That’s the beauty of…
Professors are an interesting bunch of people. I’ve had couple of male college professors who always appended the word ‘beauty’ whenever they are justifying the intricacies of their topic.
One was a math professor, and he would say “that’s the beauty of mathematics”, after parading before us a dizzing equation of Algebra. It was peculiar to find beauty in a mathematical equation, let alone consider it beautiful.
Another was a criminal law professor, and he really was a lawyer. He would say “that’s the beauty of criminal law”. Oh how clinical! If anything it was thought provoking, but not at all beautiful. He would say that smugly after a nice debate, where of course, he would win against any student whom he debated against. I wasn’t spared from the debates, particularly because I thouroughly enjoyed it, but not the ‘beauty’ part.
These professors must be very obsessed with their subjects to consider it beautiful. They devoted all their thinking years in developing and mastering Xs and Ys and sections and articles. Maybe even bring the subject with them in their sleep. And so the concept of beauty has been distorted.
Mathematics could have been resplendent, though synonymous, at least it doesn’t sound pretty. Criminal law could have been perfect.
Humanities can be appropriately beautiful, or Sociology, even Economics. But Math and Criminal Law!
For one, Math is strictly mundane, much like Physics, and Criminal Law is, austere, would very often remind me of Victorian spinsters and shrewd fiscal. Now that’s not beautiful!
Why would I marry?
Oh, why indeed? I can only think of one upside to this commitment: shameless consummation. My fundamentals of marriage considers this primal activity as the only enticing and encouraging factor.
Everything else, to me, is terrifying beyond imagination.
*Babies: are only fun when they’re not yours. Yes they are cute and cuddly and I am pretty confident my offspring will be born with outstanding IQ and aesthetic value. But small as they are, babies have a way of running your life for you, diapers, nappies, feeding bottles, cots, measles, and unimaginable sickness.
So why won’t you have just one? A single child, is still a child dependent on you for its food, shelter, education, clothing, upbringing. And that single child, will, at some point in its infancy through toddler years, scream when it’s hungry, wet, bored, sleepy, lonely et.al.
The amusement of child bearing and upbringing will get old soon after it starts crying. That amusement will be thrown over by hysteria, depression, sleepless nights and poopoo.
*Homemaker status. I am domesticated to the point of gardening and plumbing. Occasionally, I am willing to extend my domestic prowess in the presence of house guests. But I can not resign myself to cook, wash, clean and pick up after someone my age, if not older, who is perceived to be from the stronger sex.
How can I successfully dominate my field of practice if I have to be home before six ‘o clock to make dinner? And while I’m making dinner, should he be really lounging on the sofa watching TV or busily reading the news online?
Why must a married woman become a wife? And why does wife sound so demeaning? Wife is almost the personification of housework. I don’t like the idea of performing most of the domestic chores simply because I’m female.
*Conjugal property. We’re earning our own dough, but then I still have to inform him that I splurged on something. The only time I intend to talk of my splurging is to extract compliments. It would be better if he offers to reimburse the money I spent for it.
Why must I feel guilty for something I’ve worked for? Why must our shopping monies combine? Should it feel like I’ve robbed us of our savings?
I’ve never been proposed to, and after this, I doubt if I ever will be.
Shutting out the world with Skull Candy
Having an earphone stuck in your lobes is tantamount to shutting the world and the rest of humanity.
I use my Zen Neeon11 as shield when (1) I don’t feel like talking, (2) I have nothing to say, and (3) I don’t want that person to talk to me. Plainly, I stick my earphones in a hostile environment; whether I make it hostile for others or vice versa.
Inversely, I take off my earphones and shut my player when I am surrounded by friends. Ronald and I consider it ethical and respectful to do so, to people we like, and justifiable to do so, to people we don’t like.
It is similar to, “I can only give you one-eightth of my attention, which I feel is too much” or “Everything you say may have a life-changing effect on me, bring it on!”
Which brings me to wonder how some can endure a full conversation with a loved one, a family member or a best friend with earphones on at blaring volume?
Unenthused existential shop manager
A customer complained about my snobby demeanor and demeaning haughty looks, according to a co-worker. The complaint was made last night and unfortunately I was not there to witness her anguish.
This is not new to me, and I do not feel sorry, only bemused. I suppose what she interpreted as antagonistic expression was merely a default poker face usually worn during disinterested times.
If I had the luxury of an acerbic reproach, I would have begged her not to give herself too much credit. Other than never seriously demeaning anyone, save for comic relief, I never give that ‘dagger looks’ look.
But then, she doesn’t have to know that my enthusiasm is as dry as the arid soils of Africa, and my previous superiors and employers can attest to that. Also, she doesn’t have to know that my idea of genuineness excludes staged graciousness. It is disinterest in times of disinterest, the rest are all pleasant, at least to me.
Like all other attention-starved emotional shopper, she was probably longing for the nauseating sugar loaded attention a shop manager could afford her. She was probably hoping for me to jump at her and offer anything that could establish our equality in the world of fashion.
Well, I don’t live in the world of fashion, my existentialism is swinging between the real world and a parallel universe.
