Year: 2016

photo by Mikkel Schmidt, from unsplash.com

Defining Life

(photo by Mikkel Schmidt) Who are you? Who do you want to be? How will you get there? Everything in life seems to be asking me this. Autumn asks. For me, this has always been a time for new beginnings and important decisions, much more so than New Year’s. With autumn comes my birthday, too, and this time it’s the big 30.  It feels like no big deal, and a really, really big deal; I zigzag between the two like a bolt of lightning. A birthday is a wonderful thing, another year of life I’ve been given. Zig. By the time my mother was thirty, she had one kid and another not far away. Zag. Thirty now isn’t what thirty was thirty years ago. Zig. At thirty, my mum had released six records and toured every part of the country. Zag. I have such wonderful friends now who want to celebrate with me. Zig. I have three “educations” (a year of English studies, a bachelor in pop/rock vocals, and a fashion consultant diploma), but no job. Zag. I wouldn’t be eighteen …

You might as well dance

(image source, under this licence) I want to make a case for more dancing. I mean everyday dancing, not the kind you only do when you’re drunk or attending a class. Aretha Franklin’s sense of rhythm isn’t a requirement, nor as good control over your hips as Elvis. No fancy shoes needed. There’s no pressure to impress, because everyday dancing should be like breakfast. As long as you can put slices of bread in the toaster and pour orange juice, you’re good — fancy sauces and soufflèes don’t belong on a breakfast table anyway. My mum often talks about stunda. The best English translation I can do is “the moment”, or perhaps the grammatically incorrect “the while”. It’s a period of time where the whole point isn’t what you’re doing, but that you’re spending time together and it’s nice. Just like the best breakfasts are about stunda, so is this everyday kind of dancing. Not about the steps, or how “well” you do them, but the other stuff. That good glow in your stomach from …

Corgi Orgy

Today has been surreal. First, I almost bought thirty-two meters (or 105 feet) of shelves. Then I was so anxious I almost gave half of my clothes to Fretex just to feel like I had any control over my life at all. I finally nailed how to make scrambled eggs (lower heat, longer time, who’d have thought). I forgot to bring my bathrobe to the bathroom when I showered, and had to do a weird half-run half-covered with a too-small towel so the construction workers outside wouldn’t see me naked. And I was so anxious I couldn’t get my period cup to sit right, which was annoying as fuck. Ole came over to help me plan how to mount the shelving I didn’t buy. Neither of us wanted to measure things, so we just sat quietly staring at the wall for twenty minutes. It was oddly comforting. We went to our home-away-from-home-café, where I flirted outrageously with the bartender (she’s my sister’s boyfriend’s sister, so it’s okay) and I ate a chicken salad with a …