My first one night stands

Posted on January 23, 2012 by
lighting, party

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I have always been a “good girl”.  Never played hooky, got good grades, generally polite, sweet, innocent … those are the sorts of words that come to mind when I think back to my younger years.  I was also a bit of a “late bloomer”. I wasn’t really interested in boys until about 16, only had my first kiss at 18, got drunk for the first time at 18 and so the list goes on.  When I went to University I carried on along a similar path. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I definitely did things I probably “shouldn’t do”, but *gasp* I never, you know, slept with anyone I shouldn’t have.

I only slept with two guys at University – both my boyfriends, although the first one wasn’t at the time, and I can hardly say that it was memorable (I’m not sure I did actually sleep with him, which may sound weird, but we were both so drunk, I didn’t feel ‘sore’ the following day, and I don’t recall any blood (that may however have been due to my inebriated state)).

Anyway, enter boyfriend number 2.  We slept together (enough in a two year period) but I never actually enjoyed it. It was a chore. How lame is that? I loved him; he loved me, but sexually? I just don’t think we were compatible.  I used to think it was me, that I was just destined to not enjoy sex, and that was that. (This may have also been because when I first went for a pap smear the University doctor mentioned I was ‘built differently’ which I suppose lingered at the back of my mind.) Anyway, in time we broke up (which ironically was not because of the sex, but that’s a story for another day) and I started my life in anew city.

A few months passed and I had to go and see my doctor for my annual pap smear (never fun, but important nonetheless) and while there I got to talking to her and queried whether there was anything, you know, wrong with me. She laughed and told me to stop being silly and that there was nothing wrong with me.  I told her what the other doctor had said. She said that what the other doctor probably meant was that my lady parts are usually found in girls that are very tall (I’m not – I’m about average height). So then I queried, well why hadn’t I enjoyed sex with my long term boyfriend? So she asked a number of questions, one being how often we had had sex. I replied, not often (who wants to have sex often when it’s uncomfortable!?) and she responded and said that that was the problem and that the next boyfriend I found I should lock myself in a bedroom with him for days on end and get used to sex and then I should, in all probability, enjoy it.

Great! Now to just find that elusive boyfriend…  Well two years went by and nothing happened.  In this time I heard my ex had moved on and would be getting married. Great.  I had no inclination to have him as the last guy I had had sex with, but at the same time, no one was presenting themselves as someone I necessarily wanted to date. Just great.

party

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I then went to this party and boy what a party it was. Bright lights, fun clothes, awesome people, too much alcohol.  Well, anyway, as I suppose things happen, I met this guy, partied with him and ended up going home with him.  It was great, he was great, minus the fact he was about 4 years younger than me and we probably shouldn’t have drunk as much as we had. We laughed, talked, had some good sex, laughed some more and he dropped me off at home in the morning.  I knew him through someone else that knew him and we had fun. I had fun. Fun having sex.  Awesome.  Then the doubt started creeping in. I had had sex with someone I didn’t know and didn’t care about. Was this a problem? I did struggle with this for a while, but then got over it.  I had had sex with someone I’d wanted to have sex with, it was good, and I had had fun. Added bonus? My ex wasn’t the last person I had had sex with.

Fast forward 5 months, and it was the same sort of situation. Too much alcohol, love was in the air, very, very sexy man and me.  Suffice to say sex happened and when I say happened, I mean OMG mind blowing, out of this world, crazy, fun, phenomenal sex. Now THIS was a problem … on so many levels. 1. It was great that I found out I was capable of having mind blowing, amazing sex (twice) but 2. I felt like I had done something wrong when I hadn’t, because I had now slept with two men that weren’t my boyfriends.

This I struggle, and continue to struggle with.  I think it also has to do with the fact I do actually want someone in my life, but don’t really have the time to commit and, in all honesty, haven’t really met anyone yet.  What further compounds my problem is that I can’t get this man out of my head. We talk (a little) but don’t stay in the same province (which is probably a good thing) because I worry that I’m probably making out our evening in my head to be far more than it actually was. I know that it was just sex, but it scares me that I can have such amazing sex with someone I don’t know. It also scares me that I can now and seem to “just have sex”. What I do know, and have gotten from these experiences, is that I can’t continue to have sex with “random” guys – the guilt eats me up inside (for no reason – I’m young, single, use protection, and enjoy myself – I can tell myself this, but I still feel dirty). So then I realise, I need to meet someone, to trust them, to date them, to have sex.

New conundrum. When will I meet said person? I’m either destined to be celibate, or hopefully, sometime soon, Mr Right (or even Mr Right Now) will come along and he and I can have mind-blowing, amazing sex, that I now know I’m more than capable of having.

Posted in Freedom, Sex, Sexual Experimentation, sexual health, Sexuality | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

The First Time I was Pregnant for a Day

Posted on January 20, 2012 by

Okay so obviously it wasn’t really only one day. I was actually three-weeks-and-a-day-pregnant when I found out. The decision was an easy for me; it simply wasn’t the right time. So the day after I found out, I took steps to have a medical termination and this is how it all happened.

Tuesday, 14h15

Stood in Clicks looking at the array of pregnancy tests:  disposable, electronic, early pregnancy, twin packs and more. I went for the one in the pink Toblerone shaped box. I only got it to put my mind at ease after being less than responsible with my pill on a recent month of travel and then having some great break-up sex with my recently ex-boyfriend on my return. Then I got cracking with my Christmas shopping to distract nosy shoppers’ eyes from the anomaly in my basket.

15h30

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Got home and dumped shopping bags on the kitchen counter. Kept having to stop myself from thinking, “I’ll just have a quick wee and then I do the test.” Ripped open the packet with distinct diagrams to the effect that “one line = exhale, two lines = knocked up” and peed on the stick. My home phone started ringing, “Bugger!” I galloped to the lounge with my shorts and panties around my knees, “Hello?”. A fax tone responded: beep, beep, beep. I glanced at the stick: one line. Then, as the liquid travelled further up the window, as inevitable as a wave claiming the beach, a second line appeared. I realised I was still holding the phone, begging the fax machine on the other end to take the second line away, “No. No no no. Please no, please, please no.” The two bold lines remained. I wasn’t just me anymore.

15h32

Phoned ex-boyfriend hyperventilating.  I bellowed, “I’M FUCKING PREGNANT!” with absolutely no rom-com charm. Sat on the floor in t-shirt and panties, crying into a towel and staring at those two lines in absolute disbelief while ex-boyfriend came rushing over from work.

He was totally lovely – everything anyone in my position could have asked for. He was tender and respectful and concerned and absolutely supportive in every way of every choice and decision I made.

17h00

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Went back and got another two tests. All positive. Like cherries on a slot machine, “Bing! Bing! Bing! You’re so freaking pregnant!” I sat looking at the three tests for ages. I kept returning to them, mesmerised. Ex-boyfriend worried that it would make me sad.

19h30

Phoned my best friend who laid it down in ecological terms: “In nature, when an animal is carrying a baby and the time is not right – there’s not enough food or there’s danger – the animal naturally aborts. This is your beautiful body and it’s your right to choose what happens to you. Right now, what’s inside you is a group of cells.The is just not right and you’ve chosen to do what’s best for you. You are so brave; you’ve made a really brave decision. We are all here for you.”

23h00

Couldn’t sleep. It was four days until Christmas and I had no idea how long any procedure would take. Googled local clinics and decided to see my GP first thing. Lay next to ex-boyf and talked. He kept making me laugh by pretending to fall asleep mid- sentence.

Wednesday 7h00

Woke up and stared at the ceiling alone for ages before ex-boyf woke up. Felt the numbness of disbelief trickle into a warm, magical feeling of wonder. I felt special. I still didn’t even consider having the baby but just the mere fact that I did it. My body was made to get pregnant and I did it. It felt quietly wonderful.

Got up and phoned the GP. Made an appointment first thing.

08h30

My normal GP was on leave for Christmas and so I had to see the other doc in the building. As I announced that I thought I was pregnant, the turd responded with “Oh wonderful! That’s such exciting news!”

After clarifying the situation, she gave me a list of recommended Gynaecologists who “deal with this sort of thing”. After trying most of them only to hear that they were on leave, I found a Woman’s Wellness GP who would see me that afternoon but I needed an ultrasound before then to make sure it wasn’t an ectopic pregnancy.

11h00

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Sat in a gown in a tiny room drinking water for an hour before my bladder was full enough for the technician to use as a lens to see into my uterus. It was totally like the movies: cold gel, what looked like a roll-on deodorant, a black and white screen.

13h00

Met with the new gynae-GP. She was amazing. She invited ex-boyf in but I decided I wanted to do it by myself. She explained everything clearly without being judgemental or condescending. I had found out so early that I could use the medical method which involved taking a series of medications which terminates the pregnancy and induces a period over two or three days. She was thorough with understanding my emotional state, my support structures and my decision-making.

15h30

Took the first medication that would detach the foetus from the lining of my womb.

The procedure went off without a hitch. The doc was in touch on the phone every day; I hardly suffered any symptoms, in fact, I think family Christmas (which I went to the next day) was more painful! Ex-boyf sat next to me for three days straight while my body let go. It’s taken a while to process it all since then; you can’t rush figuring it all out for yourself. I’m grateful that the (second) doctor was so great. I only wish other girls in this situation could be treated so well; cared for and respected.

I told my family in my own time and in my own way. Maybe that’ll be another story.

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The first time I do it

Posted on December 13, 2011 by

The first time I do it… It will be right. It will be smooth and well crafted. It will not take a toll on me that hangs. Tugging down my shoulders keeping my chin from pushing my eyes up to see the layers of building tops touch the sky.

The first time I do it… finally to a man. Finally, to feel equal and stand up to him, to talk back, to call him out. To be assertive. The first time I do it… it will be authentic.

The first time will be quickly forgotten as it will be the first day that I step into that skin. The skin that I have been crafting in my mind. This skin will suit me, it has come from my mind, representing my heart, what I think and feel and especially what I know.  The first time will befinally; and then, yes, then forgotten.

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It simply becomes the way that I am. Every day. Not that one significant time that I acted the way that I would love for every woman to act. Every day, for every woman to feel free to act out against any one, especially men. To act out without fear of ridicule because we have the right. Just as one knows they are innocent.. I know that I am powerful. I have the right to be, feel and act equal.

I have the greatest desire to, for the first time… not cow-toe in inferiority, not be afraid of disapproval, not feel dizzy with the conflict between mind and behavior. I won’t care if I hurt his feelings nor will I be concerned with the interpretations of others of me: abrasive, harsh, bitchy, extreme, angry, bitter, cold, childish, pushy, touchy. I will be proud of my authentic assertion, and not ony the first time.

I know that finally, and for the first time, I finally will have found so much of me that I have been searching to know.

The part that woke me up from slumber inside of a relationship where the part of me that makes people laugh had vanished. The part that stands up for the women I know and love. The part of me that loves and trusts her womanhood. That part of me that has come out fiercely and courageously in the company of women.

Only was I able to stand up and confront the pick pocketer and the crafty thief on the bus when it was a woman and her son. Only was I able to take charge that time we were lost out on a mountain and the headlights went out.. when I was with my best friend a beautiful and successful woman. I know I have a Sergeant inside. I know she is there and she is GOOD and she has come around in the presence of women, but she has been trained so well to take her subordinate place in the presence of men.

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After the first time my behavior catches up with what I know, I will for the first time stand up courageously without regard to gender. After the first time, I will not ignore the man’s hand quickly groping me on the street (again). I will not be reluctant, worrying about embarrassing him or the woman he is with. That poor old creep who sees me as the parts of my body that he has a desire to abuse will not be ignored by me. Nor will I again be quiet and polite to the man following me, inappropriate with his words about MY body. I will not tell him that “Today, I just want to be alone,” or “Yes, it’s because I have a boyfriend, sorry”.

The first time I do it I will finally be saying goodbye to the path of least resistance.

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My first time was not my first time

Posted on December 7, 2011 by

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For as long as I can recall I’ve never been a virgin. I remember in my teen years, when my peers were proud of their virginity and spoke about it often. At the time I was fortunate not to be asked blatantly whether I was still a virgin, I’m not sure if I would have been honest. Even more importantly, I remember being grateful that it was not part of my culture to be tested for virginity. I would have disgraced my family, and would have had to explain myself. So I hid my virginity status, mostly helped by assumptions that I must be a virgin since I’m such an introvert.

The question came up with my boyfriend years later though and I couldn’t run away from it, this time it was blatantly asked and required an answer. He did everything right this one evening, got me to the point where my mind was begging him to enter me. Unlike the other times, I let him go all the way, as they say. Suddenly he was huge on top of me, heavy; I disconnected. I opened my eyes and looked at him intensely, no longer feeling the pleasure of the thrust, gentle as he was, but terror of being pressed down. Moans and groans of pleasure turned into winces of pain and panic.

There was something painfully familiar with picture. Me vulnerable. Him powerful. Me the victim, he the perpetrator. He was my unknowing rapist. He was enjoying a moment that brought me pain and displeasure and fear and vulnerability and hatred…I willed him to stop, my mind screamed, but my mouth did not cooperate. Here I was again, helpless, pressed down, small. The object of this man’s pleasure.

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He must have felt the disconnection, rather delayed but felt it nonetheless. I would be grateful later for his recognition of my displeasure, for his attentiveness to my responses. At the moment though, he was that perpetrator and I hated him. He stopped, pulled away slightly, I took a deep quivering breath. He looked at me, “are you okay?” he asked and hugged me tightly.  I cried in his arms, realising our special moment had been haunted. Something good came out of this experience though: I am unshaken in the belief that not all men are the same.

He asked much later in our lives, ‘when we made love for the first time, was it your first time?” I responded, “voluntarily, yes.” My first time- and second, and third and fourth were in fact at the age of five, with a sixteen-year-old uncle.

I’m not fond of sharing stories about my first time; it was anything but special and loving. Every day is yet another struggle to lock it away  into the deepest part of my unconscious mind.

Posted in Rape, Sex, Sexuality | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The first time I realised I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was

Posted on November 29, 2011 by

I have always been seen as the strong one. The woman who doesn’t put up with the usual rubbish, who stands up for herself. I have always proudly called myself a feminist and condemned men who couldn’t respect that as idiots. I have always known my rights and been lucky enough to be raised in an environment where my rights were just as important as any man’s. I believed these things. I thought I knew how to react when push came to shove.

But for the first 25 years of my life, push never really came to shove. Sure, I encountered assholes, chauvinism and general horrible people. But I was lucky enough never to be forced to do something I didn’t want to do, or to be touched inappropriately or to be made to feel awful or uncomfortable in a situation. And even if I were, I believed I knew what to do. I had an unfailing confidence in myself. I never ever questioned that someone like me, someone strong, feminist and educated, might not be able to do this.

And then one day, it happened. And I failed myself. Typing those words still makes me feel sick.

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It all started when I flight I took was delayed. I sat in the departure lounge watching the end of the Egyptian revolution on TV when the man next to me started making small talk. He was well dressed and much older. He spoke to me in a fatherly way. I chatted back and he offered me one of his chocolates, which I accepted. We walked to the plane together and were seated apart. To be honest, I was a little relieved. I like travelling alone, and I don’t like making awkward small talk for 9 hours, so it suited me just fine. Besides, some of the stories he’d told me had been a little off colour. I had a row to myself on the plan and drifted happily off to sleep.

I woke up four hours later to find him sitting at the end of my row watching me. As soon as I woke up he moved into the seat next to me and started chatting again. I was uncomfortable. He was in my space and I was trapped between him and the window. But I didn’t do anything.

As he talked, his stories got creepier. He started telling me strange things about prostitutes and massages he’d gotten in China. I started to squirm inside. When would he leave me alone? But I still didn’t say anything. The polite girl I’d been raised to be overtook the strong woman I thought I was inside. I figured he didn’t realise how he was making me feel. I rubbed my neck trying to get some of the tension out of it.

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He noticed and offered to rub it for me. By this point I felt frozen inside. I didn’t want him to touch me. Every fibre of my being wanted to scream out loudly and have him removed. But somehow, I just couldn’t do it. I begged myself to kick into action but nothing happened. He started massaging my neck, before starting to move his hands downwards. I stared out of the window and tried to ignore him. I wanted to evaporate more than anything in the world. I couldn’t move, I felt like my voice had been stolen from me. I wanted to use it but I just couldn’t do it. I moved away. He kept pushing. Suddenly, he grabbed my face, turned it towards him and started kissing me, moving his disgusting tongue all over my mouth and caressing my back.

I finally kicked into action. I pushed him away and said no. But I didn’t shout or scream or attract attention as I should have. I was so mortally embarrassed and humiliated that I wanted to sink into the ground. The plane began to descend and he began apologizing. He thought I was interested, he thought we had a connection. I ignored him. He rested his hand on my knee and before I could shake it off, he grabbed me and kissed me again as the plane touched ground. Again, I pushed him away, this time more strongly and said no a little more loudly. He looked around to make sure no one had heard and then told me I shouldn’t have been so friendly. He apologized again, but somehow made it sound like it was my fault. I pushed myself as far away from his as possible, closed my eyes and prayed for it all to be over. I felt like I would never be clean again.

After what felt like forever, the cabin lights came on and passengers stood up to get their bags. He moved off quickly and I stood. Tears of anger, frustration and humiliation burned my eyes. It was over, but inside, I felt like the worst person alive. I was so upset about what had happened and so angry that he had taken advantage of the situation like that but more than that I was furious at myself. How could I have let myself down like that? Why didn’t I do something? Why did I freeze? As I felt my inside slowly unclenching, the reality of what had happened hit me and I started to feel the worst thing of all: guilt. I started to think it was my fault. If I was such a strong woman then what the hell had I just allowed to happen? Not only had I let myself down but I’d let the next woman he tried to do that to down. I’d let all the other women fighting against this crap down.

It’s been a few months since that flight now. I still feel my heart sink every time I think of that incident. I still feel the burn of shame and humiliation. I still feel the intense disappointment in myself for letting it happen. But I’ve also started to realise that no matter what happened, it wasn’t my fault. That lecherous old man was disgusting no matter what. And no matter what I did, he took advantage of the situation. His actions are the revolting ones, not mine. But even though I know this in my head though, it doesn’t change how I feel in my heart sometimes. I still sometimes feel like the biggest traitor to womankind in the world.

I wish I could end this story more positively but it’s an ongoing battle. I wish that man knew how much he’d changed my life and how much he’d shaken my core. He’s probably totally forgotten it ever happened. So, for now, there’s just one thing I hope and pray: that if something like this ever happens again, I’ll react. I’ll scream, I’ll shout, I’ll kick, I’ll punch. I may have let myself down once but I’m hoping this means I’ll never do it again. I just wish I could guarantee that I’ll actually be able to do it…

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The first time someone else gave me an orgasm

Posted on November 28, 2011 by

Sex is a concept that I’ve never really been uncomfortable with.  Of course, that does not mean I’ve actually had it.  I have a few rules for myself, but it has always been more of a way for me to feel in control of a seemingly nonexistent part of my life.  My first real kiss was at 14; my second happened when I was 17.  In both of those cases, there was blind groping and I felt out of place.  I’m not going to lie and say some of it didn’t feel good, because there are certain spots that set me off no matter what.  However, these experiences weren’t about me; they were about a guy trying to score with a girl.  It goes without saying that these were incredibly short lived “relationships.”

I’ve always felt that sex should be something intimate and beautiful.  It should happen at a time when both parties are ready and they really feel something.  All I felt before was lonely, so I ended up in the arms of guys who just didn’t want to be virgins anymore. Fortunately, I am independent enough to have stood my ground and said no as soon as I got uncomfortable, so the farthest either of them got was still on top of my clothes.  I never touched them back.

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My third kiss, though… that was something else.  Just shy of 18, I found myself out with a guy who I had approached and found he liked me back.  We flirted shyly for a while until the fact that something was going to happen became apparent to both of us.  Out in the park, looking up at the stars, he leaned over and kissed me.  Fireworks literally went off right after it happened, as there were some people celebrating something somewhere in the neighborhood.  After the kiss came smiles and tingly feelings, but what I didn’t let him see was the fear that this would just be another time when a guy tried to take advantage of my feelings.  Instead, we kept talking, cuddled, kissed a little more here and there, and we kept it innocent.

I was absolutely ecstatic to find a guy who was not just using me for my body.  Other guys who showed interest in me tended to do so shortly after seeing me in particular outfits or, more frequently, a bikini.  I may get A’s in all my classes, but my D’s were what really got the attention of others, and I couldn’t stand it.  In this case, though, my new guy genuinely liked me for me.  I’m a conversationalist, and the flow never seems to die down between us.

Like any couple of teenagers, we don’t just talk.  We’ve done a decent job of keeping things slow.  It started out with just massaging one another’s backs while kissing then progressed to kissing around the neck.  Eventually, I allowed him to touch me in ways that drove me wild.  Simply having his hands under my shirt, even if they were still only on my back, was a huge step for me.

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Times with him felt wonderful.  My most intimate experience up until that point then occurred in my house late on a Saturday night.  He and I had watched a movie with my mom and her boyfriend, chatted, and simply enjoyed each other’s company.  My mom and her boyfriend went upstairs to give us some privacy.  Not really in the mood for another movie, I turned on some music.  We laid down on the couch and talked for a bit, but it soon progressed to kissing.  He kept his hands to my lower back and hips because that was what I was comfortable with.  Well, being so close with him on top of me, we did start to grind together.  It was at a relatively slow pace and the focus was still on the kissing more than anything else, but I ended up having an orgasm.  I’ve masturbated (many times) in the past and brought myself over the edge that way, but this was the first time someone else had managed to make me feel that kind of pleasure.  The crazy thing is, we were both in jeans!  Right after it happened, we just looked at each other, and he brushed my hair out of my face and said, “so beautiful.”  I smiled and settled myself in his arms.

Anyway, long story short, I’m still a virgin and I’m still with him, in fact we haven’t gotten much farther physically than that experience, but being with him feels intimate and beautiful.  I can see myself with him long term and losing my virginity to him.  I may be young, but I’ve never been happier.  He makes me feel safe, never pushing me beyond what I’m comfortable with, and he cares for me on an emotional and intellectual level, as a lot of what we have done has had little to nothing to do with the physical.  I enjoy being with him in every single way, because I know I’m not just some girl to him.

Posted in Growing Up, love, Sex, Sexual Experimentation, Sexuality | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

My First Time Travelling Abroad

Posted on November 25, 2011 by

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At 22 you are meant to be in the prime of your youth. You are meant to be very happy like a modern-day Mary Poppins, fun is meant to ooze out from your back pocket, people are meant to smile at you while you skip down the street to a tune you made up in your mind like they do in commercials, all things perky are meant to stay perky for at least another good 8 years. So when I felt at 22 that none of that was happening (except for the last bit) and the stars were rudely wiped from my eyes by the reality of life and for believing in dreaming so much, I was really confused.

I wasn’t sure if I was in a mid-life crisis or in my case a quarter-life crisis or maybe I was just demanding too much out of life too soon. Thinking back right now, I couldn’t possible tell you, but all I know is that back then I wasn’t happy and I wanted more from life than what I was reaping at that very moment. All the things I wanted to achieve for that time in my life, I wasn’t even dangerously close to achieving and that deeply concerned me.

I was 22 working for a great company with great staff and a lovely manager who later became a very valued friend in my life, I was helping out like an adult at home, my responsibilities had become neck high but I enjoyed it. I had great friends and a supportive family structure it looked like things could go on forever on this pace and it would all be ok.

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Some how, for some reason it all just started seeming very mundane to me. All I remember thinking before I took action was that I finished high school at 17, I went to varsity and know I’m working, and then I will work some more, finish studying, then buy a car and do my bit for society and my family, buy a house, study some more, then work some more, then start a family then work a little bit more, go on a few holidays then retire and work a little more ( because lets face it your pension is a joke unless you’re Irene Rosenfeld). Then dutifully daisies will start smelling so much clearer during those years, then I would probably start having dreams of tunnels with bright lights then trumpets will sound and my good Lord will whisk me away to a real first class, five-star V.I.P. party.

You see? I’m hoping you agree that the way that last paragraph looks is not slightly appetizing and I definitely didn’t sign up for it (though truthfully I don’t remember ever being given an option and the sequence of events doesn’t really go the way I described it but you get the point ok!). However I sat at home and weighed my options and thankfully there had come an opportunity for me to travel through a friend of mine, and though it wasn’t how I envisioned I would travel I just literally went for it without even thinking about it.

And there ladies and sort of gentlemen (times have changed no one opens doors these days) My First Time travelling alone abroad came.

Taking the step to move to England was not even a concern, I was so excited, I hadn’t planned much besides the necessities of what I was really going to do there and everything seemed to have been organized for me already by the family I was going to stay with. It took a matter of months or weeks really to plan and notify people who I was going to be m.i.a in the motherland for a bit and some people couldn’t even believe it was happening until I landed at Heathrow (my mother included).

And boy did I feel grown up, I won’t bore you by mentioning the itty bitty details of boarding the flight but I can tell you something, although it was almost half a day travelling, it was the most memorable time of my life. Not the actual flight but the possibility and hope that was attached to it. I know understand why some people think it’s best to leave a place. Whether it be from a broken heart, some embarrassing situation you found yourself in if your life is public to others or merely just to travel and see Gods beautiful playground, it’s not so much the place you are going to, although that counts for 80% of the reason as to why your African posterior is being flattened for 11 hours by a supposedly luxuriously cushioned seat but it’s that feeling of renewal and new hope.

It’s almost like being baptized again, you have that chance to redo, to explore. The stars are definitely in your eyes again, you definitely are a little girl in a big world with a suitcase and a teddy looking googly-eyed and hoping to conquer in your own way. And all the rough rides and knocks you were scarred with while growing up are somehow dismantled because at that moment you are your own Christopher Columbus. The thought of a new place, new people, new scenery and finding your own way in that little society and making your own life even if it means eating canned water (if there is such a thing) for the rest of your days is a MasterCard moment. It’s so priceless and rewarding it sends butterflies in your tummy that metamorphose into dancing fairies.

That was me in August 2009 sitting on Virgin airways just thinking and thinking and thanking and thanking God.

I look back now almost 2 years later back in South Africa. And although things didn’t go according to plan as they never always do with a life that we don’t control, I’m back where I was in an office desk, 9 to 5 scenario, composing this. And you know what? it’s ok because I couldn’t have it any other way. My life is at a place where it’s meant to be, I’m planning my work schedule for the next week and researching courses to study some more and I’m not entirely happy but that’s somewhat a bit overrated sometimes. (The truth is, my little kiddies, is there are bills to pay that don’t even make sence on your pay slip, for all you know under the UIF fee that you pay and may not fully utilize is your bosses golfing lessons named special deductions or skill development fee that you’re too scared to ask about hence why you’ll never be fully happy) I have lived although not fully, I have loved although not wholly I have seen although not clearly, I have conquered although not entirely but I have experienced and that’s been the best moment of my life not the travel or the work or the money or the status but the experience and every fulfilling decision and mistake I have made have been worth it because they are apart of that experience which makes me know as I am and will continue to make my many first times to come.

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