Jennifer Anderson is Marwa Rakha

You are The Empress

Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.

The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents,
beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home
decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.

The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.

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The Myth of the Different Man

I was getting worried; my deadline was approaching and I had nothing to write about the coming issue; I was happy and stable, and nothing upset me enough to get my pen rolling. I met him and I was no longer angry at men. I had nothing more to ask Santa; he finally found my perfect gift. I was flying somewhere between cloud nine and heaven. My moods depended on him. I did not want to waste a waking moment without being with him. Waking up in the morning felt great, going to bed at night felt warm, and life altogether felt different. I cherished his SMSes, added him to all my msn aliases, saved all our chats and emails, treasured every word he said to me, and passionately surrendered to him. There was always the ominous thought of a crash lurking at the back of my mind and ruining my best moments with him. I resisted my gut feeling and ignored my collective experience with “his type of men”. I decided that this was a different man.

I would like to proudly announce that "The Different Man" is a myth! He is a bigger myth than Santa Claus. There might be a Santa but there is no different man; they are all the same. Their names change, their faces change, their voices change, their bodies change, their geographic locations change, and their hunting styles change. But their hollow words, their void promises, and their bitter aftertaste are the same. I am at a point in my life now where I can safely assume that all men are the same; each man is an upgraded version of one of ten ancient models; Mr. Big, Mr. Smartass, Mr. Caveman, Mr. Jerk, the looser, the soother, the double-faced cheater, the dreamer, the miser, and, of course, the mismatched pair of sneakers. Do not let their categories confuse you; they are ALL the same; they are ALL evil.

No matter how advanced or enhanced their software seems, they still share the same basic functions and maneuvers. My relationship with men has become synonymous with knowing how a movie ends 15 minutes after it starts. My relationships have become painfully boring; just as boring as movie scripts nowadays. I told him that I have seen the movie “Pay It Forward” at least five times; I know exactly how it ends. Yet every time I watch it, the silly girl in me still hopes for a different ending. It is prewritten but still I hope that some divine intervention will change the ending. I wanted him to prove me wrong. I wanted him to give me the different ending. But who was I fooling? I am a very consistent person; “no man is to stay with you for a month” said the witch, “before the month is over, it has to be over too” she added as she pointed a nasty finger at me. What a curse! I wanted him to break the spell. I tried to help him free me from the clutches of my curse. I wanted him to last till Christmas; I did not want another Christmas alone. But Alas! It is over!

I have reached a point where I got so familiar with the colors of sadness and madness. People say that each feeling is associated with a color. It is quite known that red is the color of anger, blue of sadness, and yellow of bitterness. For some reason, these three feelings for me are all wrapped in a big brownish ball. Yes, the color of human waste - shit! This is the color that seals all my relationships; this is the word that echoes in the empty walls of what is left of my mind. I am sick of the color, the smell, the taste, and the feeling of deep shit! My heart is sinking, my soul is sulking, and a vicious crab is playing xo on my guts with its cutting edges. I am just sad; unfulfilled fantasies have a way of turning into nightmares just as my prince charming turned into a frog. I know the drill by heart; sinking, sulking, aching, hitting rock bottom, then bottling it up, pushing it down, locking it in my black box with my other black memories, and then climbing my way up the tunnel.

Do I blame him? No. Am I angry at him? No. Do I want to smother him with the shit that is allover me now? No. I can't blame him. He said he would not hurt me, he said he was different, he said that I could trust him, he said that he felt at home when he was with me, he said so many things - but don't they all! Haven’t I heard it all before? Why would that one be any different? Why would the ending change this time? Why did I believe this nonsense? I am at fault all the way; I was too spontaneous, very expressive, quite sincere, and literally blind. I did not make him earn my trust, I just handed it to him. I did not make him work for my company, I was at his command. I changed the way I did things hoping that the end of the story would change; I put my games, tricks, and spells aside when I should have kept them at an arms length.

This was not my only mistake. My biggest mistake was going after a man who was in a relationship – a crashing relationship. I sat there like an ugly black crow waiting to prey on the remains of her heart. I thought I was a different girl. I thought he saw me as a different girl. What a deluded creature I am. I turned from the inspiration to the burden; from the muse to the block; from the comfort to the pressure; from the real thing to the distraction; from the relationship to the rebound. Yesterday night he was missing me, liking me, leaning on me, and allover me; this morning he wanted a break! I hated him then I hated myself; I was not sure whether to cry for his pain or mine; I decided to let go. I broke my fingers, twisted my wrists, and hurt my arms trying to hold on to people who “had to” or “needed to” go away. I do not have the supernatural power of breathing life in dead relationships or people. I have been there and done that before – it is just another crash and it will pass. I deleted him from all my contact lists along with all our emails, our saved chats, and our messages.

I am trying to turn my back to the horrible feeling of being used; of being taken advantage of; of being taken for a quick ride; of being someone’s pain killer. I want to close my eyes and not think of the intensity of the past few weeks. I want to wake up in the morning and remember nothing of him – or what could have been us. He was just another man among many others; another chapter in my book; another month in my life; another Christmas without a gift. I know now what the picture on his wall was telling me; the first time I looked at it, I was happy and warm with passion. I saw angels saving lost souls from a burning hell. I guess that was what I was expecting of him. The last time I saw it, I felt the end coming. I saw butterflies attracted to the glazing fire, only to fall and burn. There is no different man just as much as there will not be a different ending.



Yours truly,
Jenny

The Poison Tree - Part Two

To: Jewel of the Nile
From: Jenny
CC: The whole world
BCC: The real me
Subject: Pain
Date: Sunday, October 29, 2006
Time: 4:42 AM - Cairo Local Time
-----------------------------------

I woke up now .. can't get myself to sleep. I guess you are asleep now.

His obituary was in the paper and everyone who knew us called me; a very draining and exhausting experience.

I still cannot stop the memories from flowing back into my head. I went to the hairdresser today and as I sat under the huge hairdryer, I entertained thoughts of the heat melting those memories forever. I want to delete that past ten years from my life. I do not mind being who I am now; I just do not want to remember how I got there.

There is another article of mine - Mr. Right for Right Now - where I revealed that I might be ill and might be dying. I was cool with that; I still am cool with that. I just did not think of him dying before me. This was not how it should have happened; I am supposed to go first and the whole world is supposed to grieve.

I spoke to his sister yesterday, she asked me to forgive him, and we both cried. I am not going to the public funeral because there will be a lot of fuss and gossip to follow, so I told her that I will visit her. Now I am so sorry I said that; I am not prepared to walk into that house again.

I fear the living room; I fear the painting of a wide yellow field on the wall in the living room; I fear the sofa that I used to sit on; I fear the chair that he used to sit on; I fear the sounds in the kitchen; I fear the smell of the house; I fear the reception door opening and not seeing him walk through it ever again.

In this living room I used to sit nervously, anxiously, or sadly waiting for him; this is where he held my hand the first time, kissed me the first time, hit me the first time, kicked me out of his life the first time, told me he loved me the first time, and many other first times.

The last time I was in this house was about two years ago. He had his first heart attack; he was in Dubai. He came back and called me and asked me to forgive him. I visited him but I did not have forgiveness at heart; I wanted to show him the new me. I wanted to tell him "I win; you lose".

The last time I saw him on msn I unblocked him, he asked how I was doing and I proudly updated him on my achievements. I could feel the sarcasm allover his reply: "Bravo! Mabrouk! So this is what you have become now." I snapped at him, told him that if that is how the conversation was going to go, we might as well end it there. I told him to die! I blocked him then deleted him.

A month later I ran into him in Moon Deck; it was summer and I was glowing with tanned skin and sun-kissed face. I was with "Mr. Right for Right Now" and I was happy, loved, and on top of the world. He was being kicked out by the bouncers; he looked sick and old. He had a foreign girl with him - probably another new dancer in Egypt. He had a thing for dancers. As they led him down the stairs I wished he would vanish; I wished he would be gone forever so as not to ruin another night in my life.

It is funny how I feel now; I am lost! For the past ten years I have been waking up every morning to challenge him. In the beginning this was the only thing that would get me out of bed. I beat him at any game he called his and rubbed it in his face. He was not supposed to die now; I am not done yet showing him who I am and what I have become. I feel that he cheated his way into winning this. He is gone and I feel as though I have no direction.

I do not know why I am writing all of that to you. I wish you were real. I wish you will still like the monster I created. I am sorry for flying you in such foul weather. I apologize for the doom and gloom trip. Were you real, had I your number, were we close, I would have asked you to pick me up, and I would have asked you to take me for a long drive. Now you know why I want to runaway and why I never want to turn around again.

My dad used to drive me around all night when I could not sleep; he left - but this is another chapter.

Oh Jewel of the Nile .. How I would love to runaway with you

"RunAway" Lyrics - iio

Can we go awayand never turn around again
On an escapade
and always keep the vision

Can we open out
and spread ourselves around the sand
Captivate the sun
keep the light till the world ends

Runaway
Runaway

Take away the wall
and break away my defense
Candle by our side
and never let the rain begin

We're a part of a plan
and it's already written
There is no other way
it's inside our every sense

Earth is our island

Karma, am I yours
is that your intuition
If that is your word
I'm the definition

In our destinies
that is what was missing
Echo in my mind
even through a distance

The Poison Tree

He has been on my mind for the past few days; I was angry at him again for what he did to me. I met him back in June 1996. I was not 21 yet. I just got my first job. I was young, naive, and innocent. He was 33, successful, established, and proud. The first time I saw him, my jaw dropped; so tall, so big, so masculine, and so perfumed. I summoned all my courage and put in a lot of effort to speak up and greet him. He looked from above at this little girl whose eyes gave her away and his game began. I just wanted what every girl I knew back then wanted; marriage.

I bled from within for many years and he was cursed. I cursed him. I took my revenge. I avenged my innocence with plenty of experience; I replaced my dreams with nightmares and sent them his way; I lived to kill him; I thrived to see him fail; I had him on his knees begging for forgiveness and I stood tall as I pointed out his flaws. I planted a poison tree and he stole the fruit. The poison ran into his blood for years killing his career, his relationships, and his heart bit by bit.

On 18 May, 2000 I broke up with him for good. I freed myself from his chains after I tied him to a stake of failure and suffering. I left behind a bankrupt, impotent, pathetic looser. I went on a long journey to reconstruct my self esteem, determination, career, and heart. I moved on and the years went by. The scars were too many to hide and my love life suffered. He kept coming back asking for forgiveness. He wanted to marry me. He wanted to make up for all his crimes. I slammed my doors wide shut in his face. I hated him.

On 26 October, 2006 he died. I got a call from a common friend today who told me that he died of a heart attack the day before. He asked me to forgive him. I cried. I am still crying. I cannot stop crying. Memories are racing to my head. I am remembering things that I wanted to forget - things that I thought I had already forgot. I do not believe that he is gone. I do not believe that the last thing I said to him was that I wished he was dead. I do not believe that the last time I saw him I wished he would vanish forever. I never thought I would cry that hard. I never thought it would hurt that much. I wish I had the chance to forgive him. I wish I had the chance to free myself for good.

A Poison Tree - by William Blake.

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:

In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

Who wants MEN?!

Do you normally buy a whole pig when you only want one sausage?

By Jennifer Anderson

I read John Gray’s revolutionary Men are from Mars … Women are from Venus many years ago but for some reason I never tire of reading that book. Yesterday I started reading it again for the twentieth time and I dozed off after the introductory chapter where John Gray was describing how women lived on Venus and how men lived on Mars; women were leading a life of comfort, nurturing, and emotional openness, and men were leading a pathetic cold and dry life with business and numbers to keep them company. I closed my eyes and I saw a beautiful world; I was on Venus. It was a place that smelled good, felt good, looked good, tasted good, and sounded good - I was happy. Life on Venus was so healthy; we did not need to hunt for we ate vegetables and fruits. We walked naked and felt great about our bodies. We had lovely little houses with cute little gardens. We spent the day grooming ourselves, talking, visiting, and enjoying the sun, the sea, and the fresh air.

Suddenly, all the women ran to the shore and screamed “Alien”! A boat docked on our beach and out came a hairy deformed creature that had ape-like features; his hair was tousled, his breath stunk, he had fungus under his armpits and in other hairy places, his teeth had a yellowish brownish tint, his eyes looked puffy and evil, his voice echoed the toads in the lake, he had a bulging belly, odd legs, rough hands, dirty nails, hairy ears, hairy nostrils, coarse skin, and an extra piece of meat that seemed so out of place. His manners were not any better than his looks; once he saw us on the shore, he began rubbing what seemed to be an itchy dangling piece of meat, grabbing whoever was closer to him, invading our velvety world, and sweating like a pig. We were in shock, yet our caring nature forgave his ignorance and we made the mistake of our lives; we welcomed the outcast millions of years ago and are still suffering the consequences today.

In my dream, I watched as my fellow sisters took him home, fed him, cleaned him, taught him manners, and gave him home in our beautiful world. He slept and the ladies took turns cooking for him, bathing him, grooming him, and caring for him. They took around the clock shifts to make sure that their guest is entertained and pampered. He began spreading his evil immediately and a month later, the ladies were competing over who would serve him, who would rub that itch, who would take him out, who would talk to him, who would stay with him longer, and eventually who would own him. Our peaceful world was disturbed, we all lost, and he was the only winner. For the first time on Venus, there were friends who were not talking and ladies who were scheming against one another. The crime rate jumped from none to infinity. Curses and bad names replaced praise and compliments. Life on Venus changed forever.

One morning the alien, whom we named MAN, took a walk and when he came back he was carrying a dead animal. He tore the poor thing to pieces and set it to fire. It smelled weird, but when MAN invited us to taste it, we could not be rude and turn down his invitation. We ate, we drank, and for the first time some ladies tasted meat; meat in their mouths and meat inside of them. They were cursed immediately; blood ran down their legs, morning sickness, bad temper, their bodies changed, and nine months later they were screaming in pain as a little creature came out of them. Being the nurturing creatures they were, the baby became the focus of their attention and MAN continued feeding more ladies with meat. At times he called it food and at other times he called it sex, but for us Venusians they were the same thing. More ladies were cursed and Venus became MAN’s home – and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.


One night MAN held a meeting and invited all the Venusians. After a few welcoming words, MAN started his speech by telling us that we should all be ashamed of ourselves; he threw a few leaves at us, asked us to sew them into something that would cover our ugly bodies and called it modesty. We looked at ourselves and at one another, and suddenly we felt shame. We were crying as we gathered and sewed the leaves. MAN began dictating his rules on our land and we obeyed him willingly. He called it protection. “Cover your bodies, stay home, cook for me, wash my leaves, clean my house, rub my itch, have my seed, and say yes to whatever orders I give you” he said, and “yes master” we replied. MAN was smart, he convinced us that our land is no longer a safe place to live on and that if we ventured outside his territories or disobeyed him all the mythical creatures will devour us, and we believed him – and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.

One morning MAN woke up and announced that only tall women are welcomed in his company; the tall women cheered and the not so tall women grieved. On another morning MAN declared his love for skinny women, and again all the chubby women exerted relentless effort to become skinny. He played the same game, and named it fashion, with the dark-skinned and the fair-skinned ladies, those with big bosoms and those with small bosoms – he even gave them ratings (A, B, C, D ...etc) He played us to his advantage and we no longer were happy with who we were. Our lives revolved around this one creature that invaded our privacy and turned our inner peace into an eternity of hell. We experienced jealousy of one another; we coveted bodies and cast spells on souls – and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.

I thought that was the end of his tyranny until, in another meeting, MAN again told us that we should be ashamed of ourselves, and again we began crying immediately. He told us that we are possessed by the demon of lust and that we need surgical intervention. MAN was kind enough to operate on us; he cut pieces of our bodies, claimed that it was for our best interest and called it chastity. Those who survived the trauma had one on one counseling sessions with MAN where he calmly guided our poor souls into utter submission and called it social code for “good girls”. His following commandments were basically that we, women, were the root of all evil and that our desires are a curse. MAN stood tall next to a board and he carved the following letters into our traumatized minds: SIN; “S” stands for Stupidity, “I” stands for Ignorance, and “N” stands for Nothingness. Months after repeating this lesson to cover all the female population, MAN no longer explained what SIN stood for; he just pointed his nasty dirty finger at any one of us and said SIN to signify that she is stupid, ignorant, and is a big nothing. We all sunk in a deep well of shame and guilt, and have lived there ever since - and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.

MAN died and many of the women I knew died, one generation after the other still followed his teachings and applied his rules with avid precision. No one ever questioned them and no one dared disobey them. On another sad morning MAN Junior went to sea and he came back with a wicked victorious smile on his face. Like his ancestor, MAN Junior got off his boat, women screamed, and he rubbed his itch, then he pulled a few women onto his boat, shackled their feet and hands, and we watched as his boat vanished in the deep blue. He came back a month later with the same ominous smile, no women, and what he called money. More trips followed, more women disappeared, and more money was seen. The Venusians who were not sold when he went to sea stayed to serve him on a land that was once ours. We have descended from being goddesses and divas to being slaves and mistresses; we were denied the right to any pleasure, as though we were created for the sole purpose of enjoying the delighted smile on the face of MAN Junior when we rubbed his itch or nourished his seed into childbirth; MAN Junior was a sexist by nature, if the seed blossomed into a Venusian, he called her a disgrace and killed her and if the seed blossomed into one of his own kind, he called him pride and celebrated the newborn - and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.

I woke up with tears in my eyes - tears like the ones that rolled down my cheeks many a time over worthless men. I know that the metal shackles are long gone but I also know that our mindsets still believe that we are the root of all evil; that any woman who dares express her desires is a SIN; that men should decide how we dress, what we eat, where we go, and why we exist; that men dictate who is a bombshell and who is a nutcase; that men still use us to rub their itch and bring their seed to life; that men still label us and that we still submit to their judgment; that men still sell us, or buy us, in the name of marriage; that men still lock us in dark dungeons of fear of the future; that men still cut pieces of our bodies to deny us pleasure, and those who do not literally do it, cut pieces of our minds and common sense for the same purpose; that women still fight over men; that women still compete to please men; that women still bear the pains inflicted upon their bodies, minds, and souls by men - and it all started with the damn piece of meat he fed us the day he went hunting.

When I was a little girl of ten, my father asked me what kind of man I would want to marry, and innocently I said in a dreamy voice that I wanted him to be strong to carry my schoolbag, with a license and a car to drive me to places I wanted to go, clean to look good in my house, handsome so I can have pretty children, and living somewhere else so I can spend more time doing fun stuff. At the age of sixteen I wanted him to sleep in a separate bedroom and understand me, at the age of twenty I wanted him to be exclusively mine and to love me, at the age of twenty five I wanted him to change diapers and do his own laundry, at the age of twenty eight I wanted him to improve his grooming standards because I cannot tolerate his stink, at the age of thirty I wanted him to have a career and not to be the usual male drag species, and at the age of thirty two I am still single and fighting for everything I wanted since I was ten. For me it is all or nothing … and who wants men!



Yours truly,
Jenny

Mr. Benchmark

At the end of a great day, I lay in bed with a peaceful smile on my face and dozed off. Suddenly, my heartbeats were racing, my brain was pulsing, my breath was heavy, and my eyes flashed wide open as the clock struck 12 midnight. We are now officially the 18th of September! It is his birthday; he just turned 33; I have known him for 4 years; his mother gave birth to him at 10:30 in the morning; he is a Virgo; he is tall, dark, and handsome; he is a successful marketer; he is witty, sarcastic, and funny; I loved him at first sight; it is over; it never started; I buried him and everything he stood for in a big soundproof box deep down in a forgotten corner in my heart and moved on. Why do I remember his birthday? Why do I have an internal timer with an awkward buzzer that goes off automatically every year on his birthday?

Let me tell you about my story with Mr. Benchmark; one June, I was sad, hurt, lonely, and lost. I was trying to recover from a bad breakup that I enforced on myself; I never realized how much it could hurt to leave someone by your own free will because it was the right thing to do. A few months after the breakup, I created an account on “one of those sites” looking for a distraction, a quick fix, or a painkiller. I came across his profile – which did not say much – and I sent him a message asking “what next?” His reply was witty and cute, we exchanged emails and we began corresponding. Being a writer, I got attached to the emails; to the person behind the emails; to the mind who believed in the ideas in the emails. My imagination fed my heart with visions, my heart fed my mind with thoughts, and my mind sent shudders to my body – yes, I am saying that I loved him before I even met him.

After a few weeks we began chatting, exchanged pictures – I was wowed – and numbers. Our first call lasted three hours; there was no ice to melt we just hopped from one topic to the other like best friends. We talked on the phone daily and the shortest call was at least an hour and a half; seeing his name on my mobile phone screen put an instant smile on my face; he talked about sports, job interviews, ex girlfriends, marketing scams, funny ads, movies, traveling, and many more topics. I have no recollection of what I talked about. After a few calls we decided to meet. He was not based in Cairo and he only had weekends. His weekends were filled with errands to run and things to take care of. We fitted our first date between a funeral and an outing he had to go to. He called me when he was parked under my building; I flew down the stairs – five floors – and got in the car.

The memory of that day is so vivid in my head; he was wearing a black shirt and black pants, he had a lovely wide white smile on his face, he smelled of perfume and fresh laundry, and I had the most idiotic look on my face. I stumbled on words like a blind man would stumble on garbage cans in the streets of Cairo. We drove around for a few minutes and I do not remember any eloquent anything that could have come out of my mouth. He was looking at me and I wanted to hide from his eyes into his arms. He was talking but I was trying to work on that stupid look on my face. He drove me back, he learned that I live alone, he sent disapproval vibes, I replied back with pleading vibes, he decided to give it a half-hearted chance, and I was grateful.

That was the first of many sleepless nights yet to come. I knew that I was blown away and I also knew that I left a very pale impression. At the time, I had not yet mastered the arts and games that I know now; I still had an innocent spontaneous little girl within. More calls followed and I got more and more attached; I thought of nothing but of being with him. I knew in my heart that we could have had the same vision for the future; that we could have had the best kids; that I could have made him a president with my strength and support. I wanted to love unconditionally and to give unlimitedly. I wanted to put any resources, skills, or talents at his disposal; hence, I arranged a press interview for him. He had to be in Cairo for the interview and I was dying to see him afterwards. He finished, I was at the gym, he called me, thanked me, and told me that he was too tired to go out and we could meet up the day after or any other day. Had I known then what I know now, I would have agreed with a smile, but being the silly girl I was then, I genuinely offered to keep him company at home. I missed him enough to claim temporary insanity.

There was a split second of silence, then a courteous acceptance of my shocking offer for a second date. In what seemed to be one timeless moment, I got off the treadmill, got out of the gym, got into my car, and drove off. I realized halfway that what I said was so inappropriate but common sense, self control, and good judgment seemed to have abandoned me. I went. He greeted me. I still had the same idiotic look on my face. I could not utter one coherent sentence and he looked adorably perplexed. To hide my nervousness, I folded my legs and wrapped myself around them in one odd yoga posture, he was amused. To further amuse him, I showed him a few moves, stretches, and splits from my taekwondo days, then we were both laughing again. To entertain me, he got a photo album and began showing me pictures of himself, his friends, his exes, his parties, his vacations, and his family. We were sitting next to one another and our arms were touching. Sparks flew, and we hit second base.

Guilt struck him immediately and he began talking about religion, not wanting to do “wrong” things, not wanting to be in a relationship, not wanting to be committed, …etc. The list of the things he was not ready for and did not want did not need any sort of decoding. I knew he was slipping away; I knew that I was wrongly judged; I knew it was over; I knew I lost him; I knew it was my fault; I knew I had to leave his house. He was decent enough to walk me to my car, to call me on the way home, to call me after I was home, to call me the next morning, and to position me as a dear friend. From that point onwards, there was no stopping to the shit from hitting the fan and from flying allover me and all around me. I held on, he pulled away. I sent angry emails, he sent friendly replies. I sent more emails, he stopped replying. I wanted a chance to get to know him, he was way gone. The more I held on, the more desperate I looked, and there is nothing sexy or appealing about a desperate woman. In a few months he developed some unheard of allergy towards me. He could not stand talking to me on the phone let alone seeing me.

After a series of failed attempts, I finally built my soundproof black box. I packed him along with my feelings in one dark black bag, I put the bag in the box, and I threw it in that forgotten place in my heart. Every few months he would sabotage my dreams, but I learned to live with that. He became a faraway star high above in the sky; a star that I subconsciously measure every man I meet to. I know very well that most stars shine from a distance but if you reach out and hold them in your hand, they are, at best, nothing but dull rocks, and, at worst, nothing but a piece of fire that can burn a hole into your palm, carve a grave into your heart, or turn your life into a living hell. It has been some years now since our doomed second date, and had I the chance now to be with him, I will gracefully decline it. I am not now who I was then; I have crossed all the fine red lines, some bold red lines, a few thick red lines, and about a handful of wired red lines. That said, I got out of bed, reached for my phone, sent him a message wishing him a happy birthday, and hoping that next year he will be happier, wealthier, and wiser, and went back to sleep.


Yours truly,
Jenny

Mr. Right ... for right now

I was lying on the white bed as my eyes moved back and forth between the monitor and his face. He was so quiet and tense and I could not understand anything from the images on the screen next to me; I have never seen the inside of my body before but from the look on his face, the doctor was not very pleased with what he saw. I summoned my courage and I asked in a faint voice what was wrong, but he replied vaguely that something was not right. He asked me a long list of questions inquiring about things that I did, felt, saw, and wanted, then he handed me a long list of tests to be done, and asked me to come back in a month with the results. I looked him in the eye and asked if it was cancer, he looked away and said maybe. I left the clinic with an odd mixture of feelings that ranged from absolute numbness to a merry-go-round of fear, anger, and warmth; I wanted to go home and hug my cats, call my friends, hit all my exes, hide in the closet, and finally, I just wanted to cry.

After the initial shock, I decided to pull myself together and to think of how to deal with what the doctor told me. In my very systematic head I began a thorough analysis of the situation where I eliminated, weighed, and accepted options. I made up my mind not to tell anyone, not to take the tests, and not to think of death. I decided to look at the bright side of this dark scenario and I chose to look at this as a wake up call not as a death bell. We are all going to die – there is no surprise here – but how we lived our lives is what will determine how we will feel about death. One thought led to the other and I found the missing part of the puzzle; the thought of dying did not bother me but the thought of dying as though I never lived drove me crazy. I wanted to leave a legacy; to make a difference; to have some sort of an impact. Suddenly the anger and the fear that I felt earlier were gone and I was full of warmth; I was driven by a strong urge to share and to give.

The easy part was on the professional level; I decided to share my experience with young minds that are hungry for knowledge. I will leave a clear print on their present and future, and that alone gave me an immediate sense of satisfaction and a “raison d’etre”. I knocked the right doors, said the right words, and got the right assignments to help me build my legacy. I built bridges of trust and respect that went beyond a classroom or a workshop. So whether I lived a day, a decade, or a century I will know that I affected so many lives, touched many hearts, and shaped many minds. I know now that with my little words I made a big difference and my existence matters, will matter, and will have once mattered.

On the other hand, the relationship department suffered. I hit my head against one brick wall after the other; wrong people, wrong relationships, wrong intentions, wrong reasons, wrong decisions, and wrong expectations. This was the real vicious cycle that consumed my energy and my life. I had issues dropping the excess baggage that I collected over the years; being judgmental, insecure, angry, aggressively defensive, defensively aggressive, stubborn, possessive, controlling, and indecisive. I also had issues keeping the men I liked and getting rid of those I did not like. I wasted a lot of passion on guys who were not worth it, yet I shunned away guys who needed it. My virtual receivers and senders had a mind of their own and my love life has always been a big mess. It took a lot of work and self talk to open myself to new horizons; basically to accept a partner who is not a cloned replica of me!

Last Christmas, I wrote a long letter to Santa asking him to dash through the snow, jingle his bells, and to find me Mr. Right. To help him with the screening process, I ruled out what I did not want; married, lost, depressed, expired, clumsy, narrow-minded, cold-hearted, mind-numbing, thick-skinned, bad English, bad breath, bad grooming, quiet, boring, or dull men were all out of the question and that I preferred them tall dark and handsome - and they had to like my curls! I told Santa to “Make sure this time he is intellectual yet sensitive; sensitive yet masculine; masculine yet tender; tender yet protective; protective but not possessive.” Finally, after a mismatched pair of sneakers, a Forrest Gump, a peacock, and a false Hannibal Lecter, I met Mr. Right. He is all I ever wanted and he brings out the best in me. He was there all along but I never paid attention. I automatically crossed him out because he is of a different religion … yes …. I forgot to add that to my wish list.

My friends were shocked; some asked if I converted and others asked if he converted; some assumed that I am in it for entertainment and others assumed that he is in it for fun; some asked me if I were that desperate and others asked him if he was out of his mind. A girl asked me if it was more sinful to go to bed with a guy from a different religion than with one of our own, another asked me to try to attract him towards “our side”, and many hoped that if they did not talk about it, it would go away. A guy told me that I were no longer young to fool around in such a shameful manner, another told me bluntly that my character and independence was already a hard enough package to sell in this society, and many just looked at me with a big question mark in their eyes. I sense disapproval vibes from all of those around us; my religion or his!

My argument is based on the following facts; he is nice, sweet, kind, loving, caring, tender, warm, expressive, attentive, and gentle; he has a great head on top of his shoulders that makes him quite deep and analytical; he is neither fake nor a player; he is neither pushy nor rude; he sees through me and he is working hard to accept me – all of me – as I am. He is open minded enough to go to places in my head that would scare most people away and he is understanding enough when I freak out in a crowd like a little girl who has never seen people before. He knows what comfortable silence is and he appreciates the truth no matter how harsh it might be. Mr. R has the strength to express what other men consider weakness. He loves his mother and I love him for loving her. If he does not become the father of my kids then at least I hope I have kids who are like him.

There are no absolutes in this life other than death. Forever is such an illusive word and I do not think that it has befriended anyone or anything; nothing lasts forever and no one lives forever; nothing is for sure and no one is certain of anything. No matter how far we go, we are always at square one; how many times will we have our heart broken? Who will we marry? Will we have kids? Will they be good kids? How will we live? Where will we live? When will we die? How will we die? Girls and boys meet up and break up everyday and none of them knows who will take their virginity, whose ring they will wear, how many rings they will wear, whose babies they will have, who they will grow old with, and in whose arms they will die. So whatever I have or whoever I am with, I will enjoy it as long as it lasts and come what may. Speaking of absolutes, yes, he is not an absolute Mr. Right; but he is Mr. Right for right now.


Yours truly,
Jenny

Hunting Hannibal Lecter

When I first watched Silence of the Lambs, I had a crush on Hannibal the cannibal. Years later, when Hannibal was released, I grew to envy Clarice for the love of Dr. Lecter; I wanted to be her. Before you decide that I am a crazy chick and turn the page, let me take you for a quick walk in my shoes. I have been in and out of many relationships that lasted from a couple of days to a couple of months. The ones that crashed before they took off did not last because the man in question did not exert any effort to get my initial attention, while the ones that crashed before they landed safely, ended because the man in question stopped exerting effort and took me for granted! They – men – just do not want to work! I do not expect much; I just want to see a man going out of his way for me; what’s the big deal? Shave his ugly head, lose a few extra pounds, get a job, wake up an hour early, sleep an hour late, drive an extra mile to see me, or any such thing that would translate in that head of mine into effort!

Now let me introduce you to the Dr. Lecter that I envy Agent Starling for; deep, intense, witty, handsome, and knows her like the back of his hand. He knows how her mind works and what makes her heart tick; he knows her every thought, fear, wish, and impulse. He loved her for her vulnerable strength. The beast had many chances to devour her, yet he declined. Hannibal Lecter dared her, challenged her, and pushed her from one limit to the other, but he was always there to save her soul when she gave in to despair. When the bad guys, society, enemies, or anyone hurt her, he was still watching over her shoulder; he hurt them for her. When it was his life or hers, he chose hers; when it was his wrist or hers, he saved hers; when it was his heart or hers, he broke his to mend hers. The beast went against his nature for her … this is my definition of effort!

My most recent attempt to find my Hannibal Lecter failed with flying colors. I told him from the start why I wanted to be Clarice Starling and why I was in love with Hannibal Lecter. He called me Clarice and I called him Dr. Lecter, but I was no Clarice and he was no Hannibal. I was a bit taken by the fact that he is 14 years older than I am, yet I decided to give us a chance. I liked talking to him; he was smart, deep, and successful. As the sun set on his face, I saw glimpses of Sir Anthony Hopkins – I am not on anything, I am just blessed with an overdose of imagination. As we spoke, I wanted him to raise his voice a bit; his faint voice inspired neither confidence nor strength. His body language was that of a man who gave up on life somehow; the way his shoulders dropped, his legs slouched, his back arched, and his belly bulged made it hard for me to move beyond the age thing. I have to admit though that he had a great smile and lovely eyes; he was so genuine and easy to talk to. He is reliable, responsible, and trustworthy.

A couple of days later he confessed; “You dazzled me; I have a crush on you”. I replied that I was neutral. He was surprised, and I found the golden opportunity to speak my mind. I told him that I had no reason to move closer or to pull away, and I asked if my vibes said otherwise. He was still in shock, apologized, and said that it was his mistake. I told him that it does not have to be a mistake and I switched on my ultra expressive self and elaborated:

“Earlier, I talked about the combination of body (the physical side of the relationship), mind (the mental compatibility in the relationship), and heart (the emotions that grow into the relationship). With you, the "body" part of me is not getting there because my imagination has been blocked by your thick shy serious surface. The naughty part in you and the naughty part in me are miles away. The "mind" part is ok because I do enjoy communicating with you, but this is a base for a good friendship. The "heart" part is somehow linked to the "body" part plus time. Your handicap is not in the age written on your birth certificate; it is the age you are living. What would it take to move me? I would say a diet, a workout, a new wardrobe (cool and hip), a sexy perfume (nothing along the line of Old Spice), a louder voice, fun and more fun. I just handed you a whole chapter in my manual … your call.” Then I sincerely added that the person that dazzled him was not who my mom gave birth to; I was shy, ugly, colorless, inhibited, and quite dull, and it took so much time and effort to turn the cocoon into a butterfly. I was relieved to have said it all, and I hoped that this Hannibal will not be like all the other fake Hannibals and run for his life.

Dr. Lecter was brave enough to hear me out but his reply was not what I had hoped for; he had a clarification to point out. First that I did not know the naughty part in him (I wanted to tell him that I was not sure I ever will, but I held my peace.) Second, he said that it was not my physical appearance that dazzled him (yeah sure, and I am the queen of Sheba); it was my intelligence and deep penetrating look that impressed him. I saw where this was going; he was telling me that this is just who he is and how he will be. For some reason I was infuriated and offended. I told him exactly what to do but he, like any other guy, did not want to walk that extra mile.

My friends accuse me of being superficial and hung up on appearances. They do not see him “that” fat, or “that” switched off, or “that” old. “What’s wrong with him?” they asked. Ladies, that question hurt so much; nothing is wrong with him, he is just not right for me. Why do you think that I should settle for less than what I want? Why do you think I should lower my expectations? Why do you deny me the right to be picky? Do you not think that I am worth it? Do you not see that I deserve it? Can I not do better? Am I “that” flawed? Am I “that” deluded”? Are you “that” unfair? Thank you but no thank you … Pass … I will wait for as long as it takes.

I rested my case saying: “Well, Dr. Lecter, playing with words and flipping phrases will get us no where. Yes! I care much for physical appearances; alone an appealing physique is nothing, but without it there will also be nothing. Had you met me and I was fat, sloppy, and bulging left and right, yet with the same intelligence and deep look, you wouldn't have developed that "crush" on me. Libras, and I am one of them, expect to take just as much as they give – quid pro quo, my dear Hannibal – and that covers body, mind, and soul.” … and he was never heard of again.

Yours truly,
Jenny

The Peacock Syndrome

Avian flu gave us all quite a scare; we stopped eating chicken, set our colorful pet birds free, boycotted eggs and mayonnaise, and got ready for Doom’s Day. Then, like everything in life, it passed. We survived this one too – or so I thought until I saw them on the pool. Men! Our very own Egyptian men got hit! Poor souls got infected by some sort of unheard of virus that crawls into their tiny brains, fills their huge egos, and leaves “junior” dangling like a small pendant to remind them, and us, of what was and what could have been. The ferocious infection causes them to abandon their guts along with their hunter instinct, and while they develop a crest and arch their backs, they greet the world with a dislocated chest, protruded behind, and a strut. Alas! What a sorry sight! They are under the illusion that they are peacocks!

I went to the pool with a group of friends and as we sat there enjoying the sun and ice-cream, I spotted a specimen of the weird breed across the pool. He stretched his arms, flexed his muscles, strutted back and forth, turned and fluttered his ugly plumage at us. A minute later he was joined by another infected male who caressed his chest, adjusted his crest, and displayed his train of feathers. In an hour, there were seven of them strutting around the pool, graciously greeting one another, and looking busy and occupied with plenty of nonsense. They had their shades on, eyed every female on the pool, yet curled their lips as an expression of utter self satisfaction and lack of interest.

The sun was in the middle of the sky and I did not get enough sleep the night before; thus making me susceptible for hallucinations and visions. The fake loud laughter from the other side of the pool echoed the noisy alarm calls peacocks make when they are trying to get the attention of peahens in the mating season. Their territorial calls, loud music, and peacock-ish attitude brought back memories of the stories my very scientific father used to tell me about insects, birds, reptiles, and mammals. “The main purpose of the peacock’s train is to charm the female (peahen) to get her to mate with him. He spreads his train and displays an incredible fan of beautiful blues, greens, violets, reds, oranges and yellows. Every area of the train changes color when struck by different angles of light.”

Like peacocks, the infected men, acted as though they were pecking at food, with their heads to the ground and their tails above to draw attention to themselves. They were waiting for potential females to scurry over in hopes of grabbing a meal, while they stood upright and enticed the ladies with their shining tails. Just as peacocks vibrate their tails rapidly at females in an attempt to impress them, the men across the pool shook their wings and tails from left to right as they coyly eyed us from behind their sunglasses. However, even with this awesome display, in the peacock world, it is very rare that we ever see them mate. The peahen usually pretends not to notice the peacock until she is ready to lay eggs, and only then, she will decide to mate with the male.

In an attempt to get rid of the alarming line of thoughts, I got up and jumped in the water. My head definitely needed to cool off. But who was I fooling? One thought led to the other and Darwin took over. I was in biology class when I first heard of the Darwinian Evolution. Darwin also observed that females are rather picky about their partners. Students used to wonder how it would ever pay to reject a “suitor” but I never failed to see the basic rationale: random mating is stupid mating! Fifteen years later I still quote Darwin to my mom and to anyone who cannot understand my highly selective screening process of men: “It pays to be choosy because in a sexually reproducing species, the genetic quality of your mate will determine half the genetic quality of your offspring; ugly, unhealthy mates usually lead to ugly, unhealthy offspring. By forming a joint genetic venture with an attractive, high-quality mate, one's genes are much more likely to be passed on. Choosing a mate is simply the best genetic screening that females are capable of carrying out in any environment, with no equipment other than their senses and their brains.”

Coming back to earth from my Darwinian encounter, I watched a recently infected man with minor symptoms of peacock-ishness strut towards us. He greeted a common friend then he turned to me as he flickered his long heavy eyelashes at me uncovering a lovely pair of blue eyes and a very cute smile. I gazed back with mesmerizing green eyes that lit up a sun-kissed face, and the tournaments began; table-tennis with words, fencing with flirtatious moves, darts with penetrating smiles, and the usual wrestling matches. I was exhausted, he shed his feathers all over the pool, and the game was over. Like a peacock, he showcased his tail of feathers and talents, and waited for me, the female, to run in pursuit of his genetic qualities.

But this female is fed up with the good-for-nothing peacocks; arrogant and stuck up for a bunch of useless colored feathers. I am so tired of being the go-getter. I have had enough of taking initiatives, playing games, setting plans, hunting, and scheming. When the heat was too much for me to handle, I escaped to the changing rooms, and as cold water washed away the images of the peacocks on the pool, I had an idea that will make me immune to the peacock syndrome; I decided to buy a long vase like the one at my grandma’s, and as I drove home I vowed to fill it with hand-plucked feathers from any unlucky peacock who dares flutter his plumage in my face. The empty spotless clean vase is now in my living room and my cats are looking forward to tearing some featherless leftover peacocks into little pieces and shreds.

Yours truly,
Jenny

Runaway Bride

I love sunset tea in the terrace with my mom; I love the tea, the sunset, the mint in the tea, her cat playing with the teabag, but I hate the conversations she strikes! I was enjoying a great moment with myself watching a lovely bird flying in utter freedom across the horizon when my mom broke into my space capsule and asked me: “Why did your last engagement last three days?” I was too perplexed to reply when she hit me with the second bomb of a question: “Why did you break up with your first fiancé two months before your wedding?” I was still trying to figure out where these darts were coming from when she hit me with the question that I see in the eyes of everyone I cross paths with “Why are you still single?” By the time words found their way to my mouth, she was already stoning me with her questions: “What was wrong with H, A, M, K, B, T. R, N, O, S, E, Z ….? Why did you turn down C, D, X, F, G, I, J, L, P, Q, U, V, W, Y ….? Why don’t you get married to one of your friends? Why do you have brothers that I never gave birth to? Don’t you want to have a baby? Don’t you want to have a home? Don’t you want to be happy? Why are you a runaway bride?”
My mind got on the time machine and I remembered the first marriage proposal I got; I was 16 and he was 22. I remember feeling flattered, excited, and important; none of my friends had any man show that much of an interest, I was the center of the attention of my whole family, and I was already dreaming of the ring, the wedding, the dress, the honeymoon, and the home. I do not remember I had any thoughts about, or feelings towards, the guy. My dad, of course, gracefully turned him down and I did not seem to mind much. There was a time when I saw “suitors” twice a week and at times I saw two per day. As a little girl my granny, the best story-teller ever, used to tell me nice stories that involved mainly princes, castles, white horses, and happily ever after. It was not difficult for the little girl in me to wear the princess’s crown and gown, and ride behind prince-charming for an eternity of love and happiness. My mother, grand mothers, aunts, and any woman who ever set foot in our house wished me one thing: A man who would take care of me and make me happy!
Judging by the standards of our society, I was a “normal” girl growing up; I had nothing against men, marriage, kids, and mothers in law. When I turned 20, all the heads turned to look at the lucky man whose ring will adorn my finger. I kept them waiting for a few months then finally it happened; a good guy, decent in-laws, and a ring were what I had until I got my first job. We were engaged for six months, about to get married, and it felt so wrong; I was always in a bad mood, I lost a lot of weight, my stomach turned once and never turned back to its normal position, and my mother referred it all to the normal fear of “the new life”. I had a few issues with his hygiene standards, begged him to shower, brush his teeth, use deodorants, and cologne. He promised to make me faint on our wedding night and he wanted to deliver our first baby himself at home! My eyes rejected him and all my senses were quick to follow; hence, the breakup. Ten years later, I am still single, and I have gone through a great metamorphosis since my teen years. Countless men came my way; I have seen those who stink in the mind, those who stink in the heart, and those who stink in the flesh! They all just stink!
On my 31st birthday – literally – my mother sent me a “prospect” to the office and that day on her terrace, she cross examined me, questioned my sanity, and was totally oblivious of my motives. I made no sense to her; I asked her why people got married and she told me that I was no longer seven to ask such a silly question. That was a clear sign that my peaceful sunset tea was over and that I had to make a quiet exit. So, why do women get married? To have a home, to have kids, to leave their parents’ house, to start a life, to make love, to be responsible …? This is so wrong! Biological and physiological needs like food, air, shelter, and sex, and safety needs like security, protection, and stability are at the very base of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. The need for belonging and love is midway between these two basic needs and the two superior needs of esteem and self-actualization. Looking at my aspirations now and my beliefs ten years ago, I can only be eternally grateful that I am not married to any of the men who came into my life.
A ten minutes meeting with an NLP guru (Neuro Linguistic Programming) six years ago changed my life. He asked me what I am looking for in my prince-charming and I innocently said: “I want him to make me happy”. At the age of 25 I still believed in fairytales; a gorgeous man will stop me on the way to work, get off his horse, kiss my hand, kneel, point his magic wand at me, and order happiness to take home in my heart. The NLP expert clapped twice, woke me from my beauty sleep, and told me that if I was not a happy person on my own, no one would make me happy … ever! He asked me to find out what made me happy and pursue it, and only then, I will find Mr. Right! Here comes a total stranger telling me that I am wrong, that my granny misled me, that Walt Disney’s princes are not to be found in real life, and that I have to find happiness on my own! His words marked my memory and I slowly moved up Maslow’s pyramid towards achievements, status, responsibility, personal growth, and fulfillment. Now I am facing a bigger problem!
The more sophisticated my needs grew the more difficult my quest became. I came a long way on my own and now I expect much more than a house, food, and clothes from a man. In the movie Runaway Bride, Maggie Carpenter (Julia Roberts) asked Ike Graham (Richard Gere) if there was one right person for everyone, he said: “No, but I think attraction is mistaken for rightness.” I have been attracted to many people but none of them felt right. There were always the ominous mental notes, the odd vibes, and the bad sparks. In my future vision of myself, I see kids and lots of fun, but no man … I see myself as a single mom. My mother says that I am difficult and that I will grow old alone with a pair of cats. What is difficult about asking for a man with who I can have endless conversations? Who will be faithful? Who will hold my hand as we watch TV? Who will make me feel like the most beautiful woman on earth even when I feel like a shaggy doll? Who I know will come to my rescue whenever I call? Who will give me a knot in the stomach when I think of him? Whose name or number on my phone will draw a smile on my face? Who is my equal? Who appreciates my independence, cherishes my strength, and respects my weakness? Who is not some needy freak or disgusting creep? Who will let me be and love me for who I am? Is this too much to ask for nowadays? I am no princess so I no longer expect a prince!
I have been loved by the wrong guys for the wrong reasons and I have been also rejected by many guys for more wrong reasons. I have been with guys who made me feel like a queen on a collapsing thrown and others who made me feel invisible; some were in it for the challenge and others were there for the entertainment. Those who said the “forever word” either wanted a girl that “seemed” to conform to the social norms that govern a “good girl”, a business partner, a free ride, a personal punching bag, or a caged bird of their own. Some were just desperate! My relationships are plagued with power struggles, and in the process of getting in or out of a relationship, I broke many hearts, smashed many egos, and tortured many souls. I have also had my share of heartbreaks and sleepless nights. Maggie Carpenter finally made it to the alter; she proposed to him saying: “Look, I guarantee there'll be tough times. I guarantee that at some point, one or both of us is gonna want to get out of this thing. But I also guarantee that if I don't ask you to be mine, I'll regret it for the rest of my life, because I know, in my heart, you're the only one for me.” I will wear a ring and keep it, love a man and keep him, and get married and stay married, only when something in my heart tells me that he is the only one for me and that if I let him go, I will regret it for the rest of my life!

Yours truly,
Jenny

Forrest Gump - Run Jenny Run

Helen Keller said that the most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or touched; they must be felt with the heart. My Forrest Gump flew cross Atlantic leaving Uncle Sam, and like a stray cat, found a nook in my busy life in Cairo. His raw untamed nature startled me; his strong southern accent, outdated hair-cut, rough uneven nails, timeless shoes, and colorful shirts repelled part of me, yet attracted another. Wearing D&G as it were Old Spice, eating rice with a spoon, cutting veal with the fork, walking like a soldier, and cheekily glancing at my curves with the eyes of a curious teenage boy made me realize that he has had a rough ride to wealth and success.
His spelling mistakes, grammar errors, and sentence blunders put a question mark after his education, upbringing, and background. My Forrest Gump missed out on all my witty comments and sarcastic remarks; I had to stick to the basics and I kept it short and simple. He resisted opening up at first but I comforted him into sharing by talking a bit about myself. I did not want to know the man he is now; with the big company car, company apartment, and expatriate package. I wanted to meet the kid, the teenager, and the young man he left back home many years ago. My 40 year old Forrest talked about poverty, neediness, and suffering. I saw a strong-willed man driven by admirable ambition; with basic education, minimal reading, primitive brains, and slower than usual understanding, Forrest Gump turned everything he touched into gold.
He talked about his achievements with a lot of passion and I fully understood where that came from. There was a very familiar pitch of pride in his tone and I knew exactly how he felt. I was moved by his untainted nature; I am allergic to fakeness. Were they in his shoes, a lot of Egyptian, or non-Egyptian, men will buy “social polish” with their money. I met many men here who learned how to talk smart, dress well, and walk with their heads stuck up high, covering up their modest upbringing. Designer clothes will fit anyone who has the money and expensive watches will never fall off the thick wrist of a social climber. My Forrest Gump did not buy himself new table manners, grooming habits, or en vogue wardrobe.
Like Forrest Gump, he had lovely blue eyes and an unsuspecting smile; he was muscular and hard in all the right places (no pun intended). I saw a lot of beauty in this simpleton and being the dreamer that I am, I wanted him to be as wise, as kind, and as innocent as the 1994 Forrest Gump version. I should have known better! Didn’t my grandma tell me that looks can be misleading and that outer beauty does not have to mirror inner beauty? Didn’t I fall in that trap before? I never thought that after three dates, he will star in my coming article! He triggered fear - a feeling that I locked up deep down in my heart! Something about him scared me.
His vibes were rough and his hands held mine firmly stopping the flow of air inside my lungs. His eyes were not sincere, his stories were always incomplete, and the numbers did not add up; married at 19, had a daughter at 17, she is now 24, married again at 37, his daughter is 8, got divorced 8 years ago, the girl was 2 years old, and now he is 40! He talked a lot about oil massages and “doing it”, and he did not seem to understand anything I said about time, bonding, mental connection, and emotional spark. In another attempt to curb the horny toad between his legs, I told him that I am stubborn and that “no” is my natural response to any request. I clearly explained that I like to hunt and that I am not looking for a one night stand or a physical adventure.
Forrest Gump 2006 had the memory of a fish and the IQ of a sparrow; he could not pronounce my two syllable Egyptian name, forgot half of the things he told me and all the things I told him, and asked me the same questions at least five times on our three dates. I was faced with two questions more often; first was why I liked him and second was why I was comfortable with him. Looking back at the whole picture now, my answer should have been “I have no clue”! I neither liked him nor disliked him; he did not give me tangible reasons for either. All I had to hold on to were his vibes and my gut feeling. As usual, my mind rejected him, my body lusted after him, but my heart feared him. He lost!
So after two horrible hours of sitting there holding on to the pipe of my shisha, all I could think of was my long forgotten pair of running shoes; I put them aside on 22 May 2000 and I decided to be the hunter from that day onwards. There were the times when I enjoyed the chase itself, other times I could not wait to devour the catch, and sometimes I got distracted from the hunt by a juicier prey. I was always the smooth type; soothing the victim into submission by an ounce of teasing and a doze of well-seasoned flirting. My Forrest Gump evoked my instinctive need to run; I felt threatened and his attitude intimidated the little girl in me. Sensory images of a poor bunny running for his life in the wilderness raced into my head; his panting breath, pounding heart, teary eyes, wide-open nostrils, and skyrocketing fight fright flight hormones.
Gump looked at me all of a sudden and said that he was not a freak! My heart skipped a beat! I looked at my drunken partner with wide perplexed eyes as he told me … again and again … that I have killer eyes and a killer smile. My mind went blank as he turned his whole body to stare at a half dressed girl sitting with five guys on the opposite table, he was picking a fight and I just wanted to run. Like Jenny Curran, in the original Forrest Gump, I prayed “Dear God, make me a bird so I could fly far! Far! Far away from here!” As I stood there in the street waiting for the valet to bring my car, I struggled to release my hands from his. He wanted to come home with me or that I went home with him. Again he was pushing and again I was stubborn … I freed my hand, got in my car, drove off and did not look behind as Jenny Curran’s words echoed louder and louder in my head: Run Forrest! Run! … Run Jenny! Run!

Yours truly,
Jenny

Mamma Mia … here I go again

Dear Mother,

This is the most difficult letter I have ever written in my 31 years; more difficult than the letters I wrote in the name of love or pride; for work or for pleasure; to hide shame or to defend honor; addressing God All Mighty or secretly courting Santa Claus. Writing has always been my second best communication tool and, by time, I managed to tame words, nouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, clauses, phrases, and verbs to my favor. The alphabet became my eternal playground and “Literati” is now my favorite board game. Still, this letter is the most difficult.

I wrote you many letters in my mind, and in my unsent letters, I wanted to tell you that I was hurting; that I made a mistake; that I let you down. At other times I wanted to share with you my conquests; to ask for advice; to beg you to be proud of your very different little girl. But I chose to leave you wondering what was going on in that weird head of mine and I enjoyed that perplexed look on your face. Now I have decided to come forward, summon my courage, and write you a well-earned well-deserved letter. I will not send it to you in private; I will publish it for the whole world to read.

You have been the subject of my anger, rebellion, and twisted mind for many years. Let me start now by saying “I am sorry … I am very sorry”. Growing up, I thought you did not love me; I craved for warmth and tenderness. I never looked beyond the cool well composed façade; I successfully alienated myself from you. Then I began judging you; cold, distant, stubborn, materialistic, temperamental, undiplomatic, isolated, and harsh. To me, you were not the mother I needed or the wife my father deserved. I blamed you when my dad left and every time my heart got broken. Then my masterpiece was choosing to move out, four years ago, on Mother’s Day!

Now that I have a life, and a house, of my own, I began seeing things differently. The first mega revelation is: I am you! Now I understand the kind of responsibilities that can derail a woman from her nature; how the icon of femininity can collapse under the pressures that most men cannot endure; how a hard outer shell is needed to protect a mellow mushy core; how betrayal hurts; how unmet expectations ache; how a heart bleeds when stabbed by a loved one; how a cold shoulder replaces the warm nook when love, respect, and honesty are replaced by lies, abuse, and lethargy. I have had to deal with all the situations that fate handed you, and to my surprise, I was you … I still am you … just like you in every aspect.

A few months ago, a friend of mine lost her mother and I went to comfort her. I still remember her words and the grieving look in her eyes. She wanted one last chance to apologize; one last chance to say “I love you”. She wanted to bring back every fight and erase it; needed to take back all the bad things she said or did; wished she spent more time with her. She already missed her voice when only yesterday she did not want to talk to her. To her, the house felt so empty; it is not the house it is her life. She wanted to hold on to every memory, every scent, and every piece of crappy cloth … that is all she had left of her mother.

I could only think of you my dear mother. I saw your face, your lovely smile, your kind eyes, and the warmth that I never recognized as a kid, as a teenager, or as the rebellious young woman that I am. Oh my lovely mother, I wronged you so much and you forgave it all; challenged you many times and you helped me win every time; said that you were never there for me, but looking at things now, you were always there one way or the other; accused you of being cold and distant when it was me who never tried to reach out to you; out of my own stubbornness, I insisted that you were stubborn; criticized your choice to be lonely, and then I learned the difference between being lonely and alone; questioned your tact and diplomacy, now who am I to talk? – Me? The machine gun without a safety valve?

For the past 4 years, since I moved out, I have been trapped between the blades of regret, and anger. We would have a bad chat, you would send a potential husband to my office, or you would wonder what you did in life to deserve a daughter like me, and I would dart my angry looks and words at you. The tigress that you wounded with your disapproval lashes back at you with her teeth and claws trying to defend her individuality and existence; she is fighting the sharp pain of being unaccepted. Then I take my sore wounds home and wallow in regret and guilt. As I attempt to pick up the phone and apologize, I feel the pangs of rejection, and I give in to my worst self. Days pass, you forgive, I pretend to forget, we have another encounter, and then anger strikes, followed by regret, then anger, then regret ... I am so consumed!

Dear mother, it hurts me when I feel that you do not like who I have become. I am what you made me, so please forget about people and society; we owe them nothing. Do not compare me to the image of the girl you would have preferred me to be; look at who I really am. Yes, I am independent! True, I am successful! Believe it, I am talented! Right, I am single and I might stay single for a long time! Indeed, I am picky! Correct, I am not perfect! When I moved out I gave my back to a very unhappy time in my life, now I am happy and I want you to be happy too. I want us to be the best friends we never were and I want you to know that I finally understood. I love you mommy and happy Mother’s Day!

Love … always and forever,
Jenny

Men are like Shoes

I have never faced such a writer’s block since I started writing. For the first time I feel empty – 100% empty. There is a huge void in the center of my body; I have no feelings, no passion, no ideas, no thoughts, no drive, and no life. I am a drained air-vacuumed sac of human bones! Last month was very tough. I do not know how I manage to get hit by a bus every March … yes … again … I am heartbroken! But this time I am comfortably numb about it. I am just eternally grateful for having a consuming career, great friends, and two adorable cats who always manage to put a smile on my face.

All it took to unblock my writer’s block was an email from a friend who was trying to cheer me up. I opened the email and found a song attached with a note wishing me a quick recovery and a big hug. I downloaded the song and played it as I flipped though some dusty letters that have been on my desk for a week. My eyes widened and my limp body began showing signs of life again as I heard Shania Twain say “It's amazing what a little polish'll do:Men are like shoes.” I pushed the stop button and then I replayed the song, this time giving it my full attention.

“Men are like shoes, made to confuse … I don't know which ones to choose … some you wear in, some you wear out, and some you wanna leave behind ... some make you feel ten feet tall, some make you feel so small … and some you wanna leave out in the hall or make you feel like kicking the wall … Some clean up good, just like new… some you can't afford, some are real cheap… Some are good for bumming around on the beach … I ain't got time for the flip-flop kind... Men are like shoes.” The song goes on listing the types of “shoes” and the analogy between men and shoes just brightened my dreary day.

I needed to hear this; someone, or something, had to remind me of who I am and what I always stood for. Shania Twain woke me up from my long tame sleep. I have known him for a year now where he started as a compromise on my side. Suddenly, over the few months that followed, he deteriorated from jerk to caveman to Murphy’s Law to Santa’s bad gift, and finally he became my dragging boyfriend. I settled for the very wrong pair of shoes; uncomfortable from the start, though highly maintained, they lost their allure as time passed, and I realized that I have invested a fortune of emotions into a fake, yet well polished pair of mismatched sneakers.

The design of this ungodly footwear always set me off balance; I tripped on every stone and landed on my face, on my knees, or on my back many a time. Such shoes should come with a warning: “For short walks only”. Silly me, I thought I was taking a lovely walk in a green park when I brilliantly exhausted my feet taking long painful strides on a treadmill that got me nowhere; no matter how long I walked, it only got me an arms length far. All the effort I put in was recorded on the calorie scale but never showed on the distance counter. I kept coming back to the frustrating square one!

It is normal to pick up the wrong type of shoes every now and then, all women do that; but only smart women give a wrong pair away. The rest of us hold on to even the ugliest flip-flops out of the fear of walking barefoot. We would pile up old shoes and unwanted slippers to save face on a day when we have nothing to wear. I preferred to be with a man who made me feel like a big nothing than to be alone. From the start, I accepted his bad moods, destructive phases, sudden disappearances, unjustified aloofness, and patronizing attitude. He took me for granted and I have no one else to blame but myself.

My attitude was a clear “It’s OK to hurt me” sign. I gave him permission to take me for one ride after the other, allowed him to step allover my ego, and blessed his devilish arguments to keep myself trapped in his dungeons. I thought I was stuck in shoes that constantly hurt my toes while all my friends clearly saw that I was walking barefoot on eggshells. Finally I ended it; with tears rolling down my cheeks, I tossed the annoying shoes out of the car window when I was driving home after my last meeting with him. I painfully sobbed not knowing what hurt more; my feet, my head, or my heart? I was just hurting allover.

I have not seen him in a couple of months and I missed him. I missed his smile; longed to see him moving his fingers through his hair; needed to look into his eyes; yearned to have a physical place in his energy field. Though they were all what he wanted, phone calls were not enough for me. We talked daily for many hours on the phone; chatted about common friends, childhood stories, fears, theories, jokes, dreams, and ghosts - yes, right, ghosts! People thought we did not meet because I was always busy; truth is: he did not care to see me. I turned my eyes away from this fact for a very long time, it was about time I faced the truth!

That night I was not in the best of moods; I felt bloated, ugly, and blue. I summoned all my guts and half of my strength, called him on the way home from an outing I escaped, and suggested we meet. He told me he woke up on the wrong side of the bed too but generously Bacchus agreed to see me. I was disappointed that he did not show more eagerness to meet up but I swallowed the bitterness and went. Still tears replaced the smile the minute my eyes met the cold stiff look in his eyes. A sharp pain seized me but, like a brave girl, I greeted him with a faint voice and put on a natural casual look hoping that things will get better.

I was with him yet I never felt more distant; his vibes were cold, his face was expressionless, his eyes were avoiding me, and I did not see one smile crossing his face in the two hours that I was with him. I was fighting back tears as I told him that he reminded me of my big useless recliner at home. My words were met by a sarcastic look and no words. I decided to leave, I knew what was coming next and I wanted to be alone when I fell apart. He courteously asked me to stay but I did not feel a shred of sincerity in his words. I insisted on leaving and he let me go not knowing that this was the last time he was ever going to see me.

On the way home he called me but I was already a nervous wreck. The moment he talked about his god-knows-what phase and how he needed a friend at the moment, I lashed out telling him that it was always about him and his moods, needs, and phases. At the back of my mind I thought of how it was never about me; how I have been so unfair towards myself. I accepted a lot of baloney hoping that the tight uncomfortable shoes would loosen up and fit me better; what a dreamer! If the mold is a misfit, the design is ugly, and there is no quality in the finishing, a wrong pair of shoes will be nothing but a pain in the toes! I told him that I will never forgive him for insulting me that way, asked him to never ever call me, ended the conversation, and threw him and everything he stood for out of the window.

Summer is approaching and I certainly do not want my summer sandals to show my swollen toes, bloodshot nails, and cracked heels. I would not be able to wear neither my flirty ankle-straps nor my favorite stilettos with twisted ankles and lost balance. Let’s give these feet a break; let them heal after such a long walk in the wrong pair of shoes. I need sole and soul therapy to mend the feet and the heart, and the song goes on: “Tell me about it … Ooh! Men: have you ever tried to figure them out? Huh, me too, but I ain't got no clue: how about you? … You've got your kickers an' your ropers, your everyday loafers, an' some that you can never find. You've got slippers an' your zippers, your grabbers and your grippers, an' man, don't you hate that kind? … Sometimes you hate 'em, an' sometimes you love 'em, I guess it all depends on which way you rub 'em, But a girl can never have too many of 'em.”

Yours truly,
Jenny

May they rest in Peace .. all of them

Knowing that Valentine’s Day is approaching and knowing that I am most likely to spend it alone, makes me prone to nightmares, visions, and hauntings of all sorts. This is one more occasion, after my birthday and New Year’s Eve, that reminds me, year after year, of how strictly single I am, how picky I can get, and how stubborn I am known to be. So in my waking hours I am happy, fulfilled, and thankful to be single than to have been with a wrong someone, but when I go to sleep my defenses go to sleep too, and ghosts take over. Memories come back to life, the fine line between dreams and realities dissolves, fact and fiction unite, and what I tend to deny while I am awake looks me straight in the eye in my sleep.

Last night, as I dozed off, I found myself walking in a nice cemetery on a cool winter morning. I passed by the tombstones and read their pretty engravings one by one; O.T. (May 87 – June 95), H.M. (December – June 96), K.A. (July 96 – May 00), S.S. (One week in August 99), T.R. (One week in September 99), S.G. (A few days in November 99), M.G. (Two weeks in May 00), M.B. (August 00), K.S. (September – December 02), R.A. (The benchmark for all times), K.Z. (September 04), and, last but not least, O.F. (April-June 05 … and still dragging). There were comments beneath the dates that ranged from “may he rot in hell”, “what on earth was I thinking?”, and “puppy love” to “silly me”, “will miss you”, “good riddance”, “what goes around comes around”, and “could have been love … but I lost it somehow”.

As I read the comments, it seemed as though “the deceased” were coming back to life, one by one, and were talking to me. The hissing of the faint voices was a mixture of curses, blame, apologies, and scattered phrases: “arrogant”, “I am sorry”, “control freak”, “forgive me”, “naïve”, “who the hell do you think you are?”, “please stop”, “not my type anyway”, “hasty”, “nasty”, “you’ve had your revenge”, “bitch”, and many other things that I could not make out as their voices grew louder. They were angry at me just as much as I was angry at them. I was haunting them just as much as they were haunting me. Their words chased me as I ran for shelter, and finally I woke up in the warm comfort of my bed, next to my cats, who were looking at me with the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.

My brain functions around the basic theory that everything happens for a reason and, now when I come to think of it, this nightmare is a sign; I need to make peace with my “late exes” if I intend to get a date on Valentine’s Day. Great!! I have time … a month of peace-making will definitely do the trick. All those years, I have been fostering bad karmas, hostility, anger, and vengeance. Today, right now, with my typical resolute attitude, I am deciding to let go … I will set them free so I can be free! Where do I start? I think I owe some of them an apology … not a bad start! I will write a note whereby I apologize to those I wronged; it is a collective apology for all my misdemeanors.

Someone once told me that a stiff apology is a second insult and I honestly believe that I mastered the art of stiff apologies and continuous insults. It was OK and I did not mind until I realized that I lost a good worthy man like your gracious self. No one tricked me but my stupid blind ego; I hurt you then I ignored it; I insulted you then I dropped it; you starred in my articles then I banished you; I heard you but I never really listened; I demanded acceptance but I never accepted you; I wanted space yet I denied you your space; I stepped allover your manhood in an attempt to prove my strength; I was always right and you were always wrong; I was stubborn and now I am sorry!

Yes, that is the word that was stuck in my throat! My mood swings, constipated face, and misplaced left eyebrow left me looking like I just swallowed a cactus. I wronged you royally but I was too self-centered to even notice it. Every time I tried to kiss the wound better I rubbed salt in it. For fear of being rejected, I made sure I hurt you first. Since you have stepped aside, I had plenty of time to rewind the tape and pause at every mistake I made. Yes, I was obstinate! True, my relationships are power struggles! Right, I lack resilience! Correct, I was rude and insensitive! I just want you to know that I am just a scared little girl who wants to be loved; the turtle in me will never stick its little head and legs out of the shell unless she is warm and secure. Once again, I sincerely apologize. May you rest in peace!

Phew! I am glad that this is out of the way, it is also time to forgive … I did not know that forgiving is more difficult than apologizing! Let me just make one point clear: the deal was to forgive, I never said anything about forget! Yes, you hurt me, cheated on me, abused me, ignored me, insulted me, neglected my needs, crushed my ego, underestimated my brains, never saw my suffering, never heard my agony, took advantage of my innocence, manipulated my need to be held, placed your bets on my heart, damaged my soul, left me with scars that I will live with for the rest of my life, and finally you dumped me for no reason; yet I forgive you!

I nearly choked saying that! Remembering all the bad days, the tears, the lonely nights, and the holes in my heart made me want to take it back. I was about to change my mind that very moment and skip the forgiveness part of the deal. Then I remembered my last Valentine’s Day, the one before, and the one before and the one 31 years ago … to me they were all the same … they were just another day. I sincerely want this one to be different so I have to break the curse … I have to forgive … let me have a second go at forgiveness! Breathe Jenny … exhale all that anger … and its ok to cry.

I remember clearly my first article … when I was hit by a bus … when you were slipping away … when I had no more strength to hold on to you … when I did not want to get out of bed … when I locked myself up away from inquisitive eyes and blabbering tongues … when nothing and no one would fill the dark void within … when memories hurt ... when unfulfilled wishes and dreams hurt … when anger hurt ... when a wounded ego of a girl who believed she should have been worshipped hurt ... when I just wanted to die or to get hit by another bus! You said you are different and I believed you; you said you will never hurt me and I trusted you; you asked for the benefit of the doubt and you turned out to be just another bus; yet … I …. I …. I … forgive you! May you rest in peace!

A new slate; a fresh start; all the ashes I sprinkled in the air and I could see the wind taking them places far away … some souls I forgave and to others I apologized … I paid them all my due respects and I owe them all nothing … now their tormented voices are hushed … their hissing is gone … their spells are broken … the nightmare is over … they cannot hurt me again … their wrath shall not ruin another Valentine’s Day! Even if I am still single at least I will be free!


Yours truly,
Jenny

I am not mad at you ... I am done with you

I met Heba through friends a year ago and we developed a bonding that grew stronger by the day. She was young, cheerful, and buzzing with life. We had so many common interests and so many sacred friendship rituals; breakfast together every Friday, weekends by the pool, catalogue shopping, darts competitions, and many more things that we enjoyed doing together until she met him. Two years younger, Karim was a dream come true: well-educated, well-mannered, good looking, and successful. I went out with them a few times but I did not feel very welcomed; Karim was civil but cold and we just did not blend as a group. Heba was blown away by her new amour and did not notice that we did not do anything together anymore. Nonetheless, I was happy for her, resided in the back seat, and kept my mouth shut.

Heba and I met every once in a while to catch up and all we talked about was Karim, which was fine by me until all I heard from Heba was: “I am not feeling well”, “I am out of mood”, “He has changed”, “He is not there for me”, “I miss my friends”, “I am so lonely”, “He scares me sometimes”, “Am I pretty?”, “Do you think he loves me?”, “I saw him with someone else”, “I want to leave him”, “I can’t leave him”, “I left him”, “We are back”, “I made him hit me when I insisted to talk about us right after he came from work”, “He apologized”, “How do I hide that bruise?” … and more. He sucked the life out of her and let her down a million times; she was emotionally blackmailed into a relationship that seemed to drag on forever. Yesterday, they had a fight and Heba could not go home with his fingers printed in blue on her cheek. I let her in and she did not want to talk. Now, as I write this article, I could hear Heba in my bedroom sobbing and I am not sure what hurts her more; the bruises on her face, the wounds in her heart, the deep scar in her pride, or the longing for her old self and old life?

When is it the time to draw the line? To call it quits? To pack and leave? To walk away from a relationship that turned sour? To walk out on a man who crushes your self-esteem with a lethal dose of abuse? When he neglects you to the extent of feeling like a big nothing in his life? When he sees you but does not look at you? When he hears you but does not listen to you? When he touches you but does not feel you? When he starts having affairs? When he continues to have affairs? When he forgets your birthday? When his words turn into daggers that stab your pride and dig holes in your heart? When he barks instead of talks? When he ignores your needs? When he embarrasses you in public? When he belittles you? When he hits you the first time? When he hits you the second time? When he hits you all the time? How much abuse could a woman handle? How much abuse should a woman handle?

Most people assume that abuse is directly related to physical aggression but this is just the tip of the iceberg. Psychological abuse is as damaging as physical abuse; and since it is harder to recognize, it is, therefore, harder to recover from. It causes long term self esteem issues and profound emotional repercussions for the partners of abusers. Emotional and verbal abuse frequently shifts to more overt threats or physical abuse, particularly in times of stress. Abusers are needy, controlling, yet clever people; they master manipulation and lies, and they are able to turn a situation around so that somehow the blame lies on you, and not on them; it is always you and what you made him do! Needless to say that abuse typically alternates with declarations of love and statements that he will change, providing a "hook" to keep you in the relationship.

I was once in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship and it took many years to mend the broken pieces – as much as possible. Today I look around me and I see most of my friends putting up with many levels of abusive behavior from their partners. I am not talking about young naïve inexperienced girls like I was then; I am talking about women who have lives, looks, careers, experience, and education. He tells her “if you do not want to go out tonight, I have 5 other girls who would love to be in your shoes”! He makes her feel as if he was a God-sent gift to pull her out of a stinking brothel! He promises to join her and her friends and never shows up nor calls to apologize! He hates all her friends who envy her for having him! He hits her when he has a tough day at work! She is a bitch if she has a social life! She is pushing her body onto men if she dresses nicely! She is not allowed to argue with him in private and is forbidden to voice a contradicting opinion, or any opinion, in public!

Yes, this is how Heba was being treated, and yes, she accepted it! She literally had to report to Karim; She was accountable for every what, when, where, why, who, which, how, and how often that takes place today, might take place tomorrow, and that took place last year, the year before, or ten years ago! On the other hand, she was not allowed to complain, question, nor inquire. She cannot say “no” or she will be express shipped to lonely island again. She was robbed of her right to choose and denied her right to be fulfilled. Heba, and many others, are 24/7 slaves in the dungeons of cruel merciless masters, they call boyfriends! They are starved for love and attention, humiliated in private and public, emotionally blackmailed, brainwashed, forced into sex, cheated upon, restricted, isolated, intimidated, neglected, and, at times, beaten up!

There is more misery to come! I told Heba that she is in an abusive relationship and that she could do better, she told me she is in love!! Heba sees this as love! I know how she feels. I never had the courage to tell her that I was once in her shoes, but I was a kid and I did not know any better, what is her excuse? Ah, yes … it is the fear of loneliness; this is the knife that the loving Karim holds to her throat and sticks in her heart. She has to obey and conform to the rules or else she will be abandoned – she will have the “I am single” stigma for life. No man will take her, no one will want her, and she will grow old and die alone like the famous spinster aunts! So the trick is to get the “slave” to depend on her “master” when it comes to social acceptance, some care, infrequent attention, physical gratification, financial support, or any other dangling carrot that will keep her locked up in the cage.

It is easy for anyone on the outside to tell Heba to just leave. But she knows how hard it is to break free from his chains. She worries about his reaction, she is not sure if she can face the world on her own, and she tends to prefer the devil she knows to the many other devils out there that she does not know. Heba has no more faith in herself and zero self confidence. She tried to leave the dungeon many times but she fell into the usual traps of ending an abusive relationship:

Trap one: "To avoid his anger, I'll just do something to make him break up with me" – he might not even consider breaking up with you; he will punish you more for misbehaving!

Trap two: “I will not return his calls till he forgets about me” – what a better way to infuriate him?! He will stalk you, haunt you, and you would have created your own version of “Scary Movie”.

Trap three: I will tell him: “It's not you, it's me” - You do not need to rub salt into your own wounds. It was never YOU it was always HIM and his bad temper, lousy moods, and continuous abuse.

Trap four: I will say "We can still be friends." - This is like saying, "I don't want to be with you but I'm going to see you often just to remind you that you can't have me." Why would you want this man in your life? Why do you want your jailer to still have a grip on you? Bid him an everlasting farewell – once and forever.

Trap five: “He promised to change” - HE will never change! Do not lose sight of all his previous promises and how he failed to keep any of them. YOU need to change!

Dear Heba, please love yourself and lean on your family, friends, and those who truly love you. Rediscover the fulfillment you used to get at work and let’s find more fun things to do together. Accept yourself. Take time to get to know who you are and what you really need. Love will come to you only when you are ready to be loved, and when deep down you know that you will not settle for anything less than true love.

Yours truly,
Jenny

My Love Santa

“ … maybe that whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we've been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, joining clubs, and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney.” - Meg Ryan as Kate McKay in the movie Kate and Leopold.

Dear Santa,

How are you this year? I know you are very busy but I really need you to consider my wish. I have been a good girl last year and I know what I want for a gift this year. I am writing to you a whole month in advance so you can search thoroughly and I will give you all the clues to help you out of that chimney that you keep getting caught into one year after the other. I do not think that you are a myth and I do not think that love is a myth, so my dear love Santa please read my letter and make my wish come true. I will not ask for a bigger wealth or for better health, I neither want earthly pleasures nor heavenly measures ... I want a man.

I want you to dash through the snow on your sleigh, jingle your bells, and get your elves to run up and down the globe to get me my long-awaited present, and when you get him skip the chimney part and just leave him in my balcony or, even better, on my doorstep. I have always been accused of not knowing what I wanted and of not being decisive so I will go to the nitty-gritty details because I do not want you to send me the wrong man …. Again! I hope you do not think of me as being bossy; I am just helping you with your hunt, and mine, for Mr. Right.

To help you with the screening process, I will first rule out what I know for sure that I do not want. Married, lost, depressed, expired, or clumsy is out of the question. Narrow-minded, cold-hearted, mind-numbing, or thick-skinned is not even an option. Bad English, bad breath, or bad grooming is a bad gift. Jobless, faithless, or moneyless makes less of a Christmas gift. I don’t like quiet, boring, or dull men and I prefer them tall dark and handsome but fair cute and blond is not crossed out, and he has to like my curls!

Now that I helped you out with the outlines let’s go to a more sophisticated level, and Santa, I have to give you a fair warning, this is the level that confuses you the most every year. Make sure this time he is intellectual yet sensitive; sensitive yet masculine; masculine yet tender; tender yet protective; protective but not possessive. Have I said enough? Oh and Santa, I have had enough of Cavemen, Smarties, Sparkies, and Bigs. My heart has had enough bumps, dumps, and jumps. I ran out of glue mending broken pieces and I have no more tolerance for any more make-ups and break-ups.

Santa, I am not dictating anything; I am just helping you get me the right gift. People say that I am too picky, demanding, and uncompromising but I am just a girl who wants to take exactly what she is willing to give; I just want to love and to be loved – but I will never love a man unless he has a consensus from my mind, body and heart. Now that I went that far without any divine intervention to stop me from continuing my letter, I will assume that this is a clear sign that you will take my wish seriously this year.

Ah … one last thing before I seal it with a kiss; no Virgos or Scorpios allowed; I will not even bother explaining the reasons! If you find me a Cancerian, send him with a life-time stock of anti-depressants, and needless to say that Sagittarius men are known to be so-so in the sack so I will need a money-back guarantee. A refined Leo or a not-so-loud Aries is like looking for a needle in a haystack so forget it. Gemini’s are not very straightforward and Aquarius guys are sloppy. Pisces are so out of touch with reality and Taurus men love playing grand inquisitor with me and I do not like either signs. I might consider a Capricorn who puts me next to his career, instead of miles and miles below. I am a Libra and I am not sure two of me will be a good gift. Don’t let that stop you Santa … work with their ascendants, check their Karmas, and email me potential resumes so I can pick my gift:)

Love,
Jenny

The Light at the end of the Tunnel is nothing but a Train!!

She glared at me with big confused eyes and asked “How many frogs do I have to kiss before I find my handsome prince?” I issued a restraining order against one of my loudest laughs and just nodded encouraging her to proceed. “If he is nice, he is taken; if he is adorable, he is married; if he is serious, he likes one of my friends; if he is smart and well-off, he is from another religion; if he is sensitive, he is gay.” she continued in total disbelief.

Poor girl went on all night about her bad luck and how it seems to follow her like her own shadow; “I was in my car with my mother admiring the furniture on a big moving truck a few cars ahead of me. I sat there as I saw each car switch lanes to pass the slow truck. When it was finally my turn to make the daring lane switch, a huge metal floor lamp landed on the hood of my car and left a distinguished mark on the trunk. You tell me, what kind of luck is that?” she snapped at me.

This time I was not curbing my laughter; I just realized that I fully identify with her. If I have an urgent appointment, there has to be an accident on the bridge. If I want to impress someone with a smart line, the stupidest statements fly out of my mouth. My boss only walks into my office the moment I get on MSN. I run out of sugar when I am having a tea-party. No matter how many lanes I switch, my lane has to be the slowest. It is like living in a world that conspires against my very own existence.

I went home, switched on my PC and decided to find out if this conspiracy theory has any explanation. After being directed and redirected in and out of many sites, I found it! Murphy’s Laws.

Murphy's first law - If anything can go wrong, it will - was born at Edwards Air Force Base in 1949 at North Base. It was named after Capt. Edward A. Murphy, an engineer working on Air Force Project MX981; a project designed to see how much sudden deceleration a person can stand in a crash. One day, after finding that a transducer was wired wrong, he cursed the technician responsible and said, "If there is any way to do it wrong, he'll find it." and then the second law was born.

Today Murphy’s laws cover literally everything from gravity, love, politics to golfing, teaching, and driving. Such laws explain not finding things when you really need them when, on any other day, they are usually just lying there; why the cat only throws up on my most expensive carpet; why the car only breaks down at the least convenient time and when I take it to a mechanic because it makes a funny sound, I am neither able to demonstrate it for the mechanic nor am I able to describe it; how falling objects always land where they can do the most damage; how the wind is always blowing against my hairdo; how I only meet the CEO in the hallway when I am late.



The situations are endless and universal. Murphy’s laws do not know any geographic, demographic, or psychographic boundaries. Regions, countries, cities, age, gender, income, occupation, lifestyle, interests, activities, personalities, and social class melt into one big pot where Murphy has the final word.


In the love and relationships department, Murphy has a lot to say too! Thank you Murphy for telling us upfront that all the good ones are taken, that if a relationship seems perfect today, it will end tomorrow, and that if it is too good to be true then it probably is not good, or is not true. The rule is that if you want something bad enough, chances are you won’t get it and that the minute you get interested is the minute they find someone else. Now I understand why my princes turn into frogs and why I am still by the pond waiting for a chance to rescue the poor cursed prince.

On that very informative site that I was browsing, I found a link for “How you can break Murphy’s Law” and with one click, instead of being directed on the way out of the conspiracy laws, I was taken to a page that said “The page you requested could not be found”! Provoked by the idea of having to live with Murphy and his laws, I decided to challenge him. I will break his laws.

What was I thinking waiting for a prince by the pond? Of course only frogs come out of ponds. What was I doing on MSN at work? Why was I late to work the day(s) I met the CEO in the hallway? See, I am getting there. It turned out to be my fault all along. I do not plan well and I end up blaming Murphy for it. I put two wrongs together and I expect them to turn into a right. I have high unrealistic expectations then I fall prey to frustration when I am let down. I build castles on the sand and blame the tide for washing them away.

I turned 31 last month and I feel every bit of it, but when it comes to my expectations, hopes and dreams, I am still as uncompromising as I was when I was 13! Time and experience did not humble me down. The little girl is still alive within asking for the Barbie world. I still want my mother, grand mother, and Walt Disney himself to keep their promises. Yes .. I want the prince who saved Cinderella, Snow White, The Sleeping Beauty, and The Swan Princess from their respective curses.

In the shoes of a 31 year old woman, the little girl still expects people to live up to their words and keep their promises. Her untamed imagination still seeks the Utopia and this is why she cannot break Murphy’s Laws. She is too much of a perfectionist in a very unperfect world. Her mother always said there is always light at the end of the tunnel, Murphy said that this light is nothing but a train, and I am telling you all to get out of your tunnels and enjoy the unlimited sunshine. Inhibitions, despair, obsessions, and expectations are all tunnels that we trap ourselves into, wait for the light, but get hit by reality and end up blaming it on Murphy. So look at it this way, if you are out of whatever tunnel you locked yourself into, how could a train ever hit you?

Yours truly,

Jenny

How to lose a guy in 10 days - Egyptian Edition

I did not lose sight of the cave for a few weeks. I got a comfortable chair and seated myself at the door waiting for any sign of life from my caveman. When the sitting, the thinking, and the waiting had their toll on my body, mind, and soul, I would hover around the cave, partly to make sure that the caveman is still breathing and partly to make sure that there is no one else breathing inside with him … yes I had my doubts!

Finally, I had pity on my poor soul and I decided to end my misery. With a strong dose of determination, I got on my feet, pushed the chair away, looked at the cave one last time, then I turned my back and left. As I walked away from the cave, I felt like a tree in the fall; I felt my old love leaves falling off, winds of memories blew through the holes in my heart, and with every step I took, the distance between me and the cave grew bigger. I let go!

I left my safe and secure spot in front of his cave and walked back into the jungle. I grew a beard and a moustache instead of my long locks, put on a suit, got a gun, gave my brain a break, replaced my heart with a rock, and I made my grand entrance into the jungle as a man. I became everyman’s best buddy. I had a mission; I wanted to know how such creatures think, the way they perceive women, and their decoding of our messages.

My first tour in Tarzan’s world focused on his relationship with Jane. When I was in Jane’s shoes I was baffled by the sudden deterioration in the curve of the relationship. Why would Tarzan start with so much interest and persistence, then he would contract a sudden relationship atrophy syndrome and turn his coldest shoulder to the same Jane he once pursued with so much adamancy?

Now, being an implanted bug in Tarzan’s little head I saw with his eyes, spoke with his tongue, and felt with his senses. Every Tarzan was born a hunter. He hunts for shelter, food, and love. Tarzan would never live in a ready made house, eat a prey that dropped dead at his feet, or get serious with a Jane who is a genie at his command. I saw Janes drooling at the sight of a Tarzan; they seemed to come back to life from the land of the dead once they laid eyes on a potential Tarzan. They shamefully fell for his oldest maneuvers, turned their back on common sense, willingly blinded themselves to his real intentions, and got on a temporary high just to have the blessing of a Tarzan for a few days!


Being a Tarzan in disguise, men handed me their well kept secrets and told me bluntly how a Jane can lose a Tarzan in ten days by making ten fatal mistakes. I took mental notes, wrote in shorthand, and recorded what I could on tape. I knew I had to share this revelation with my fellow Janes.

First mistake: Delete “yes” from your vocabulary. Tarzans get motivated the more they hear you say “no”. Let’s meet after work, NO! Let’s have breakfast, lunch or brunch, or supper or dinner, NO! Let’s watch a movie – home or in the movie theatre – NO! Let’s spend a few nights in Agami, Sharm, or anywhere on planet Earth, NO! Let’s meet every day, NO! Let’s hangout every night, NO! But remember too little is just as bad as too much.

Second mistake: For some reason, women tend to think that Tarzans are naïve – FICTION! Men have a lie detector built in their software. Lie a white lie and he will question your breathing. Lie a colored lie and you lost his trust forever.

Third mistake: Never dump a current Tarzan for a new Tarzan thinking that the newcomer will be flattered. Men share a golden rule that says that if a woman dumps a man for him, she is most likely to dump him for another man. You are just giving him a valid reason to take you for a ride … a quick one!

Fourth mistake: Resist physical intimacy! Men do not understand any of your reasons; feeling close and cozy, attachment and self expression, love at first sight, genuine care, and any other reason you might have are not decodable by Tarzans. All your messages in this area will be translated into one word and its derogative synonyms … EASY! (This rule applies for the first ten hours, days, weeks, and months – if possible!)

Fifth mistake: Enthusiasm … big blunder girls! Curb your enthusiasm. Lock up the thrill in your voice, the spark in your eyes, the pounding of your heart, and the wide smile that brightens your face when you meet or talk to your Tarzan. Let him work for it … they truly like to work hard.

Sixth mistake: Generation after generation men became immune to our natural charms and became allergic to pretence. Ladies, you need to strike a balance between coming across as arrogant, fake, and conceited on the one hand, and being meek, genuine, and clumsy on the other.

Seventh mistake: Don’t nag or plague, hunt or haunt, or stalk or chase your new Tarzan. Give him space to miss you, time to show it, and a chance to express it. Men hate leeches and any type of insect with hanging on characteristics. They also dislike whining.

Eighth mistake: Men are not very fond of shadows; shadows can give them a heart attack or an urge to run. Calling him first thing in the morning, on the way to work, when you reach work, and midday, mid noon, and midnight is bad. Showing up at his door step anytime and all the time is not good either. Avoid the classic mistake of being a “thing” in his car, a “thing” in his house, or a “thing” in his life.

Ninth mistake: “He is not my boyfriend yet” read it, write it, and use it every time you feel jealous, possessive, or inquisitive. He is still a free man, and so are you. He owes you nothing, and neither do you.

Tenth mistake: Madonna’s Materialistic Girl is out of fashion. Tarzans do not like Janes who love their car, villa, and bank accounts. They abhor being treated as packages of assorted goodies, so if you fail to like a man for who he is, not for what he stands for, then walk away while you still can. Tarzan will spare no effort to humiliate you as a punishment for such a grave offence against his mighty self.


Yours truly,
Jenny

Once upon a time there was a caveman

In his bestseller, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus Dr. John Gray tackled how men and women handle a problem; men solve their problems by going into their “cave” and women solve thier problems by talking. Dr. Gray made it crystal-clear that a woman should not follow her man into his “cave”; the more she disapproves of the time her man is in the “cave”, the more he will be reluctant in coming out! When I first read that book every thought came as a revelation and I knew exactly how Sir Isaac Newton felt when he understood gravity.

I will resist the urge to write about how men see us – women - as the reincarnation of the Macbeth witches when we are blue with sadness or red with anger; how we are expected to be ever-so-cheerful, problem-free, and crisis-proof; how we are supposed to give the benefit of the doubt, put our best foot forward, be flexible, open-minded, and tolerant. Otherwise, I will be just another “Egyptian girl”, which in this context is synonymous with party-pooper, killjoy, flat beer, and wet blanket on a cold winter night.

In my younger years, I used to take the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign quite well but by time, that went hand in hand with heartache, I developed an allergy to caves, cavemen, and do not disturb signs. Experience taught me that men abuse Dr. Gray’s “cave” theory; they use it as an excuse every time they want to end an existing relation, start a new relation, or have overlapping relations. A man in need of space means a man in need of a new hunt; a man on his way to the cave equals a man on his way out of the relation; a man who wants to think is a man who wants to weigh the “new cow” versus the “old cow”.

So after years of abstinence, I packed my suit of armor, nails, claws, hooks, and daggers, took a lifetime supply of chocolate, and my favorite relationship survival tactics books, and I hopped on his boat. Prince-charming entertained me with stories, jokes, deep conversations that I never thought men are capable of. He opened up to me and communicated with frankness and transparency. Every now and then I would look at my stack of self defense mechanisms and laugh … “I really will not need any of my weapons this time … lucky me! I finally found “the different man”!” I thought.

One happy morning I found the famous “Do not Disturb” sign sealing his mind, heart, and tongue. He wanted his space, asked for some time to think, then he wanted to be free again, and finally he wanted to go in his cave! The symptoms of my chronic allergy showed on my face, on my body, on my words, on my SMSes, and on my emails … I geared up for war! After exchanging a few angry looks and a handful of accusations, my newly found man went into his cave and I waited outside praying for the best yet expecting the worst.

Dr. Gray asked women to do something fun and enjoyable while the man is brooding in his cave. So, while my caveman was doing what he needed to do, I fantasized about having a shaved head instead of my curly locks, adopting a new cat, selling my dining table, turning the dining room into a walk-in closet, going to a tanning saloon, starting a match-making service, and other crazy things that will be censored! I avoided any thoughts that led me to ask “What is he doing in his cave?” I did not want to think, did not care to ask, and was not prepared to know.

My caveman is not as bad as the other cavemen out there; we were not totally disconnected … there was network coverage in the cave and, to me, the phone represented the whole relationship. I got used to the new form of communication, adjusted my expectations of him, kept him archived in that gray zone between a friend and a special friend, and took extra dozes of chocolate to alleviate the symptoms of my allergy to cavemen. Finally he poked his head out of his cave, told me that he hated women, and then went back in hibernation. I stood there wondering if I was cursed or if a wicked fairy put a spell on me when I was born to get back at my parents!

The caveman handed me a piece of paper that symbolizes his new calling in life; he will lead a “men’s liberation movement”. He will spend what is left of his life advocating male rights in a female-governed community. He will free men from their oppressors …… women! The wicked witches – us – will be tied to a stake and burned to death. Women now have well-paying jobs, leading positions, have no time for being mothers, know nothing about being wives, and are materialistic, demanding, and manipulative. They are compulsive liars, ugly double-faced creatures, and they nag, nag again, and nag more.

The list of demands is not long but it is extremely creative and original. The caveman wants to switch places with women; he will stay home and take care of the kids while she has to work, make money, get him a maid, pay the bills, take him to nice places, spend regular vacations, and get him anything he points a finger at. On behalf of men, he is pleading for equality; a man usually gets the woman a ring upon engagement or “shabka”, why doesn’t she get him something, within the same price range, as well? He is asked to pay money in advance before the marriage like a dowry or “mahr” and he writes another sum that he has to pay if he divorces her. My ingenious caveman wants men to stop paying the “mahr” or else, women have to pay an equal amount. He also wants the “in-case-of-divorce” money to be a debt on whoever asks for a divorce. If he divorces her he pays and if she divorces him, as per the new law, then she pays.

The caveman is urging men to give women what they have always asked for – their liberation; hence, no man should pick up a check, open a door, or carry a heavy bag on behalf of a woman. There were some miscellaneous items on the list; women are fake, full of pretence, and have petty minds and little brains. Once their biological clock starts ticking, women go on a relentless man-chase trying to get a package that looks and feels good, pays and lives well, and wants to settle down. They want a big wedding to show off, a honeymoon to get her girlfriends envious, and a man pour la forme … women look better and are more socially accepted when they are dangling from a man’s arm!

I looked at the list long enough to memorize it and every time I read his demands I felt my arms and legs being stretched out into a variety of contradicting directions. At first I was angry and the feminist in me wanted to smash his head - and his cave. Then I felt a lot of sympathy gushing through my heart; many Janes stepped over the heart of my poor Tarzan. Then I decided to write back a plea in defense of women and condemning men, as I always do. I started with the history of the women’s liberation movement and what evoked it – namely men abusing women on the grounds of having to provide for them. In plain English: I shelter you, feed you, clothe you, protect you, and get you pregnant before it is too late for you to have kids, then I am a man and you, as a woman, should be silently grateful to have me in your life, even if I beat you up, don’t give you enough money, have affairs, get a second wife, or just act like a complete jerk.

But when I came to the actual demands; his demands that reflect how women act nowadays and how the Egyptian society became a foster home for the seven deadly sins including greed, gluttony, lust, and sloth, I had nothing to say in our defense. He was right! We made men view us as bloodthirsty hounds aiming at their lives! Then I realized why Egyptian men prefer dating or marrying foreign ladies. Those blonds do not just have the looks; they have what it takes to bring out the best in our men. They believe in them and in their innate qualities; unlike us, they give them names not labels; they want to share and give; they want to build a life based on honesty, trust, and respect, while we tend to put the cash, the car, the wedding, the villa, the honeymoon, the ring, and all the other stuff on the one hand, and on the other sits the caveman … alone … thinking of going back into his cave for shelter.


Yours truly,
Jenny

All men are JERKS

I have been sitting on that sofa for more than an hour with the ever-so-familiar tear of uncertainty lingering between my eyelids, holding on to my damp eyelashes, and struggling to stay in place. A sense of heaviness grabbed my heart and shapeless clouds possessed my head as I reminisced on how I’ve come a long way from that scared little girl I used to be. I’ve got great confidence, a ton of self-esteem, and a belief that I can handle almost any situation. So why did my intelligence turn into oatmeal, my resolve to take care of myself turn into jelly, and my trust in my ability to create my own happiness turn into shredded wheat when I got involved with a man I liked? What is it about men that can make even a strong career-oriented woman with a long list of achievements lose control?

My stupefied eyes turned to the bookshelves across the room, and all I could think of was a book that I read many years ago and vowed to abide by each and every piece of advice Daylle Deanna Schwartz wrote. All Men are Jerks until proven otherwise analyses how we get trapped, what gets us in trouble, why we get attracted to jerks, how we create them, how to handle them, how to resist their temptation, how to become immune, and how to create a bulletproof jerk-alert system. The book is not about male bashing; it is rather about protecting ourselves from pain, disappointment and vicious circles. Now it is too late to run to my book for rescue.

This is the never-ending story of every woman who is familiar with uncertainty, doubt, insecurity, and loss. Will he pick up the phone? Will he return the call? Will he see me tonight? Is he sincere? Is he faithful? Is he serious? Will he hurt me? Will he dump me? Will he let me down? Could I do better? Do I deserve better? Am I better off on my own? Should I leave? Should I stay? Should I just not care? Once we start asking these questions, we know that the relationship will be coming to a crossroads soon, that decisions have to be taken, and usually the journey back is accompanied by pain and anger.

Who is this man who threw my life into turmoil? He is just a guy who seemed nice, said the right words, and satisfied the needs that I have been stifling for a while – the need to be held, the need to be told nice things, the need to be in a relationship, the need to feel attractive to a man. Women stay strong, unemotional and resolute, keeping all those nasty needs bottled up. We pride ourselves on no longer being needy and we take pleasure in the fact that we can live without a man, and then all it takes to crack our determination are a few nice words, some sweet affection, or promises, that we do not believe anyway.

One taste of the things that I have been missing and I fell into his trap, and then, like the rest of my gender, I am sitting now on my sofa wallowing in self-disgust as I try to pull away from him in yet another round of the battle of the sexes. Losing our common sense over a man is a consistent complaint! Before we accuse him, or any other man, of being a jerk we have to take our share of the blame. We often jump into a relationship too quickly. We trust him before he’s earned it and we assume he’s a nice guy because that’s how he appears to be on the surface.

I trusted him because I wanted him to be nice, decent and everything he appeared to be. I wanted it so badly that I ignored some clear signs that could have warned me to slow down and give the relationship more time to develop. This is the real trap! This is the trap that we setup for ourselves, voluntarily fall into and, yet, keep on following the same pattern in one relationship after the other. We just take off our emotional suit of armor and give our hearts away in exchange for well-put words and well-painted potential.

Daylle in her book, asked all Eve’s granddaughters to write this coming rule on a piece of paper and to glue it to every mirror they look into, to read it as frequently as possible and to never lose sight of it: A man needs to prove himself by his actions, not his words! Be on your guard when you meet someone you’re attracted to until he earns your trust.

This is the mistake that we all make and then we fall in the gray zone between reason and passion. Should we walk away from the mistake or should we wait and maybe what started with a wrong will grow into a right? Reason advocates putting an end to it. There is a voice in the back of every woman’s head that tells her to stop milking a bad relationship to the often very bitter end; to make breaking up a time to experience control and power, rather than a miserable time wasted trying to get over him.

In a firm tone we are reminded of how we have to walk around in the relationship on tiptoe; we are constantly afraid to do or say something that would rock the boat, pacifying him becomes our main objective that we forget what we really want out of the relationship, we exchange the desire to have our needs met with a long list of problems and a huge amount of lack of consideration on his side, we master the art of coming up with excuses for his inexcusable actions, and we know that we will end up compromising our self-respect to be with him.

Passion on the other hand pleads for mercy and holds on to the fine threads of patience and second chances. The soft voice deep down in every woman’s heart urges her to follow her gut feeling - that feeling that got her in the relationship in the first place. Her heart evokes glimpses of his smile, his kind eyes, the sad look that takes over his face every now and then, the shiver that ran through her spine when he first held her hand, the warmth that filled her inside out when he held her, the sense of security she has when she is with him, and … the tears that are rolling down my cheeks now as I recall these images.

Until a month ago, I was one of those determined resolute women who blindly follow their reason and neglected the faint voice within. My friends, who read my previous articles, saw in me a symbol of strength and self-control. Now, I am in their shoes and I can feel the emotional roller coaster they get on a million times a day. What was so easy to preach before is so difficult to practice now. All the books that I read and held close to my heart are like a recollection of an ancient memory, except Daylle’s book that is now staring back at me … asking me to do what I have to do!

On behalf of every woman who is in a relationship that does not feel right, I want to cry out loud “Oh baby if only you knew what you just lost”

Yours truly,
Jenny

Unwrapping the Chocolate Bar

“I broke up with her … she is not a virgin” with these words my best friend, Sparky, woke me up on a lovely sunny Friday. I got in my lazy weekend outfit and I drove to that sunny promenade downtown to meet him. My mind was still asleep, I was not sure of what I had to say to him and I did not know what to expect to hear about her. Shania Twain’s ominous song, “It only hurts when I am breathing”, was playing on the radio and my heart went out to the poor girl Sparky broke up with the night before, yet I decided to keep my thoughts for myself and listen to him with an objective pair of ears.

I pulled a chair, adjusted it to face the sun, ordered a hot cup of tea with mint, looked at Sparky with big green eyes, and told him to tell me what happened. He moved a nervous hand through his tousled black hair and told me in the saddest tone ever “She deceived me … I fell in love with a slut … I will make her pay for it!” Then I was sure that my lovely Friday was ruined. I asked him to leave revenge, judgments, and conclusions aside, and to tell me what turned his angel into a slut overnight.

“I told you ... she is not a virgin … she confessed yesterday … I asked her if she did it before and I was sure she would say she did not … she looked so innocent … but instead she told me she did … I went deaf then numb then mad and I broke up with her … what more do you want to know?” Sparky barked back at me. I knew that he was angry and that he was not faking the attitude.

“Take it easy now and let’s break this down to little pieces.” I said carefully trying not to infuriate him. As I avoided the slightest eye contact, I took a sip of my tea and asked him “Ok … she is not a virgin … what does this say about her?”

Sparky did not take much time thinking, “She is a slut; she is loose; she is easy; she cannot be trusted; she is not fit to be neither a wife nor a mother; she did it before marriage and she is most likely going to do it after marriage.” He said with utter confidence; and as though his problem was suddenly resolved with this conclusion, he asked for the check, thanked me for my support, and left.

My drive home was far from pleasant; I was angry! My sense of justice was provoked and I could see visions of me whipping all the Sparkies in the world with my counter argument. I wanted to pick up the phone and tell my best friend that he is a big fat fake lie; that he is a selfish egocentric sexist; that I envy his ex girlfriend for getting rid of him while I am stuck with him in this so-called friendship.

This is not fair! … he called her a slut, denied her the right to be a wife and a mother, turned her into a cheap piece of meat, and decided that she will cheat on whoever decides to take pity on her and marry her. What about the other side of the coin? What about the accomplice in the crime? What about you Sparky? Are you a virgin? Well, I know you are not! I know you have done it, bragged about it, and never missed a chance to blow your own horn when it came to talking about it. He turned a human being into a chocolate bar and he wanted to be the first to unwrap the chocolate bar!

Now what does that say about the Sparkies we know? What does that say about our society? I guess the answer does not need an Einstein … it is all about double standards. For him it is a subject worthy of pride, appreciation, and admiration, while for her it is a subject of shame, humility, and disgrace. He brags about his big deeds to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, while she strives to burry the deep dark secret. His mom proudly jokes about his adventures and his dad gives him well-kept advice, while her family, if they found out, would rather she caught an exotic disease and died when she was a child.

Agreeing that in the eyes of God males and females are judged on the same criteria, let’s dig deep into the attitude of Sparky. Let’s try to figure out why men, in our male-dominated society, think and behave like that. Let’s also find out the reasons that make girls accept that behavior. Why is experience an advantage on his side and a disadvantage on hers? Why does he expect her to forgive and forget about his past while he insists on a detailed confession of her amours? Well Sparky, I know you are not going to like the answers I came up with.

It can all be traced back and tied down to insecurity. Sparky is after all a scared little boy who does not want to be evaluated, judged, or measured up, or down, against benchmarks from her previous relationships. He is a lazy male prototype who does not want to work hard to keep her happy, satisfied, and fulfilled in their marriage. He does not want her to compare notes and give grades. He does not want to hear comments, remarks, or observations from her, he just wants his cute doll to look at him with grateful eyes and thank him for being in her life. He does not want to listen to her needs; he wants to hear how good he makes her feel and how much of an expert he is.

Sparky wants to play master-slave with her; she will never complain, leave him, or get a life, while he is busy with his wild goose chases. She will never threaten to walk out on their marriage, or dump him for negligence and first-degree murder of the love she had for him. He wants to be the source of whatever knowledge she acquires, and as her sole and prime teacher he will teach her the uses and benefits of yes, thank you, and you are the best!

Now let’s examine her ... what is wrong with us girls? Why do we let the Sparkies get away with it? I know it is easier asked than answered … but let me try … it is years and generations of accumulated traditions that tied our hands to our feet, blindfolded our eyes and gagged our mouths. I could not tell Sparky in his face that he is a hypocrite … I could not tell him that it is a two way street; if she is loose then he is loose and if she will cheat on her husband then he will cheat on his wife. For having sex, he could not trust her, so why would any other girl trust him?

She could have easily lied ... she could have easily rewrapped the chocolate bar. The price of a pair of Italian boots would have saved her pride and would have made her a happy bride. When she was honest she was rejected. Sparky did not appreciate the fact that she respected him enough to tell him the truth. His lame mental capabilities did not help him realize that an honest mother is better than a rewrapped chocolate bar. I am sure that next time she will get smarter and swear on her mother’s life that she does not know how babies are made, and I am sure that the next Sparky, like all the other Sparkies, would rather be lied to than faced with such an ugly truth! I wonder how happy will the next Sparky be with his brand new rewrapped chocolate bar?

She would start by that one lie and then the lies will never stop. For fear of rejection, she will deny herself, forever, the right to share with him how she really feels about their marriage, sex life, home, kids, and the list is endless. She will fake her reactions, mask her feeling, and kill her brains … all in an attempt to keep a blind Sparky!

In our circles we see a lot of “chocolate bars” who hold on to the wrapping but we all know how they went from one hand to the other. There are girls who literally got naked with so many men yet managed to hold on to that little piece of skin that, in the eyes of Sparky, makes a girl an angel or a slut. Men are not thinking straight … a slut is not a label; it is a whole attitude of a girl who is willing to lie, cheat and twist facts ... a virgin is not a medical term; it is a girl who is honest, pure and sincere … a girl is not a chocolate bar and Sparkies are definitely not Smarties.

I am not promoting premarital sex; I am neither defending girls who lost their virginity nor attacking guys who want to be the first to unwrap the chocolate bar … I am just asking how can a society applaud something when it is done by one gender and then condemn that very same thing when it is done by the other gender knowing that all religions forbid that thing? How can a man choose a lie over the truth? How can God’s most favored creature be so ruthless and judgmental when it comes to his female counterpart? How do I tell Sparky what I really think of him?

Yours truly,
Jenny

Evanescence

As I drove to the office on a gray winter morning, My Immortal was playing on the radio and for a few minutes I was lost in my thoughts; I wondered what the word Evanescence meant. I took a mental note and decided to check it out when I go to work. The song went on and on; the lyrics and the soul-penetrating voice of Amy Lee touched a place deep down in my heart reminding me that there is just too much that time cannot erase. Memories raced with my thoughts until I reached my destination, and in my office, I sat myself on my desk, switched on my computer, and got the meaning of the word that I toyed with in my mind throughout my drive.

Merriam Webster’s online dictionary said Evanescence means vanish; to dissipate like vapor; to cease to be visible; to disappear. In a game of word association, using any of those words would remind the player of mercury, perfume, or any other substance known for vaporizing. Thinking of it myself, the first thought that came to my mind was a visual image of a man … a suitor who came to our house a few years ago asking for my hand in an arranged marriage setup. My mother was so excited about me meeting Mr. Perfect; he was young, tall, dark, handsome, successful, well off, and open-minded. Mr. Perfect was willing to see me even though he knew that I had moved out and that I was living on my own, I had a career, I traveled a lot, and I am not the compromising type. Mom was certain that she would get to see me in a wedding gown in no time!

As I walked in the room, my eyes captured his deep black eyes, wide smile, and graceful posture. I smiled back at him approvingly and as the evening went on I realized that he is also charismatic, witty, and has a great sense of humor. My mother was happy with the way the conversation was going, his mother was ever so cheerful and my brother looked as though he was already thinking of the mini gym I promised to set up for him in my house when I got married.

Suddenly the room was filled with a heavy silence and all the heads turned to me as I asked Mr. Perfect if he was the faithful type. The question just flew out of my lips and it was too late to take it back. In an attempt to pursue the topic I raised, I said with a struggling smile “I mean will you be able to write me a paper that states that if I caught you cheating on me, you would pay me a million dollars? I would write you the same paper guaranteeing you my faithfulness.” Clearly my attempt to sugarcoat my bomb of a question failed as the silence grew louder.

All it took from Mr. Not-So-Perfect was a clear audible “NO” as an answer to my question, to bring my green-eyed monster out of his cave. Knowing me, my brother excused himself using a lame excuse of having to buy a dog, and my mother, totally baffled, asked the guests if they wanted some sweets. But nothing would stop the provoked monster from his righteous attack; I repeated my question again highlighting the facts that I expected my husband to be loyal; that I liked to play fair and square; that it is a two way street; that I expected to get exactly what I was willing to give; that from a religious stance, marital infidelity is a big sin that men and women get stoned to death for.

Again I kept getting nonsensical replies from the groom-to-be. Matrimonial devotion did not seem to suit his notions. After a long debate that brought my mom to the verge of a heart attack, and brought his mother to a noticeable level of disapproval of me, the bride-to-be, I told him with one of my super aggressive tones “So now you are in our house, looking at my mother, asking to marry me, and you are letting us both know in advance that you would not be faithful?” I was not being sarcastic; this IS what I heard “Marry me and I promise to cheat on you.” He said nothing but his body subconsciously turned to face the door and his mother saved him when she signaled that it was time to leave.

My mother was more than unhappy when they left; she was livid and she kept wondering what she did wrong to deserve a daughter like me. I tried to point out to her where I was coming from but her main argument was that all men were the same and that I was not going to change the world; as long as the husband came back to his house, wife, and kids then he is a good man and a woman should just not ask questions that would lead to a confrontation of any kind. This is how a good wife kept the father of the kids and saved her home! She told me over and over that all men have “little” affairs and women ignore them. She told me that men have different needs and it is their right to attend to those needs. Finally she gave up and gave me that look that signified the end of the discussion and I left the house.

So for me, in a word association game, evanescence would be associated with marriage vows that evaporate faster than mercury and sink quicker than a lead ball; with love that flees the merciless scars of infidelity; with a melting sense of commitment; with a fading respect for family. This was not the end of the sad story; it got worse when I shared the details of my “date” with my friends … they called me a fool; told me that there were no more men who wanted to get married; that who cared what a man did outside the house; that what I did not know about would not hurt me. They sounded so much like my mom and I felt alienated from their world.

Of course Mr. Not-So-Perfect has every right to walk away. With his God-given qualities and mouthwatering attributes he can easily land any girl he wants for a marriage bargain. Why would he bother with me and with my “radical” opinions? Why does he have to justify his actions and keep his promises? He does not need to resist temptation if he knows in advance that he will be forgiven. Men created a big myth ages ago and women believed it; they claimed that their physical needs are much higher than those of a woman and used that as an excuse to justify their shameful behavior. They said they get bored of “eating the same dish everyday” and they need the change. They kept feeding women lies for generation after the other. My grand mother, my mother, and my friends fell for that lie and now I am asked to go with the flow.

I am no longer angry at Mr. Not-So-Perfect … my anger is directed at the girls who suffer from an extreme condition of low self esteem; who locked their pride in sealed bottles and threw them in oblivion; who willingly subject themselves to the double edge of treason and rejection; who would prefer sleeping with the enemy than sleeping alone. We get bored too; we crave for a change just as much as men do. We need to feel desirable and wanted when we are 18, 28, 38, 48, 58 and forever. Still, we respect our vows of loyalty and we value our commitment to our husbands. Infidelity hits the woman’s pride; takes its toll on her self-esteem; makes her feel rejected, unwanted, and unfit. If only men knew how much damage they were causing and how deep a scar they were leaving.

Here goes my girlish dream of happily ever after … to cherish and to hold vanished into thin air … to love and to honor evanesced into dark vapors … until death do us part is just an anagram of “another stupid adult”. Seriously ... reshuffle the letters and you get ANOTHER STUPID ADULT.

“These wounds won't seem to heal ...This pain is just too real … There's just too much that time cannot erase” – My Immortal by Evanescence

Yours truly,
Jenny

Slap Slap … that awful sound … Clap Clap … my baby let me down!

Clap Clap, boys set your gears … Clap Clap, girls on your heels, Clap Clap, boys hold your sneers … Clap Clap, girls hold your tears, Clap Clap, music to your ears … Clap Clap, no time for fears,

Clap Clap, girls and boys are playing musical chairs … an easy game on the dating scene … just jump on an empty chair … just get an available guy … just get an available girl … and as you let go of her, make sure you grab another girl … as you jump boats, make sure you left nothing behind … ditch your partners … switch your partners … just keep going in circles around the musical chairs …

What is happening to us? How did we get trapped in an endless game of musical chairs? Why did we agree to the rules of play? Who told us not to stop? Guys, why do you play ball with your girls? Girls, why do you play dummies with your guys? Isn’t it sad? Isn’t it pathetic? Isn’t it disgusting?!! False pretences, facades, maneuvers, fake words, shallow appearances, and out-of-this-world expectations rule this fiasco.

Men are caught between what they like and what they want; they like the girls that their minds do not want and they want the girls that their hearts do not like. A typical example of this schizophrenic condition is the single version of the cool guy who is seen in all the trendy hangouts, drinks, dances, flirts, dates, and the sky is the limit when it comes to how far he could go with his adventures. Mr. Cool likes girls who share his wild rides and challenge his hunter instinct; who are exposed, experienced, and expressive.

If it is just dating and having a nice time, Mr. Cool has no problem. But when it comes to the forever word, Mr. Cool takes off his cool mask and in a strict tone describes the girl he wants; traditional, conservative, religious, sheltered, and controllable. But is Mr. Cool willing to alter his lifestyle? Is he willing to become an equal match for the girl he wants? No! No! This is not how this story goes. Mr. Cool will eventually get married to a girl who will not threaten his sense of security; who has no benchmarks to measure his performance against; who is just grateful to have him in her life. Then he will leave her at home to take care of his house and his kids while he pursues the girls he likes.

This is not the end of Mr. Cool … you will see the married version of Mr. Cool in the colleague who hits on you at work, in the client who puts you in one hand and the business deal in the other, in the werewolf who hunts you in outings and chases you in parties – all of them sounding like a broken record when they tell you how unhappy they are in their marriages; how they need someone who understands them and shares their dreams; how they miss communication and passion in their homes …… sounds too familiar?!!!

The girls, on the other hand, lost touch with who they really are and what they really want. Most of us do not know what we like any more. As “good girls” we should dress up in a certain way, go out to specific places, be seen in the company of particular people, be home by this or that socially agreed upon time, and the “good girl” list goes on. It is as if we were born in this world to meet other peoples’ expectations regardless of who we are. Our dreams are always blurred by the influence of a higher authority that dictates the code of conduct we should abide by to gain acceptance.

Someone once told me that human beings have three dimensions; how you see yourself, how others see you, and how you want others to see you. The closer the distance between the three dimensions the more at peace you are and the more stable you become. How many girls do you see everyday stretching their three dimensions east, west, south, and north? They are bending over backwards, denying their needs, turning against their true selves. Take a close look at a sequence of actions that contradict the words, words that defy the body language, and body language that is at war with the eyes all in an attempt to meet expectations, gain respect, get approval, and win a ring on the naked left finger!

If girls compare their expectations of a man when they were sixteen and what they are willing to accept from a man now, they will see how far they are willing to compromise. Is it growing up or growing desperate that drove us so far down the ladder of expectations? An assembled package of your average guy replaced the tailor-made prince-charming; a married man will do if he has the money, a younger guy will do if he has the looks, any man will do if he can make it to the alter!

I quit the game a long time ago and from a helicopter view over the dating arena, I can see the same old story being told over and over again; a boy meets a girl and they are together for a day, a week, a month, or a year, then the boy dumps the girl to get another girl who has not played the musical chairs before. The boy meets a new girl but she played before; her boy let her go because he wanted a girl who has not played before.

The cycle continues and, like a game of cards, when you throw a card away someone picks it up and when you pick a new card up you have to know that it was thrown away by another player in the game. With a mask on his face he promised to love her forever and with a mask on her face she swore she’s never played before. The music is still playing ... cards are handed … cards are thrown … chairs are vacant … chairs are taken … and the game goes on! Bang Bang, you shot me down, Bang Bang, I hit the ground,Bang Bang, that awful sound, Bang Bang, my baby shot me down!

Yours truly,
Jenny

Up-close and personal with Mr. BIG

Before I start my story with “Mr. Big”, I would like to draw a simple, yet clear, profile of such a mind-blowing character…. “Mr. Big” … I am sure you’ve come across a “Mr. Big” at least once in your life.

He walks in a room with his head stuck up; his big smile covers layers of confidence alternating with other layers of high self-esteem. He is known for daring eye contact and can mesmerize you with a naughty gaze before you even mention your name to him. He has the air of a Jane Austin aristocratic hero and his words, jokes and stories will make your hand-watch obsolete.

Wait ... hold your horses … take a second look! “Mr. Big’s” big ego is big enough to swallow you, your pride and your dreams of a happily ever after ending with this charmer. Your slow walking slow talking hero will walk you to the verge of insanity and will talk you into changing your car, your look, your house, your friends, and he might go as far as your mother, father, brothers and sisters. He is ready to whip you with sarcasm and nothing, absolutely nothing, will stop him but a knife in his heart or a plate in his face.

“Mr. Big” will smash your big toe under his big foot and your big love will be expelled in seconds out of his big heart. He will wear his big black suit, put on his big black sunglasses, get in his big black car and will leave you to suffer alone in a big black hole after he has made his big exit.

So back to me and my story with “Mr. Big”. We met ... chemistry was there ... interest was there and it was time to get a bit up-close and personal … I got out of bed, brushed off my laziness and jumpstarted my mind to prepare myself for the first real date with Mr. Big.

We met, we sat, we ate, we talked, we laughed and then we got really comfortable with the conversation:

Jenny: Now that I have talked enough about me and my stories, tell me about the girls you sent home with a flee in their ear.

Mr. Big: (Trying to adopt a humble tone) Oh they are so many … I have dated half of the girls in Egypt and they are just not what I am looking for. You see I am not looking for a perfect girl; I am just looking for the perfect match.

Jenny: (Trying not to look worried about my future) So what went wrong?

Mr. Big: Well, there was this girl who was perfectly attuned to me; she knew when to call, when to back off, when to listen, when to talk BUT she had a temper issue; she could not control her temper when I lost mine.

To myself: You are lucky I am in a good mood today or I would have introduced YOU to MY temper problem. Then I managed to conjure a smile and in a peaceful tone I asked Mr. Big to continue, of course after agreeing with him, saying that she should have learned to absorb his mood swings and abrupt temper outbursts.

Mr. Big: There was another girl who was such a party pooper. She was smart, career-oriented, understood me but she always managed to spoil our happy moments. She was so jealous of any girl I talked to. I know I flirt and she knows I flirt but I am with her … why does she let jealousy take over?

He really looked oblivious to the reasons of her jealousy; I almost sympathized with him!

Jenny: Oh it must be her insecurities taking over. Ok enough about those poor unfortunate girls, tell me about the girls who said no.

Mr. Big: I do not understand

Jenny: (Trying to talk slower than usual) you know, we all have had our share of rejection … So maybe you liked a girl and she was not interested, or maybe you went out a few times then she lost interest … you know the same old story (Now the smile was struggling on my face)

Mr. Big: None

Jenny: None what?

Mr. Big: No girl ever said no to me. I was never turned down by a girl. No girl who knew me lost interest; as long as I am interested I will keep her interested, but if I lose interest she might have a chance to lose interest too, but usually she is too hooked up to break free.

(Now I am really suffering. Mr. Bigs’ words darted through my ears into my heart – I was intimidated for a minute there then I gathered some courage and asked him to give me a real life scenario)

Mr. Big: When I walk in a place and a girl captures my attention, I do not approach her directly, I do not ask a friend to introduce me, I do not try to find out who she is or how to reach her; I wait till she comes to me, till she shows interest and once we are past this step, I know how to get her attention. Every girl has an approach and I know exactly how to approach each girl. I could be a gentleman, aggressive, serious, fun … I could be anybody. I really know how to treat girls and when a girl is mine I make her my queen.

Jenny: (Yeah sure) … ok so tell me then what makes you think that no girl will say no to you … no I am not interested or no I lost interest? (I am going to nail him now)

Mr. Big: I am very self-confident. I know who I am, who my family is, I have an impressive career plus I am smart, witty, fun and handsome (Mr. Big explained with a reassuring giggle)

Jenny: (God, what have I gotten myself into?) Ok … I see your point. So Mr. Perfect, what are you looking for in your perfect match?

Mr. Big: (With the look of a little boy who is looking forward to the next visit to the candy store) A girl with brains, who knows what she wants out of life, who has a life, who has a career, who has an opinion, who is responsible yet dependent on me, who is feminine but not vulnerable, who knows when to come close and when to give me space, who is fun, loving and caring, who is decent, respectable and presentable, who is not clingy, insecure or sticky, who is herself and is not fake.

(Here I smiled and thought that the guy is not asking for much, then I was summoned back to earth when Mr. Big continued)

Mr. Big: This is not all of course, this is the core but there are other things that make the girl win or lose points: there is the family, the upbringing, the education, the hobbies, the interests, her choice of friends, her attitude in public and her social status.

(Then Mr. Big turned to me all of a sudden and asked me about what I am looking for in a man. I was lost in my thoughts; I only want a man who would let me be me; accept me as I am and love me for who I am. )

Jenny: Definitely not a big ego coated in big words and hung up on a big attitude.

(As those words came out of my mouth, a mental picture of my mom blinded me from seeing Mr. Big’s reaction to my words. I literally heard my mom say: “Oops… you did it again!”)


Yours truly,
Jenny

Jenny - Hit by a Bus

I knew this feeling … the feeling deep down that the person on the other end of the relationship is slipping away. I knew it is over and I knew that the more I held on, the faster he would slip away and the worst I would get hurt!

Getting over someone is hard ... ending a relationship is hard ... overcoming a crush is hard … letting go is hard ... I wished it would just hurt a bit then go away … I wished it were as simple as that ...

Now that the hard part is over and I am now vomiting the toxic residues of a relationship that went sour … the leftovers of a guy who poisoned my life! I can look back and describe in details how each step felt.

At first I felt like I've been hit by a bus ... I did not want to get out of bed … I just sat there and hurt from inside ... I could not reach into myself - where it hurts - to try to make it better ... there were tears to go with the pain and sometimes I just went numb then I was struck by this sudden pain which made me drive like a maniac, shout for no good reason, and feel overwhelmed by anger at him, me and life.

I tried resisting but the more I resisted the more difficult it got. It was like pushing a rewind button that would start the cycle all over again.

Then the next natural urge was avoiding my friends ... avoiding the people who would ask me, judge me, blame me, or remind me of the recurrent pattern of choosing the wrong guys. I also avoided those who would pity me, sympathize with me or make me feel weaker than I already am.

I tried to go out with strangers … just faces and voices to fill in the empty hole inside of me ... but the more I did that the lonelier I felt … I was always out of place ... I did not belong with them or with anyone else.

I also fell for the common mistake; I tried dating someone else ... it either went totally wrong from the beginning as I tried to prove to myself, subconsciously, that I lost the only person who was fit to be the perfect match, or it was fun for a few days (novelty has its charm), then I lost interest all of a sudden … I was not motivated to, talk to, listen to, or go out with the “cushion” - yes that person's function was limited to absorbing the pain of falling from cloud nine!

Memories hurt ... unfulfilled wishes and dreams hurt … anger hurt ... a wounded ego of a girl who believed she should have been worshipped hurt ...

The hole got deeper … the wound felt as if it would never heal … it was a vicious cycle that just drained me.

During that time I had urges to pick up the phone and call … to send an SMS … to see if all is well … to see if I was missed ... to see if my presence ever made a difference. Deep down I wanted to give him another chance to say sorry but it was always another slap in the face!

The peak periods were driving to, or back from, work, upon waking up, before going to bed, during meals, in the movies, in front of the TV regardless of what I am watching, before a date, on a date, after a date, with family, with old friends, with new friends, at work ... I do not recall the rest of the times when I wanted to shoot myself!

The amazing part is that once I've hit rock bottom ... there was no where to go but upwards ... so bit by bit the pain loosened its firm grip on me ... the crab that squeezed my heart with its clutches let go of what was left of it ... the memories faded away ... the vivid colors, sounds and scents seemed to have happened a long time ago ... the isolation decreased ... the loneliness became a friend ... I enjoyed my own company again ... the ground felt closer to my feet than to my head and I began to regain balance and interest in my old life and old friends.


Yours truly,
Jenny ... the genius!