Things I blame Africa for. Vol. XI

"So, what are we talking about today, dear Ext?" she says as I position myself on the plush, white couch that always looks so inviting and comfortable, but ends up poking me with a loose spring right at that place where no flesh covers my tailbone.

I change from one already uncomfortable position to another. The spring pokes at my backside. I wince.

"Well, dear blog of mine," I open well knowing that If I suggest any sort of redesign that will imply getting rid of what's been on here for what seems like forever, she'll just smile and nod. Smile and nod. And then do nothing. The picture with the giraffe and the whiteness are here to stay. There's no way out of it.

"I seem to have become a clutter-happy hoarder," I test the waters.

"Oh, what makes you think that?" she queries, as if she doesn't know how uncomfortable the couch is, or how monotone the picture of the giraffe has become. Or how many bags of coffee have been bought since that item was placed on the to do-list, neatly tucked into the margin.

"See, Africa has made me like that," I answer as if I'm actually answering her question.

"Oh?" she just says, without the slightest tone of interest in her voice, and looks sadly at the description over the poor giraffe's head. I know she feels the wine and the bad, bad books mentioned in the description have been lacking, but alas, she could just rewrite, but no. She feels the readers will look past the description, straight at her, the soul of the blog.

"You know when they didn't have any coffee filters for like two months?" I continue as I revisit the panic that almost overwhelmed me when I realized that it wasn't just one chain of stores, but all of them that never got their shipment of precious coffee filters. That go in the coffee machine. Without which the machine is rendered useless. Completely, and utterly useless. And a french press has to be brought in to replace filter coffee. And it will never, ever taste the same. A quality of pureness will forever be lacking. Oh no... I can feel myself slipping again...

"No," she just replies, "I don't think you've mentioned it before."

"Haven't I? I thought I have. I must have! I almost unraveled at that point," I remind her.

"Hrmph," she let's out an unintentional laugh that she then tries to mask as a coughing fit. She is professional like that. Or at least she tries.

"You unravel a lot, you know," she looks at me and it is easy to see she's still about to burst into giggles.

"Maybe," I tell her, "but that time I really almost did, kind of like that time my iPhone didn't work and then the international internet connection went from all of Africa, and I could only read the Sowetan and even the 'news' in it didn't make me laugh or cry or whatnot anymore."

"Ah. So it was bad. Really bad," she frowns. And now I can see she doesn't feel like giggling so much anymore.

"Yes," I almost yell, "It was bad! But guess what's going on now?"

"Tell me," she encourages me, "but don't just tell me. Make it funny too. And somewhat self-deprecating. And maybe even a little touching. Those always work well," she continues.

I do a little snappy imitation of a drumroll and she rolls her eyes.

"So, they're out of my favorite body lotion. Like everywhere. Everywhere!" I tell her as I feel the hot tears creep up to the corners of my eyes.

"Lotion," she says "that's what's making you unravel today?"

"Well, yeah," I don't understand her less than enthusiastic response to my predicament,"today it's lotion, tomorrow it'll be the deodorants that I've luckily been hoarding for a while now feeling something like this hurtling towards us, and let's face it, I really should also point out the 'what's with deciding to only import the crappier of tampons and sanitary pads and none of the good ones all European women get to use?' fucker of a deal we've been handed here in southern Africa."

"I have money. I can, and will pay for tampons. A lot. If that's what it'll take, I tell you," I finally breathe out. I feel myself going a little red in the face. But sometimes tampons will do that to you.

"I said funny, not embarrassing yet oddly pointless," she stares at me with a blank look on her face.

"But see, that's what's making me a crazy old cluttered maniac who always buys ten of each when she should be buying one or two," I finally reach the pinnacle of my story, but I can see I've lost her.

"Really? Do you really think talking about South Africa's tendency to have 'temporarily out of stock' on red background plastered across various shelves of its reality, at the most inopportune of moments, is a good idea?" she sighs.

"I mean, you hit a wall twice with the car yesterday, you have a new maid (again), you keep scaring random people when you wear that South Africa beanie even though you yourself think you look really cute in it, and you went back to teaching yesterday, yet you still think people want to know that you prefer European tampons (and you didn't even make that joke)," she lists with an increasing speed.

"But, but... European tampons are so much better! I wish European tampons on everyone!" I just wish she would listen to me.

"In fact, I think it would make everyone's life easier if Oprah would just do one of her South Africa specials and bring some in for the locals," I give her a meaningful stare. I know how much she loves Oprah.

"With the help of Oprah I know South Africans would see the light. Or the tampon, as it may be," I finish off with my coup de grace.

She stares at me. Then she carefully makes a fist and coughs into it.

"Oh Ext, you're just as clueless as ever," she smiles at me patronizingly, "I think our time for today is up."

I bet Cape Town wouldn't mind a shipment of some decent tampons. But that's just my opinion.

Morph

They should support me I know, but currently feel like an accomplice to the enemy.

Continuing in the vein of possible brain malfunctions, I recently signed up for something called a Boot Camp.

I know. The name says it all. What I should have read between the lines, or beneath the words, or wherever you feel that the real meaning seems to hide when it comes to language, was NOT 'Join the fun!' but 'Why do people do this stuff to themselves?'

Stupid, spontaneous me.

I fear this specific experience might end up killing me. And not softly either a la Lauryn Hill, but by a very painful, sudden, and, to be perfectly frank about my questionable skills when it comes to such things as basic coordination, accidentally self-inflicted strangulation on a jumprope, or barring that, by an equally accidental bashing in of my own skull with a weighty dumbbell. So more along the lines of something evoked by Richard Simmons. You know, without the accident variable of course.

Or it might just all come to an end because I have to get up way too early and I'm not able to sit down onto the toilet without help.

So car crash due to lack of sleep and coffee, or a burst bladder then.

But I plow on. I paid for the enjoyment of having to run around a field with a bunch of other women who also feel they probably should have never signed up, while sweat stings my eyes, and the cool morning breeze does nothing to cool my head down, but helps to freeze my toes, soaking wet in my sneakers from the dew on the field, and my leaden arms that I'm forcing to lift the dumbbells at least above shoulder hight. So I must stick with it. Or so says my misconstrued view on the Scandinavian Lutheran Mother-instilled work ethic.

Thank you, Mother.

What this boot camp boils down to is me getting up every morning, every day from Monday to Friday, rain or shine, at 5am in order to be at the fields at 5:30am, to do some variation of circuit training for a whole hour while the sun comes up (or the thunder clouds gather like yesterday) and sweat pours from sweat glands I didn't know existed (I mean, I've heard about those things in the armpits, but dismissed it as just an old wives' tale, silly me), and then getting other people to do stuff for me for the rest of the day because I'm unable to walk/ bend/ kneel/ turn/ wipe my butt, or even breathe properly.

But it's for my... health?

I seem to have forgotten that I don't like sports. Or getting sweaty. Or squats. Or lunges. I seem to have forgotten that I'm a sedentary person who drinks a lot of coffee and wine, and sometimes eats incredible amounts of licorice (preferably some of it covered in chocolate) while watching a whole season of Lost/ Weeds/Northern Exposure in one go. Burgers also strongly feature in this picture.

But no.

What in the name of coffee cups with pictures of other people's children on them has become of me? If I'm no longer the semi-alcoholic hermit content to lounge around in that famous green bathrobe for weeks at a time, then who am I?

I've also started to wear heels. Like, every day. And go places other than where the coffee maker is.

I seem to be having a crisis. Get help! And wine.

Lame see, lame do

I seem to be a tad bloggily blocked.

Words to live by.

Or, actually, since this thing is all about being honest and shit, and I have long since crossed any kind of border to a land I love, but which with the invention of social media (whatever the hell that means) has become quite the tourist trap - the not quite proud or that independent Republic of Too much Information, I might as well tell you what I've really been doing.

Apart from having a very long and civilized discussion with my Danish BFF over Skype that meandered from literature, the staple in our relationship, to how much we hate it when people talk about their nails, to vitamins and how many we each take daily and what they might be called, to smells of the townships and how smelling those smells would create a new level of awareness for my friend, from a post-post-colonial, or perhaps rather globalized, point of view naturally, I have been doing something I probably shouldn't admit to.

What you are to take away from this description of the discussion is that I am in fact smart. Perhaps you should remember that little tidbit of important information when I reveal the rest of my doings. To put things in balance. Because I am smart. Really.

Am too!

Since yesterday afternoon, upon learning of its existence and only taking a respectful break to let in the maid (who now thinks I talk to my computer and rolls her eyes accordingly) and to focus on talking to my friend, I have been pretty glued to Lamebook.

I know it's lame (Duh. That's even in the name...), but I've read 62 pages of it, and I can't discern any light at the end of the tunnel. I'm hooked on stupid teenagers writing about their stupid escapades and then having to apologize to their uncles, or grandmas, or mothers, who they forgot were amongst their Facebook friends (Really?). I'm addicted to the pure stupidity that is status updates about bowel movements, herpes, and badly executed infidelity. I'm addicted to people's lack of common sense and common courtesy. I'm addicted to lolz that go with everything, even a dearly departed. But most of all, I'm addicted to a degree of stupidity, I have to admit, I didn't even know existed.

I'm baffled by a trend of adding vowels to the ends of words, and what the possible purpose of that practice might be (Heyyyy girlyyyy?). I'm intrigued by how mean some people are to others and how they still appear to be Facebook friends with each other. I'm outraged by the rampant bad spelling, but equally disgusted by the number of people who feel that it is okay to correct other people's grammar or spelling in front of all of their friends. I'm amazed at what many people seem to 'like', and weirded out by how much verbal violence there seems to be out there. It's a big jumble of ugly, disgusting and pathetic and I can't stay away.

I feel like an explorer charting an unknown territory. I'm amused, frightened, sometimes bored, and I can't stop. I need to know what lies beyond the next hill hacked status update by a jilted girlfriend. I'm hooked.

I admit I love laughing at others. And admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery.

Right?