Survival of the Fittest

It’s the most wonderful time of the year: a period which overloads the senses with a delightful cacophony of sweet smelling Valentines roses, seductive heart shaped chocolates, alluring Easter eggs, and best of all: sidewalk sales. Braving the commercial world really becomes a survival of the fittest, and it all starts in the carpark.

Pulling up to the shopping destination of your choice usually means that you’re in a good mood, especially if it’s the first social interaction you have had in months thanks to the sufficient mountains of homework your adoring teachers have lavished upon you. The perfect parking spot suddenly lands in your crosshairs, immediately boosting your dopamine levels. Just as you are about to claim your trophy, it gets poached by a serial shopper behind the wheel of her husband’s BMW.

Ah, but never fear, for the car guard is already eagerly directing you to another open spot – yes, the same spot you also saw, but decided against because it exceeded the ten step limit set in place by women for optimal travelling distance between the car and the entrance.

Finally, you are able to cross the threshold as the bittersweet aroma of stale sweat and bountiful bargains fills your nostrils. You are now on the prowl for the deal – or deals – of the century, especially considering that this may be your last exposure to societal norms for the century due to the length of your to-do list.

Before any feelings of guilt are able to blind you, you hone in on that dream item. Your toes start tingling, and not only because your beautiful shoes are a little too tight. Suddenly, your spider senses engage because the predator adjacent to you is aiming for the same item – your item. A battle for your honour now ensues, complete with speedwalking and the exchange of dirty looks and hairy eyeballs. Fortunately you are able to pounce first, displaying your obvious superiority.

This routine is repeated several times throughout your expedition, making you realise that your suspicions are indeed true: you have superpowers.

Once you have run out of space for the pile of your new possessions, you stumble towards where you think you parked your car, slightly weighed down by all your packets. You can’t help but feel a little smug, until that annoying car guard magically reappears. You are spotted from the opposite end of the lot, causing the guard to break out into a sprint towards you. As soon as the guard is close enough, he assaults you with puppy dog eyes. You can’t help but notice the luminescent vest strapped tightly to his gut. That is when you realise that your service to humanity for the sake of fashion is embodied by the silver coin you dig out of your now empty purse and place in his palm.

Seeing this battleground disappear in your rear-view mirror gives rise to a sense of accomplishment and pride. When faced with flight or fight, you fought with your life. This makes you a survivor – and a fashionable survivor at that.

Jars of Fat - a Short Story

She gripped the blade and inspected her pale flesh. She examined to two blue veins - which stood in stark contrast to her skin - through which a regenerated adrenaline was now pulsating. The thrill was heightened when the cold blade came into contact with her translucent skin. Her heartrate increased rapidly. She froze. She was attempting to decipher how she came to the conclusion that feeling pain would be better than her current state of numb consciousness.

The first deciding factor she was able to identify was the harsh announcement of her parents’ divorce. It catalysed the formation of an icy abyss which was methodically ruminating on larger and larger chunks of her being. She questioned whether she would eventually have any shred of identity left. The abundant flow of words of derision flung around her home lately had been collecting in one giant jar of fat. This jar of fat was the first in an encompassing wall of similar containers; slowly contracting and stifling the girl. The fat overflowed and morphed into tears as she recalled stale phrases lacking in affection, yet monotonously repeated: “It’s not your fault”; “They still love you”; “They are only human, but don’t love you any less...”

The words droned on in her head until she boldly made the first horizontal cut. It stung somewhat, but was dissatisfactory since no crimson appeared. Familiar icy words began resonating in her ears, “As always, your actions are a feeble attempt.” These words formed part of an array of greasy stains which degraded her self worth. It was one of the jars of fat which bore witness to her whispered prayers begging to pass away as she slumbered; for she craved the peace she could only hope such a mercy death would bring. However, as she had come to expect, this kind of mercy never materialised.

Thoughts of the same calibre kept beckoning to her from a vacuum within her comatose state. She fought them in the only manner she thought possible: pressing down with more vigour... And yet the crimson remained stubbornly docile. She blamed the jar of fat she thought her body to be. Every time she glanced at the mirror, an inept blob stared back with an unrelenting haunting expression. She undertook many ineffective slimming techniques too. She managed to survive on one small carton of yoghurt every day, but was soon betrayed by her will power. She then turned to bulimia. When that process became too laborious she abandoned it completely, believing that she had once again proved to be a stale human being: breathing, but not alive.

The atmosphere slowly grew more claustrophobic as she saw the jars of fat - her own fat - intricately being pieced together around her. She once again attempted to make the incision, and smiled as success started dripping down her arm. The tingling sensation revived her from the looming comatose state, but also revived the raging abyss. She contemplated her future - was it worth hoping for one?

In this moment of contemplation she met herself. She stared at the crimson stain on her arm. Her thoughts then travelled to her little sister who was sleeping in the adjacent room. She cursed for being selfish enough to think that she was the only person suffering from the devastation which was ripping through their family. She wiped her wrist with the inside of her sleeve and started crying uncontrollably - perhaps in an attempt to dissolve the fatty structure stifling her identity. She refused to accept that the fat was in the fire. She stood up with a new found determination to remain steadfast in the hope that all things would work together for her good.

Boy-Friend = Best Friend

I suppose it's ironic that it took me until Women's Day 2012 to realise that 'guys' are in fact a girl's best friend. The Johannesburg Junior Council assembled at Eastgate for a Freeze Mob against domestic violence, and before long it resulted in one lengthy session of endless laughter, junk food and 'vampire slayers'.

Please don't let me be misunderstood; the female friends I currently have are closer than sisters to me and hence fall into a completely different category. My male friends, however, have the inherent ability to instantly turn me into a five-year-old: which may or may not be a positive thing.

That is why this post is dedicated to my best guy friends: thank you for putting up with blondeness!

10 Reasons Why Guys are a Girl's Best Friend:

- They give the best advice
- They always manage to make you laugh
- They have comfortable shoulders
- They're (usually) tall
- They let you vandalise their arm with a pink highlighter (thank you KW!)
- Their opinions are honest
- They relentlessly offer to pay when you go out together
- They give the best hugs
- They don't get jealous
- It's fun to help them "get the girl"

Before my sappiness becomes completely too much to bear, I leave you with a quote by Tennessee Williams: "Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose."

The enthralling complexity of human nature

There simply is no denying the wonderful complexity of human nature. There are so many layers which conglomorate to form a human being, and an inexhaustable number of circumstances which shape who that person will become. Let us try to deconstruct these layers, starting superficially and working towards the more substantial - or rather, hopefully more substantial - core.

Most obviously is physical appearance: a result of either good or bad breeding, and something one naturally does not have control over. Fortunately for the unfortunate less aesthetically appealing, advancements in the medical field allow for tweaks to be made.

Next, one encounters personality and the perception of oneself. Depending on the person's journey and social encounters, I have only ever met two variations: extremely positive and often arrogant; or negative and hidden by a facade of personal choice - usually jubilance.

Finally, the most complex layer involving one's spirit and soul is reached. Herein lies the true essence of the being. It is where the moral roots are found and from where decisions are stemmed. Its strength - or non-existence - is amplified by age, and has various layers within the layer which remain hidden to the outside world. These are compartments containing your innermost thoughts of darkness, pain suffering and obscurity; but also gaiety. It is the most difficult to understand because it is incommunicable. Even when expressed, these complexities are of such a nature that they will never be interpreted in the same manner as you do. It is ultimately this impenetrable layer which leaves one feeling frustrated and misunderstood, as though you were a stranger - even to the person you hold most dear.

A poem which epitomises these ideas beautifully is entitled Forever Strangers by Amin Kassam:

"Each of us
is a passenger
seated in one huge
compartment
going we do not know where
all strangers
thrown together by chance
who travel without arriving;
Who can read the whispers
of your mind
when they are hidden
even from you?
Though you open a window
in the chambers of your heart
though you strive to say
what you feel
and in striving reach
 a state of understanding
there is still one part
one small part
that remains your own
one part
that neither I nor anyone else
will ever penetrate.
    Forever strangers.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Whilst on a trip to Grahamstown for the National Arts Festival, two of my friends and I were walking back to the residence where we were staying and the topic of happiness came up. I, being quite sceptical, commented that true happiness is never truly attainable due to our human nature; we always want more and are never truly satisfied with what we have and therefore miss out on blessings which God so wants to pour out on us.

Strolling uphill in the cold night air, my friend made a comment which changed my entire perception: "That's because happiness must be relative to sadness." It grew quiet. She explained that we can't experience happiness if we haven't undergone sadness. Similarly, the amount of happiness one feels is proportional to the amount of sadness one has felt.

I couldn't help but agree. I then thought back on all my personal pain and sadness over the past few years. For the first time in a while, I gained a fresh hope about circumstances.We shorthand ourselves by staring into the face of our current difficulties. We seldom think to take a step back and see what lies behind them.

In that single evening, I realised that I had allowed my faith to grow lukewarm. I took a step back, and decided not to let my circumstances get the better of me any longer. It is time to start moving and working for the purpose which God has given me. If everyone is able to grasp that concept, a revival and Godly revolution is sure to follow.