KINDNESS POLICE (A story about fickle people)

I’m always surprised when someone I know is funny towards me.

 

I bumped into one such acquaintance recently. I walked away from a brief encounter with her wondering if she actually knew me at all. She certainly made no effort whatsoever to be warm or receptive. She was entirely self-absorbed, in a vain, I’m-very-important kind of way.

 

Now, of course I have had plenty of experience with people like that: the full range from mild to extra hot bitches, from the subtle frenemies to the full-on social food chain hoes. But I walked away from my brief encounter wondering why it still unnerved me. I shouldn’t give a damn, right?

 

Wrong.

 

As I touched up my lipstick in the ladies room, I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s two little ponies in the mirror.

 

I immediately thought about how many times in her life she will have to interact with funny people.

 

And, of course, I wanted to write her a note:

 

My little one,

 

You are enough.

You have always been enough.

You will always be enough.

 

But there are people in this world who will leave you feeling less than that. Sometimes knowingly. Often unwittingly.

 

Be happy anyway.

Shine your light bright anyway. 

Talk lots, laugh lots, be open and receptive. 

Or be quiet.

Oh, be whatever the hell you want to be! 

 

But, do be kind. It’s for YOU.  

 

Love,

Mama

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Just before heading home, I was standing talking to a warm person. A really humble person. A pretty important person too. She was actually the VIP of the event we were attending.

 

And, of course my old fickle “friend” headed our way, smiling at ME as if to say “ohhhh there you are!” (Ja right!)

 

My daughter needed to wee and for once, I was glad to rush off to her aid.

 

Because even the “kind” girls reach their bullshit ceiling. And I had had enough for one day.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

P.S. Friends, I am by no means asking you to be spend your days and nights fretting about every person who makes a dent on your rainbow. No, no no!  I am only asking that you be sensitive enough to notice the dent they make. And move on. For you!

 

Aluta continua, as they say.  We’re all on this journey together.

The “Outcast”

I met a woman who told me that she was an “outcast” amongst the women.

She was certain that she knew the reasons.

She said: Well, I’m divorced

I nodded.

She continued: I smoke

I nodded again.

And, I don’t have time for shit. I don’t pretend!

I was intrigued. 

I thought about it as I was standing in the rain outside my daughter’s school one afternoon. I looked around at the many divorced people exchanging smiles, some of them smoking in the shade while chatting to other non-smokers who seemed to like them anyway.

As the kids ran to their respective parents, I wondered about the divorced, smoking loner and what made her combination of the three deadly sins of likability so formidable?

I was intrigued. 

When we met again, all the women were standing in the kitchen, happily talking away. There was lots of talk about school, creative projects, work, ex-husbands, marijuana, travel, bikini waxing and Nespresso. A good mix of chit chat to cater for everyone’s taste. I enjoyed that everyone was so positive, and that talking about potholes, politics and crime were low on the agenda.

I looked through a small, frilly kitchen curtain to see if the kids were okay. The back of sexy woman caught my eye. It was the divorced smoker. Our very own loner.

I jumped on the kitchen counter, next to the scary family cat (cringe) to take a closer look. She was wearing heavy makeup, a mini skirt and sky high heels, her belly button was pierced, she had a bottle of beer in her hand and she had all the guys around the barbecue laughing hysterically.

I was intrigued. 

I looked at the moms in the kitchen. In contrast, all of them had on flats, no makeup and loose clothes.

I was intrigued.

I fell sort of in the middle. I was wearing my standard bright red lip (so 50% makeup) a flowy maxi skirt & a bustier (so 50% tarty) with wedges (so 50% high heels).

I was a bridge. 

I approached the barbecue with caution : Hey, we could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. She replied: Nah! I am not in the mood for the nagging bitches club today. All you guys do is moan moan moan moan. All the men laughed out loud, one of them giving her a high five. Yes, someone’s husband gave that high five.

I reflected as I walked away.

I realised that she right about one thing: she was indeed an outcast.  What she was not right about were the “reasons” she was one.

She was not a victim of her circumstances. She was the creator.

A happy one.

So, I stopped being intrigued.

I decided I would leave her to finish her own story and I canned the bridge ambition pronto.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and http://www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I Believe in Rituals II

I believe in rituals.

I believe that our talents evolve, our fantasies change, our goals shift.

I believe that allowing ourselves the space to create freely is a great indulgence.

I believe in a vision, mission and life policy that allows for edits.

I believe in the smell of babies.

I believe that “I understand” are among the most beautiful, healing words.

I believe in filtering the news.

I believe in avoiding traffic and people who complain.

I believe in tv-less bedrooms.

I believe in taking sides.

I believe in potato chips with mayo.

I believe that you can’t un-spill the water.

I believe in overdrafts.

I believe in routine maintenance.

I believe in self investment.

I believe in self-promotion.

I believe in talk radio.

I believe that humility and prayer will always be fashionable.

I believe in soft light, soft music, soft perfumes.

I believe in mentorship.

I believe in surrender.

I believe in less sugar, less tv, less hair processing.

I believe in ginger chai.

I believe in instrospection.

I believe in Tobasco sauce.

I believe that scrolling on your smart phone during church is sad.

I believe in cupping and dry body brushing.

I believe that sometimes no one knows exactly what you are going through, and that’s okay.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

What You Resist WILL Persist

I took my kids to a petting zoo.  My daughter reacted exactly as expected. She looked for a quiet corner where she could observe from afar.   My son dived right into the rabbit den and chased the bunnies, giggling along.

A woman was standing right next to me.  So close that our handbags touched each other on the floor.  Hers was a fake Louis Vuitton and mine was an old, worn leather Vintage no name brand. They were completely incompatible but had no choice. They had to share a space.

She called out to her son in Dutch. Bad Dutch.

I found it lovely.  Afterall, we were in South Africa.  Dutch is not something you hear every day.  At that moment, her son ran up to my son and grabbed the bunny away from him.  My daughter screamed “Stop that!”  in Dutch to the boy.  It was hard for her.  She doesn’t shout easily.  I felt proud.

The woman responded to her son in very broken Dutch, asking him to find his own bunny.

I looked in the direction of the woman and said “Wow, small world huh?! You speak Dutch too?” I had a big smile.  She said “Yes! We are from overseas, just visiting”.  She had no expression on her face.

She was South African. Dead straight.

She moved her handbag to another part of the playground.

I put on my shades and thought “Strange woman! Believe me, I am NOT in the market for new friends”.

From afar, she said “Your kids also speak Dutch? Where you from?” and I said “Well, yes. We are South African but have been spending some time in Amsterdam, so yes, they do speak Dutch. Kids learn so fast!” She put on her sunglasses too.

She was very skinny, lots of makeup, tight yellow pants, very high heels, hair like Amy Winehouse and her son wore a bright yellow GAP branded top with yellow trainers. The family clearly liked yellow.  Friendship was ruled out right there forever.

I persisted.  “How about you?  Do you live in The Netherlands?”  She nodded and flicked her hair. It didn’t move.

I persisted some more “Oh right!? Where exactly”.  Her answer astounded me.  “Next to the airport” she said.  The airport? Really?

She put her handbag on her shoulder and modelled a little further away from me.

I enjoyed her discomfort.  It intrigued me.

For once, I was not the one shying away from someone.  For once, I was not the one putting up the wall. For once, I was not the one running away from some random woman.  It felt good to be on the other side.

She spent the rest of the morning, trying to convince her son not to follow mine.  I spent the rest of the morning, observing her and wishing our sons would be magnetised further.  We both kept our sunglasses on.  Talking further was not an option.  The feeling was mutual.

I saw her leave the venue along a longgggggg stretch of grass in high heels and thought “I wonder what her story is”. 

About 15 minutes later, there was an announcement on the intercom with my car registration.  When I reported to reception, guess who I found waiting for me? Yes, she reversed her car into mine.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.