Between a Carrie and a Bridget

"It's so Sex and the City! I can imagine you like Carrie sitting on the bed tummy down, legs in the air, writing your blog!" 

(My friend Sara B., Whatsapp conversation, commenting on the picture I sent her of my new studio apartment)

Last week, I moved into my very own apartment. Granted, it's a studio (but a big one!) and it's in Dubai (they say Dubai is the new New York, no?) but whatever it is, it is my own. And it's the first time I actually live alone. Now that came with two, distinct feelings: one of amazing excitement at finally having MY space, my bed, my freedom to dance around naked with Lana Del Ray blasting if that's what I choose to do. And then there was this inexplicable ball of knots in my stomach. Something telling me that settling on my own like that could mean I am setting myself up to being alone. Forever. 

And so came flooding in the usual comparisons for single women in their 30s who live alone. Our "role models" throughout the latter part of the 90s and onwards. The Carrie and Bridget generation.

I guess I've always felt a sort of affinity towards the Carrie character. She's a writer who lives alone, in New York City --she wears her heart on her sleeve, writes to the world about her dating life which is constantly going up and down, and she tries to water down her innate romanticism to fit into the realm of "I've got my feet on the ground"...  I'm basically her, if you remove the shoe obsession and the fabulous fashion sense.  

And then there's Bridget, who lately I've been feeling oddly similar to. She's also a writer (or she works in publishing and writes a diary) who becomes a reporter (been there, done that) who is single and lives alone even though she's past 30. She struggles to get to the gym and lose those extra 4 kilos. She gets her heart broken and then sings "All by myself" with a brush in her hand. She gets invited to dinner with four other couples (and she's the only odd one out). She gets asked why she's still single (as if there's a good answer to that question) and is met with a round of "we need to find you a good man" as if she hasn't tried. 

A few weeks ago, I was invited to dinner with three couples. One couple who just got engaged and were telling us all about the proposal. One couple who was just about to get married and were telling us all about the wedding preparations. And the third who are expecting a baby and who were telling us way more then I ever wanted to know about being pregnant. To say that I felt like an alien from another planet is an understatement. I thought to myself: this is it. The Bridget Jones syndrome. Somehow, I've reached it.

I read that book when I was 14 years-old and back then, Bridget was just a fun, quirky, lovable character who was just so desperately unlucky --but it was cute and acceptable, because it was a story, and a good story always ends with the love factor. I never thought of her as a desperate 30-something, in love with a asshole, who has to change careers and start all her life over. And I never imagined I would be in her shoes. 

But here's what I've noticed: It's really the ending that makes it all okay. It's not the fact that she gets her act together, starts loving her job and goes to the gym a couple of times like she's finally taking control. No. That's only what helps her get her MAN. 

Because in the end, whatever the story is... however feminist, however avant-garde, it almost, always ends with something love. 

And so from my little apartment in Dubai, tummy down and feet up in the air, I keep writing my story; one faced-fear after the other.... and as far as the ending goes --I guess we'll see.

everything is okay

Monday morning no longer feels like it has for the past 29 years. It's not the first day of the week anymore; it doesn't hold that same power, the pressure, that sense of dread. It's just a day of the week now. Here, I start my week on a Sunday.

I woke up this morning and decided that everything is okay. Everything is okay, everything will be okay. I just need to let go. For the longest time, I've tried to control everything. Even things I can't control, I try to plan for. I make lists --that's how I feel better about things. To be prepared and avoid surprises. I guess this is what became of me after a series of unexpected events that came and punched me in the face, so, surprise surprise, my reaction is to be controlling. Was to be. I'm letting go now.

Actually, the truth is, the unexpected events probably exacerbated my anxieties but I'd always been naturally anxious. Even as a little girl, I always asked the "what if?" questions. I remember my mother pointing this out to me one day when we were on the Corniche, the beach walk in my hometown of Beirut. My baby brother was running around, and I kept worrying he'd fall over the edge. "What if he trips?" I asked. "What if he's holding onto the barrier and it breaks?" "What if he passes under the barrier because he's so small?"

"Why do you always have to think of all the bad possible things that could happen?" my mother asked me. "Relax. You don't need to worry. I'm here, let me worry about it, ok?"

Ok. If she was going to worry about it, then maybe I didn't have to. And I think it worked for a while. But then she died. And there was no one left to worry about all the things that needed to be worried about; no one but me. And I could not be unprepared again. I couldn't just let things happen to me, without accounting for every possibility.

But then something strange happened: unexpected things kept on happening; despite my lists, despite my whatifs, despite my preparations. Sometimes they were good unexpected things, sometimes they weren't so good.  But they happened anyway.

And now... well now, I've realized that even though I do all my worrying, go through all my anxieties, make all my lists --nothing is going as planned. I am absolutely not where I expected to be. And maybe that's okay.

Monday morning is still Monday morning; it has the same name, it still comes at the same time and in the same order. It just acts as a Tuesday now. And the world hasn't collapsed. And everything is okay.

like a grownup

This last year has been eventful, to say the least, so let me catch you up. I know, it's been a while.

Beirut - New York - Beirut - Dubai

Three moves in 11 months, that's a record for me. Not that I'm not used to moving, back and forth from my childhood bedroom onto the next new experience --and back.

When I moved to New York last January, it was the cool move: girl gets dumped, quits her job, takes all her savings, crashes on her best friend's couch and starts writing a book. It was a good story, so everyone cheered me on and told me how brave I was and I thought, for sure, it's all going to work out. It was like a scene in a movie, and of course, if it had been a movie, I would've found a job, gotten a work permit, finished the book, found a publisher, met the man of my dreams and all that. But it was real life and none of that happened. So after eight months of living in my parallel universe, where I refused to conform because I'm just not the kind of girl who wants to be stuck in another 9 to 5 job in the boring corporate world making money like normal people (who wants to be normal?) --I came back to Beirut with my tail between my legs, not a cent left and an unfinished manuscript.

I came back to Beirut and there I found myself, once again, in the bedroom I grew up in. The yellow walls I painted myself closing in on me. And everywhere around me, all the questions that I really didn't need.

"Oh so you're back from New York?" Yes...  (Look of pity.)

"Did you finish your book?" Not exactly, it does take a little more than few months to write a book you know. (Nod of pretend-understanding.)

"Did you meet someone?" Yes, I met lots of people... but no, not in the way you mean. (Nod of extreme pity, then an encouraging "don't worry you'll meet someone when the time is right".)

"So you're back for good?" No. I'm never back for good. What does that even mean?

What I really wanted to say? At least I tried.

And I'm not afraid to try again.

When I decided to move to Dubai, it was the safe move; nothing cool about it. Girl finds herself banging her head against the wall because she's almost thirty and still gets paid peanuts to write, so she gives in to the corporate 9 to 5, accepts the fact that getting a salary is unfortunately necessary sometimes and tries to make the best out of it. I wouldn't write this one into a movie scene --doesn't sound too exciting. And it was unsurprisingly met with a lot of "You went from New York to Dubai...? Wow..." (and then the look of disappointment, which is almost worse than look of pity.) Like it wasn't already hard enough for me.

The thing is, the truth is, I'm not exactly ecstatic about moving to Dubai. Everything I was running away from is all here in one place on a silver platter with a silver spoon that I don't want and don't care about. But I finally realized that what I need right now, to do what it is that I really want to do and need to do, is some stability. Maybe act like a grownup. At least for a little while.

So just in case you had any doubts, I'm not going to stop. Not the moving, not the dreaming, and definitely not the writing.