Hydrating without dehydrating the coffer

How many times have I faced the challenge of a half-empty bottle of lotion? Perhaps it is the fact that I come from a background of humble means that drives me to empty each bottle down to it's last drop. Or perhaps the saying 'waste not, want not' is so deeply implanted within my psyche that it has made me inherently frugal.

Even long after I have provided myself with a fresh bottle of lotion, I'd keep the old bottle upended for days so that gravity can work it's magic and coerce the last remaining drops down to the mouth of the bottle. I have thumped an empty bottle on the palm of my hand till it turned red so that I can be satisfied that I am not wasting a single drop. I have stuck my finger up the narrow mouth of the bottle and wiped the interiors clean. I have done everything short of cutting the bottle open to make sure that every last bit of moisturizing substance that I paid for gets utilized.

I sometimes wonder if my fiscal ingenuity is a mild symptom of O.C.D. I certainly hope not. However, hunting for the last, often more concentrated, drop of lotion has it's upside - it awakens my skin with 'a light burst of hydration, leaving it smooth and refreshed'.

I gave so much it hurt!

I gave blood today.

Hold the applause.

The many pit stops that were set up before one can actually leave the blood bank after donating blood actually proved to be useful.

I successfully made it through all of them and finally sat down at the last - a table full of juices, snacks and candy - to have the obligatory chat with the student volunteers for five minutes and collect my novelty button and 'Be nice to me...I gave blood today!' stickers.

At the first sip of my apple juice, nausea came over me. I asked if this was normal and was immediately rushed to the nearest cot - which proved necessary because my knees gave out just as my rump hit the cot.

The next twenty minutes involved the nurse placing and replacing cold cloths on my head and telling in a joking manner meant to conceal authority, 'OK, we're in charge now. We'll tell you when to get up.'

I was allowed to - slowly -sit up and finally stand for a few minutes to make sure the nausea had passed. I was also obliged to explain my journey home - a seven minute walk - to the nurse in charge in full detail (down so-and-so street, two blocks past the park, across the so-and-so Square parking lot, etc).

I headed home holding my bonus box of juice, making several wrong turns - despite knowing the entire way like the back of my hand by my second day of classes - and thus extending my travelling time to more then ten minutes.

All in all, giving blood is not nearly as romantic an occasion as depicted on TV. It borders on embarrassingly traumatic.

Randon Ramblings #17

When the 25th of December officially marked the arrival winter, albeit having received snow weeks before, I sincerely thought we wouldn't see green grass or the yellow sun till spring shows itself. That's when I started worrying about becoming a couch potato despite the fact that we don't own a couch. I scrabbled around my head for some form of exercise that wouldn't require too much effort but yields drastic results (yes, I see that it doesn't make sense NOW). I settled on crunching abs with my brother's 10lbs weight. It was convenient enough since I could park myself in front of the teevo, no worries about changing into proper workout attire, and crunch away. It's fail-proof plan, or so I thought.

There's a reason why Dr.Oz came up with a contract you can sign as a pledge to carry out that work out regime. Apparently personal resolutions scribbled in that brand spanking new journal doesn't cut it anymore. Apparently you have to take an oath of obedience of sorts or at least tell someone about it as a support system to see you through the year. Otherwise it's goodbye treadmill and hello couch half-way through the first month. So true.

So...

I hereby promise myself to go out walking for at least 3o minutes everyday, be it to walk my brother to school or to go to the grocery store or to simply walk around the neighbourhood.

A week's gone by and the half-hour walks have done diddly squat to improve my figure. On the flip side of that my psyche has improved by leaps and bounds. I sleep better at night, I work more efficiently in the mornings and I spend less time in front of the tube downing crisps. Plus I find myself jumping out of bed every morning instead of walking in a cloud until noon time. Considering what a grump I am in the mornings, that's a huge improvement.

Another reason to quit

"If you don't succeed the first time, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a fool about it."

- W.C. Fields

(O Magazine Jan 08 Issue)

Studies have shown that trying too hard to be successful in life can lead to poorer mental and physical health.

Brilliant.

It's time for a nap then.....

Home

Working out, safely.

After seven years of living within the vicinity of readily available public amenities, I've decided to make use of one of them,the local gym, two months before we're due to move out. It's no fancy affair, just a few equipments in an eighteen-by-nine room. The work clothes I got for myself at the beginning of my tenure is beginning to feel snug and I wasn't breaking enough sweat walking from my friend's car to the train station entrance. I'd have gladly walked the distance from my office to the station if not for several life-threatening factors.

To begin with, the roads here are rarely curbed, meaning you'd be walking ON the road,either on the side or, if you're completely bonkers, right smack in the middle of it.(I think the government's campaign for people to walk against traffic is pointless so long as they're still walking ON the road).

Even if there are continuous and safe curbs to tread on, there's the dogs issue to deal with. Here in the motherland, domestic felines and canines alike roam the streets unhindered. Just last month my family had a nerve-wrecking encounter with a surprised-but-decided-to-be-fierce mongrel on our walk to the local mamak's. It was an amazing scare but none of us were hurt, except for maybe my father's pride when he slipped to his rump in taking off his sandal to fend of the malicious dog. So you see, a walk down the street 3 minutes from home can be quite a life-threatening adventure.

Say the local authorities, for some insane reason, decided to do their job and round up all the strays, another issue persists. Local dog-owners, at least the ones in my neighbourhood and the ones near my office, seem to favour the streets as one big, free, maintenance-free litter box. This is as disgusting as you can imagine. Every morning and evening, on my way to and from work, I can see individuals standing by the road-side, innocently holding a leash while their domesticated poop-machines do their 'job'. Some don't even bother going into the bushes. I used to walk home during my final years of high-school and I've been an unwilling witness to the products of this daily irresponsible act. I'm sure some irreversible damage's been done to my psyche from unwanted sightings of excrement. Don't get me started about (accidentally)stepping on a pile of crappola.

Irresponsible bowel movements and insufficient pedestrian amenities aside, there's the motorists creating traffic and emitting carbon. The dangers of inhaling car exhaust is an old and oft-discussed issue. Pedestrian priority is non-existence here in the motherland. The rule is, if you see someone trying to cross the road, be sure to speed up and make sure the person doesn't cross in front of you. Now, thanks to low cc motorcycles that can weave in and out of traffic and in between cars faster than you can run to the loo, we're faced with the danger of snatch- thieves. This reckless breed of purse-dippers are becoming bolder too, slashing their victims needlessly in procuring their loot. Every time I cross the road, my purse is clutched to my chest rather than kept in my hand-bag. In the event that my handbag gets snatched, I'd at least still have saved my purse. It's ridiculous carrying a bag that doesn't serve any purpose. That clearly reflects the (near-bedlam) environment we've had to live in.

So, after seven years if walking and looking past that gym, I've decided to put on some running shoes and give it a go. At least I'd be breaking a sweat without unwittingly reducing my life span.

I'm home

home coming me / resuming homelife / my life is governed by the past

It took only two days at home to make me feel as if I hadn't been gone for the past two years.
It took Hakim's remarks on my obsession with the laundry to make me realize the above.
It took the drive home from the airport plus my dad's pep talk on getting a job a.s.a.p. to make me want to jump on the next plane headed for Brisbane (or anywhere else for that matter!).
It took exactly one week before I earned my first deadly serious glare from my dad. It took me half an hour to realize that he was giving me one. I take this as a positive sign that I'd been gone too long.

I'm still failing at going through one whole day without upsetting my mom (either intentionally or unintentionally. especially intentionally).
(while i was typing this, my dad came over to show me something which he'd just came over to show me about ten minutes ago. that was scary.)
I'm still failing at redirecting my continously-chewing-jaws to healthier dietary options besides left-over-kuih-raya and bananas. (neither one of which seem to be running out, mysteriously enough).
I am still failing in reducing the pile of junk I'd left behind two years ago. I usually manage to empty a box or two after hours of rumaging but I'm really just shuffling and redistributing them into different boxes. (I've considered dumping all the boxes since I've been able to survive the past two years without needing any of them but anyone who's ever owned anything in their lives would know that sentimentality makes that action virtually impossible so I might as well forget it).

I have, however, made it home safely, thanx be to God so, that makes everything look rosy from my end of the tunnel. life is sweet indeed.

Daddy Dearest

I'm so glad my dad's gotten his health back. He got so sick, I started to get worried.

Not for no reason, too. For starters, my dad almost NEVER falls sick. But he did as soon as he got back from wretched Singapore. And he stayed sick for almost a week, and kept getting worse. I had a sinking feeling that the cold he was running might actually be something serious. Some underlying illness that's been repressed for too long. Being my paranoid self, I started imagining the worse scenario.

What if it was cancer?

What if he *gasp* passed away? (Na'uzubillah...)

What if..what if...

Selfishly, I wondered on how his absence would affect my future. I would definitely have to postpone any and all of my plans for studying abroad, or even studying at all. I'll work to help support my mom support the family. We'll probably have to sell off one of our cars and move some place cheaper. Maybe back to Sungai Petani, where life's easy and the people are great. I could consider earning my degree through SPACE. That way, I can study and earn a living at the same time.

Hmm...not a bad plan.

But then, my dad's fine now. Turns out it was just a sensitive nasal tract, which gets irritated very easily. Thank God. Alhamdulillah.

I may complain about him a lot, but my dad is everything to this family.

I thank God for reminding me of that fact.