef Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce, Cheese

Here's my issue: I don't think I recognize myself anymore. I have this gnawing fear that I have turned into someone I can't readily accept. I wrote about feeling like the barest version of myself sometime back. From that time, the hope would always be that I'd be able to go back to being my vivaglam self again. It would be easy. I just needed to get a job and start working again. Work = pay = flexibility = vivaglam.

But flexibility is driven by more than just access to financial resources. I have started earning again. But access to financial resources does not guarantee the availability of options. I could get a car... but I cannot drive on the left side of the road. I have the resources to buy non-grubby-student-looking clothes... but most of the clothes here are designed for the Australian woman's body shape, (not to mention ridiculously priced). And so I continue to use the clothes I purchased in the Philippines. Looking dated seemed like a less painful option versus looking like I'm wearing a circus tent. And I continue to chase after buses that are late or wait for the ones that won't ever come.

I want to wear heels again. Wear them without worrying about how they will fit into my bus-chasing agenda. (Or how they'll fit inside my bag after work hours, when I change into slippers again to walk hundreds and hundreds of meters to the next stop.)

I want to be funny again. Feel free to let out a cackle without worrying if people are actually laughing AT me instead of WITH me because I look disheveled/sweaty/soaking wet (it's the rain, dang it! I commute! I am exposed to the elements! Now stop staring.)

If you read my name backwards, it says "Sydalg." I know I'm just being cruel to myself but as I say that, I'm hearing, "In SYDney, you're a DAG (dag = baduy)." ACK! I want to feel like I "own"MY Vivaglam name again. I want to feel like the daily grind can be glammed up and the glam can be effortlessly worn throughout the day.

I'm most likely sounding quite shallow and a bit deranged now. My husband doesn't fall short in picking me up or dropping me off to work whenever possible. And he doesn't fail to let me know that he thinks I'm beautiful. I have no reason to really feel this way (i.e., feel crap)... but I guess I need to get to a point wherein I could look at the mirror and see for myself the same person my husband sees. See the Vivaglam girl he once met - the one with the special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun.

(Then again, McDonald's is considered daggy here in Sydney.)