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.

almost home

These last few weeks have really been a testament to how I've been living my life for the past year, the past few years, the whole of my twenties actually.

I stayed in 6 different apartments in the past month (including 3 in the past week), slept in 6 different beds including one in a baby's room, and carried my suitcase in and out of the office so many times my coworkers are very confused. They keep thinking I'm going on a trip, I keep explaining I'm only going from one guest-room to the other. At least it's an upgrade from the couch.

And when I think about it, this is exactly how I've lived my life throughout my twenties. In eight years, I lived in 11 apartments in 3 countries, had 5 different jobs, 2 "serious" relationships (and 2 shitty breakups). So basically the only thing that defines me for sure is that I am all over the place. Literally. And for the longest time, that's just the way I liked it. I like the idea of being that free. Of never knowing where I might end up.

But lately, I've been craving a home.

And by home, I don't mean my father's house, where I shared a bedroom with my little sister no longer than 3 months ago. There comes a point in your life where you feel the need to have your own space. My own home, one that I pay with my hard-working earned money, with furniture that I own and most importantly: a bed that's mine. Adulthood, I guess you call it.

I'm almost there. The past ten days were hell; it was all paperwork, loans, checks, contracts, agents, electricity and water, credit cards, appliances. All words I was pretty unfamiliar with until now. I went to see an apartment and I forgot to check if it had a built-in wardrobe or a bathroom cabinet or even AC for that matter. I just liked it because it was bigger than everything else I saw.

I had a brief moment of anger when the agent told me "you're married, yes?" like he just looking for confirmation and when I said I wasn't, he said he needed to take it up with the landlord because he doesn't usually "accept" unmarried women. A brief moment of anger.

Then I had many, many moments of anxiety, signing on all these forms and all these checks. Still anxious right now just thinking about it. And I felt completely overwhelmed at Ikea for four hours, and all I did was buy a bed-frame and a mattress. But then I had a moment of pride pushing that huge cart around all by myself. All by myself! Not in a tragic, "all by myself" Bridget Jones moment on the couch with a brush (although I foresee myself having that moment quite often in the next year...). More like I'm doing it all by myself like a big girl and despite the anger, anxieties and overwhelming everything, mostly I'm left with pride and excitement. Because I'm almost there. Just a few more days, and I'll be home.

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.