© T.H. Warrior – Tender Hearted Warriors
– S.S.P. & E.L.C.
It was one of those days.
Woke up with a smile, just because.
Sun was shining but not in an annoying way. Birds were singing subtly and beautifully.
It was supposed to be a day full of celebration: A day full of self-treat all by myself, followed by a get-together offsite with colleagues. Socializing with colleagues is usually something I would avoid as much as possible. But unless you wanna be the black swan for the next couple of years, there’s not much you can do when the CEO invites everyone to his million-dollar mansion.
For whatever reason, no woman will ever be able to tell, I was feeling good about literally everything that day. Our whole department was going to meet up at my boss’s house for an early dinner followed by wine-tasting. He was a collector. And French, of course. I decided to go for an all-white-red-lipstick-classic-Cindy-Crawford-look.
The first thing that crossed my mind when I saw that palace of a house was how the hell did he keep it clean since he and I had explicitly talked about how normal it was in the Middle East to have maids and how fired up he’d gotten about that.
-“Humans are Humans, not tools, Soph. Maids?? How could one possibly be paid enough to clean somebody else’s mess?”
He was one of those hippy thinkers but a cool and, at least to me, a nice guy.
Right off the bat, he offered me a glass of his best wine. I wore a smirky smile almost immediately. He asked why but I swerved the conversation by giving him a compliment on his taste in furniture while thinking about this experiment I’d read about in college:
A number of older French men were handed two glasses of wine, told one was very exclusively expensive, and one wasn’t, while both were filled with cheap-out-of-the-carton-wine. None could tell how cheap both glasses of wine were.
-“Courageous outfit where there are red hazards all over the place,” said my colleague. She was one of those women who’d always had a salad for lunch and looked at your carbonara for so long that her eyes were almost shout-spelling the sentence: ”Are you gonna eat that?”
-“Yeah, well, I know my way around white.” Was my polite way of saying: “Mind your own damn business.”
-“You know what I heard…” she continued, and then magic happened: Before she could finish that sentence, my boss’s wife gave me a French and warm hug and saved me from having my mental capacity wasted on an hour worth of sheer crap.
-“Antoine is looking for you. I think he wants to show you the new piece he’s collected”, said my boss’s wife.
….
-“You saved me there, you know that?”
-“Yeah, you’re not the first person I had to save today, darling. But seriously, he’s collected this new piece he’d like to show you and bore you with it. I thought you might suffer from that less than office gossip”.
After what felt like a 15-minute walk, we arrived at my boss’s study.
-“Quite a piece, isn’t it?” said my boss looking at a gold lighter.
-“Yes, I can tell it’s also gold in mass, not just the coating.”
-“How could you be this precise without even holding it?” he asked.
“I couldn’t. You just confirmed.”
-“See, this is exactly why we hired you. You can simply sweep in every topic of conversation possible.”
Funny he would say that. That was something I hated about myself. For quite some time, ever since I had hit the dirty thirty, was young but not too young anymore, and was surrounded by a bunch of middle-aged-snubs who literally knew something about everything, I was kinda feeling the pressure of having to go in the same direction:
I felt as if I had to be “on” all the time as if I had to constantly look interested in whatever was presented to me. I gazed around, raised my eyebrows, with my head tilted as I heard whatever the non-sense that I couldn’t even understand. I was a conversation-ad libber whenever words were lost, and an awkward silence was inevitable.
I wondered why that was; right at that moment- In the middle of my middle-aged boss’s study- with my eyes gazing, eyebrows raised, head tilted, looking at his golden lighter, thinking what kind of a mouth-breathing idiot would spend this much money on a tool that could easily be replaced by a humble match.
To my circle of so-called friends and acquaintances, I was the life of the party: a mirror ball whose shine would reflect on all the attendees. Little did they know that mirror ball was once in one piece, was broken into a thousand pieces later, and that’s where the countless arrays of light were coming from. But how did I break? Who broke me? When?
-“27 different types of cheese laid on that charcuterie board aren’t gonna eat themselves!” said my boss’s wife.
At the dinner table, as everyone was laughing at my sarcastic comment on my colleague’s lack of liquor control, I was thinking about what’d crossed my mind a few minutes ago:
Who had rolled their eyes at my jokes and laughed at my dreams? Who’d turned me into this countless-masked presence of a woman who felt she had to shine at all times? Was it even a particular person, or had it just happened over time? Oh god, is this what the 30s are going to be like? Are we gradually all going to turn into these neutral souls of human beings who just fit in and mix well and integrate and colonize and tell good grandpa jokes, just to belong? Be a part of society? Simply a citizen? That’s what life is going to be like? Is that what life is?
Where was this urge of belonging coming from? Was being that mirror ball even a bad thing? Was playing dozens of different characters, beautifully and subtly, presenting them all as if they were one, even a bad thing?
When was the turning point for me to break, to become that mirror ball, have a thousand facets, and not even like one of them genuinely?
From the day we are born, we are given, not by choice, etiquettes.
We are literally given, “given” names.
I was, too, given a name. I was given a religion. I was given a home, known parents, siblings, nationality, in my case, nationalities. I was taught languages. Was told what to do, what’s wrong, what’s not. Who’s good, who’s not. What’s edible, what’s not. What’s painful, what’s joy. Who I should be polite to and who I could annoy. Objects, sounds, tastes, feelings, all were defined to me through the very languages that were taught to me. I was shaped like a wet piece of clay, helpless in the hands of whoever was older, bigger, taller than me. They had authority over me, just because they had been a part of this play called “life” longer than me. I was destined to be shaped by whoever was entitled to have me as a child, as an heir, whoever I was given to.
I was programed to be the “being” they wanted me to be.
This much I already knew. Because up until that point, all my life, ever since I’d found my voice in this world, I’d been objecting and resisting and fighting and questioning those predefinitions, those programs. I raised my objection by being whatever I was told not to be; which was a lot. We, as children, are, enough times, told what not to do. And not even quite as enough times are we told what to do.
As a rebel, I broke the clay art, shaped a mirror ball, and started shining.
…
I was fighting a nasty combination of vertigo and nausea. There was wine, cigarette smoke, loud and tasteless laughter of women of our office, cherry-topped with my confusing thoughts.
What is this? What is life? Why do we go out of our way to belong to something we don’t even know the meaning of?
-“Soph? Are you joining us?” said my boss with a directory overtone, kinda taking the liberty of choice from me.
-”Of course! I’d love to”, was my response, not knowing what the hell I was even joining them for.
As we were heading downstairs, I was praying to god for “it” not to be some sort of sport of any kind. I was too tired and too drunk, and too dressed up for anything physical. Walking, was my limit that evening. Not to mention that I am also talentless when it comes to sports. Growing up, when my father noticed that I was turning out to be tall, he started this talent-discovery-process. He sent me to play basketball: sucked at it. Volleyball: stunk. Until one day, he noticed how fast I had managed to run from my sister and into a wall. It didn’t necessarily mean I was good at running; maybe it simply was an indicator of my high natural survival instincts.
“So, take a seat, everyone.”- said my boss pointing out to his fancy poker table.
Thank god, was what I was thinking to myself- I guess bluffing also counts as one of the few talents I possess.
…
I won the first hand.
Second wasn’t that hard to win either, given how shit-faced everybody else was.
And then came the third, and the fourth. Done and done.
During the fifth hand, I noticed something. Something didn’t quite look right. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, but something was just not right. The pattern had been messed up. No matter how hard I tried and thought and paid attention, I just simply couldn’t read their hands and do the math. What was everybody holding?
Then I made a judgment call. It wasn’t my hand. As fun as it was to empty those snubs’ pockets, I gave in. Not my hand. Not my night no more.
As my colleague Dick, name well-deserved, was performing a highly inappropriate, HR-reporting-worthy of a victory dance in front of me, something hit me:
“Meanings”, that’s what it was!
I had broken myself into pieces because I had failed to find meaning in my life.
And just to stay on the safe side, wisely so, I had created all different kinds and colors and tastes and sizes that Sophie Peterson could have.
I had become everything and nothing at the same time.
I had wasted all my life fighting whatever that was pre-defined for me, reprograming my own brain because I hated the default program that was given to me.
I had been so occupied, trying to redefine everything, recreate as many life scenarios as possible, building as many patterns, if and when-s as I could, so that I could belong in every situation possible, I could fit in every party, I could pass every exam, get whatever the job I wanted, man I wanted.
I wasn’t good at poker because I knew how to play. But simply because I was good at memorizing hands and building patterns based on my memory.
I had spent all my life trying to learn how to react, that I had forgotten to learn how to „act.“
I wasn’t good at living this life. I had just happened to get lucky too many times with the number-games I had built in my brain.
When an actor is on stage and has a full room of audience in front of him, script, wording, lighting, directory, they all become irrelevant. It all comes down to the actor. Can he play his role? Or is he going to stare at the director or the fellow actors for the next cue?
…
All of us have been through that one particular event that either shifted our whole direction in life or had a huge impact on us. It could be a sudden tragic death in the family, failing an exam, a car accident, or even a break-up.
I remember mine vividly: to this day, every time I go back to that day, my hair stands up on the back of my neck. One day I somehow got the courage to talk to my sister about it. She told me something that I will never forget:
She said: „Remember when we had our first PC in the living room, and you loved playing this video game? When the monster in level 3 knocked you down, did you get upset? Annoyed? Insulted? Angry? Or did you continue playing regardless? „
For some reason, at my boss’s house, sipping wine while staring at that poker table on which my colleague was making a certified-life-time fool of himself with his dance moves, I was thinking about what my sister had told me years ago.
I couldn’t help but wonder: what if „defining“ life is way simpler than we think? What if life is just a game? What if it’s just a match?
I then suddenly found myself, having found a new definition for my life, right there in that fancy game room:
„My life was that video game! „when beaten up by the monster, I didn’t get upset; I got up and still had fun. The more he hit me, the more I’d press the kick button, and the more fun I had. It wasn’t personal. It was just a game.“
I picked on a very important twist, though, thanks to my eyes glazed over that poker table for far too long:
Professional poker players don’t bet much on a bad hand. They don’t play over and over again because of their ego or emotions. If they sense that it’s not their night, they get up and play again, a fresh start, another night.
As fun as falling down and getting up again in life could be, you must always have in mind that every getting up should be different from the last one. Life does not always have a pattern.
Finding a meaning for everything is what has cost many their entire life.
This matchbox is like a crapshoot: one burns, one lights up, one does nothing but create trash and ash.
Trying to define everything and having a pre-perception of every single event in mind would cost us our chances, our limited time.
It’s like acting on stage, and reading the „long pause, says passionately, grabs the right hand, etc. „out loud. If you don’t know how to play, it won’t matter how great the text is, how well you’ve memorized the subtext by heart, or how perfectly you have defined everything for yourself. You will always be reacting and not acting. You will follow everybody else’s steps. You will have somebody else’s meaning of life carved in your brain. You will sing their song. You will live their life.
A great actor reads the text, knows the subtext, keeps a poker face, and never breaks character.
The audience laughs; he doesn’t break character.
The audience cries; he doesn’t break character.
A loud sound in the hall grabs everyone’s attention, but his; he doesn’t break character.
No matter what everybody else is doing, he is on stage to play his role.
A role that everyone shall remember.
He doesn’t break character.
…
-„Bless your heart, man… If I knew you’d be so happy, I would’ve taken out my wallet way sooner, but I’m out of onesies!“ –was my comment on my colleague’s inappropriate dance. Poor thing didn’t even know „bless your heart“ in Texan means “I’m sorry you’re an idiot”.
Everyone laughed.
I was then back at the game.
I knew it would take time for me to learn how to play, learn how to act, and manage every facet of my life. The magnitude of this realization gave me the chills on that hot July night. But at least I knew I had something to learn. And I knew it was all a game.
I knew I had to make the show my own.
Had to mark my unique steps on the stage.
Had to always stay in character, own it, hug it, celebrate it.
Had to light the match.
Had to love the match.
Had to live the match.
…