Find you if you can.

Why do you long for companionship when we’re alone and crave for solitude when we’re “paired”? When is “alone time” good and when is it depressing? Why does it become depressing in the first place? Isn’t “alone time” another form of meditating to yourself for yourself in order to become yourself again? So why is it that when we reach the climax of self-ish aura we yearn to share this aloneness with someone?

If, let’s say, our need for companionship is stirred by physical urges, then why is it that once those urges are quenched, we seek something deeper? Why can’t it just flow, like food does when it fills you up and needs to be excreted?

And then there are the times where you just want to be alone. To do what? To find yourself again. But why did you lose yourself? Because you were with someone who either morphed you into him or you changed your skin to match his environment. And then you’re alone now. And you found yourself. And you say: “finally, I know what I want and what I loathe”, and the first thing that conjures up your mind is to look for someone who would intersect with your new you, in hopes that you may not compromise yourself anymore. For what purpose? To test the limits of your new self or to negate your conclusions of yourself in order to find another you lurching somewhere behind the layers of personalities which await their phasely incarnation?

I don’t know.

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Eid Greetings And The Masks That Come With Them

Mask 1:

So you’re sitting down, paying attention not to glue your legs too close to each other or cross them over each other in your favorite royal pose. Just keep them “ajar” enough to air your balls (do refer to the description of the balls in the earlier post). This, my friend(s) is what we call: “a3det rjeil”, the sitting of the men.

Tonight is the night your endurance with you daddy’s TV programs will be put to the test to see how much attention you’ve been paying attention. Tonight, the Sitting of the Men will talk about the politics they saw, the religions they condemn, the economy they loathe and the women they aspire to touch. All those topics wouldn’t have found their way into the “sitting” had it not been on the Mecca of TV stations amongst those men: Al Arabiyya, Al Jazeera, the Lebanese channels. Between each outburst of either unanimous agreement or individual discrepancies, you find yourself nodding at this and shaking your head on that. But of course you wouldn’t exhibit such opinions if you weren’t directly or indirectly asked to pronounce your thoughts on the matter, be it wih a sudden stare from the “family friend” or a verbal permission from your father to speak that comes out as, “don’t you think so, my son?” signaling the time for you to support his opinion, regardless whether you agree with it or not. If you happen to presume that you know better and would like to add in your wit to the argument at hand, and it just so happens that it is not in conjunction with the ruling mentality, then your father would sadly admit that you’re ignorant, while his “family friends” would console him ever so gently that you’re just too young to understand. And “god burn America for ruining his brains”.

If the men decide to play cards or backgammon, then you’re to follow them, even if you don’t have a player’s seat or you don’t necessarily smoke. Do remember that second-hand smoking effects do not exist in this blessed gatherings, so don’t busy your health-conscious self with these insignificant details. And anyway, the clouds of smoke will switch you off in 3 minutes flat. So you’re in safe hands. You’re bored and you lost interest with the games? Then eavesdrop at what the women on the other side of the Salon are gossiping about, but do not even dare to join in the discussion. Just sit, smile courteously, cheer when your father wins and grin if he loses (or rush to clean his ashtray and get him a cleaner one). Sit and wait for the mixed nuts to come, followed with the a combination of either Pepsi, Miranda, Seven up and mixed fruit cocktail drinks. And wait patiently for the cakes that were bought from the closest patisserie.  This, my friend(s) will be the height of your entertainment. After the sugar rush is gone, the yawning syndrome governs the room, your mom gives a “habibi, let’s go because I think our little daughter is on the internet and not asleep as we think she is” look. Your dad excuses himself by getting up, after which you’d have to mirror him and shake hands with the guests one after the other, in the same order as he did.

Mask 2:

You sit amongst the men who define their sex by the number of children they helped procreate and the throng of women they fantasize to share their seeds and fluids with. You think to yourself, “but I like men, why am I listening to this”?

My friend(s), I don’t think such conversations should bother us because we don’t relate to them. Personally, they bother me because they don’t add any intellectual value to my being.  But that’s about it.

In such gatherings, I think to myself: why am I going through this? One possible answer is because I need to show that  I am supporting my father. I am whom he will entrust his name to be passed onto his heir. I am who will bring this heir to this life (there is a funny pun in here which I’d like to highlight: the pronunciation of “heir” and “ayr” is identical somehow). I have to be part of these gatherings so that his friends won’t look at him in sympathetic camaraderie, as if wanting to say, “your train is gone and you’re all alone now. Your name will never be procreated”. My presence fuels his hope. My presence silences their doubts. My presence kills me. And yet, I am to sit smiling, grateful that I have such lovely parents (and they are lovely, loving and adorning) who bestow on me a good living. I am to sit there answering questions that neither change my life nor the course of life outside those walls. I am to sit there accepting the sugar-filled, toxin-intoxicated drinks and swallow them in gratitude of the unparalleled hospitality I am receiving.  I glance at my mother every now and then. She glances back at me with eyes of pride, but clouded with stares of concern. Stares that want to say, “I know what you’re going through”, but instead translate to, “your father loves you and I’m proud of you for getting along with him, finally”.

I look away, so that I may continue arguing about politics which affect nothing but my travel plans, religions which, should I decide to follow them, save me from nothing but further criticism of my choices, and people whom I will never cross paths with. All for the sake of proving that my parents have raised me well. That I have “chosen” to abide to their beliefs because I have the common sense to see they are the common sense amongst the rubble of Man.

Dress to Impress: Eid Machismo Tips

So it’s Eid. And the string of family visits is endless. I endure all the “3a2belak”, “nefra7 mennak”, “wayn bint el 7aleil” and “I have the perfect woman for you. Fresh from secondary school” comments with a mere nod of the head, smile on the face and the usual “I’m still young”, “I haven’t found the right person yet”, “I am following my uncles footsteps and will marry when I’m 35” replies. Ever so eloquently, seeking approval between each response from my father sitting nervously at the edge of his standard couch, hoping I won’t disappoint him with one of my “western” ideals responses in front of his sisters and brothers; those very same brothers and sisters who boast to their brother, my father, about what new cusswords their grandchildren are learning to call them with. All this is customary routine, regardless of any religious holiday or family event. The challenge is when it’s out of the family circle.

And so, again, it’s Eid and after the relatives come the ever-dwindling list of family friends. This will prove more challenging than relatives because now the image is crucial. The preparations start with choosing what to wear. It has to be something that, if it doesn’t convery my real age, should preferably make me look older. Because, as wise straight Arab men from Abdel Nasser era would say, “the older you look, the wiser”. How to accomplish this task? You start with the size: select something that is at least 2 size bigger than your size. Wearing an XS size to show off your biceps would gain you a “take off your little sister’s tank top and dress like men do” comment. You think: “but see, muscles = manhood!” and he think: “this tightness makes you look younger and effeminate”. So, my two-cent worth of advice, skip le drama and abide to the above rule. And the rest which will shortly follow.

After deciding to choose the desired size (usually hidden in the lost corners of your closet) make sure to pick a formal black shirt and matching formal pants. EXACTLY MATCHING. Suzy Menkes of NYT Fashion would gasp at the notion, but it is a life saver. Just don’t be creative. Think, “oh, Grandfather would’ve loved this”, take a deep breath and put them on. Let me not forget the shades of colours preferred for such occasions. They could range from pitch black to ash gray or from dark brown to khaki beige. White is obscene unless it is a traditional Emirati dishdash (jallabiyya), because white “make you look younger”. The shoes definitely black and whatever colour palette you decide to wear from the above dashing menu, make sure you’re wearing either white socks or socks that match either the EXACT shade of your shirt or the EXACT shade of your pants. Any other attempt to be creative would be shunned as “obscene and mbahdal”. Unless you’re wearing a suit, your shirtsleeves should be rolled up to show masculinity (thickness of arms) and adulthood (buttoning your sleeves with no tie and jacket is considered to be childish and out of kinder-garten uniform manuals). Shoes should most certainly be either coal-black or chocolate brown. Leather in most cases, but suede may be accepted if the texture miraculously matches your trousers.

Before you sprint out of your room spreading your legs 20 inches apart to simulate the feeling of having enlarged balls due to lack of sex and abundance of seafood stored in your groin, waiting impatiently to burst out, don’t forget to spray yourself with a classic perfume. Classic means spicy and heavy. Nothing subtle. Or else, your delicate swiff will be a tell-all.

Done? Now, walk out of the room and look for mom. Mom gives you the nod of approval to go and seek dad’s opinion. Dad looks you up and down. Still not uttering a word, you should know that he wants to see how snug the trousers are on your ass, so pretend as if you’re walking away and save him the embarrassment of asking you to give him a 360-degrees exhibit. As you walk away (slowly, of course) the approval will sprout out from his mouth sometimes so reluctantly, as if he was waiting to catch you with red-handed, but you’ve managed to out-smart him.

Stay tuned tomorrow to know all about carrying out a conversation with straight men 2.5 times your age that seem to have nothing better in life but to evaluate how capable you are to carry your father’s name through your blessed seed that will conceive an ardently waiting egg. Somewhere in a remote village.