What bananas don’t want


by Adventures of Miss ViVi Gold

There was one thing I was sure of this year: the present I wanted for Christmas. I came up with all the legitimate excuses to console myself that this was the be all and end all of necessary fun, currently absent from my life.

The must-have object, as is always the case, came in a sleek box and cost something in the range of the three digits. Previously decried as the quintessential boy object (make that previously synonymous to the middle ages, mind you), I became possessed with having this perfect little companion on my piece of furniture. To dust off and to show off, surely. Let’s face it girls, calling something “boys only” is so last century. The broiling feminist inside me wanted to win this one out.

So I worked myself up, and hinted lightly at first, throwing in a word or two, followed by a smile. Who me? A present? Don’t be silly! Well if you really want to buy me something so much then sure go ahead and get me a ————. Never serious, but totally so. As Christmas day neared, I followed a more persistent approach: I started browsing accessories to go with said possession, as though I already owned it. Anyone heard of positive thinking? Invented by me, I assure you. Did it work? Hell, yeah! I know this because quite unsuspectingly, without having the thing, I felt like I did already. I even window shopped for it, I acted like I had it and I had it — in my head. And with having, comes overuse, and with overuse comes boredom. And then a new resolute: NOT to own this stupid object. EVER.

As I marked it clearly on my 2011 resolution list, I was thankful for everyone around me who paid me no mind. All the presents under the tree where things I never asked for, and I still have lots of time before boredom sets in.

Happy new year everyone!

In the waiting room


The chairs are always uncomfortable and picking up a magazine feels like picking dirty underwear from a colorful mountain of laundry. The waiting room fools no one in its trite and glossy appearance — everyone can handle this four-walled foyer with the confidence of a four-year-old armed in colored crayons.

The metaphorical waiting room, is a different matter altogether.

To begin with, it’s boundless. When will they call my number? When is it my turn? In time, you realize the futility of such questions. You try to work with this; surely you can trick these forces of abstraction into the kind of lingo you’ve learned to translate well. You ask your banker when you’ll get your loan. He answers in nonsense words you understand: Soon. You ask your boss if you can take the day off next week. He meets your definite question with: We’ll see. You ask yourself if you will ever manage to save more than a two-digit number and the answer comes back as a surprise: Who knows?

My experience has taught me that ambiguity is infectious.

You see, in the waiting room you enter with a smile, head for the secretary and inform you’ve arrived. You squeak your way onto the fake leather couch and pretend to look distractedly at the wall, while listening in on gossip shows blasting on flat-screen TVs. You look around you, make up stories of those beside you, wonder who’s before you and how many more minutes of this transition ordeal you have left. And then, they call your number. And it’s over.

But for the things that matter in life you wait with Gwen Stefani, and you can’t help singing along despite your indie taste: “I’m all alone in the waiting room.” And when you suddenly mouth unsuspectingly “It’s icky, it’s sticky” you snap out of it and get on with your life.

There are a million other things to do.