a christmas story. or two. or three.

you know that i am a sucker for christmas. though it usually gets stressful around this time of the year, i love presents and always have ever since i got a barbie that came with her own bottle of fragrance. a bottle with a pink bow on top to close it and a heavenly smell. well, at least for a ten year old.

another year, i remember well, i got a new bed for christmas. it was a bunk bed for one person with a desk attached and enough space underneath to play. my parents had set it all up in the lounge for me and how excited was i when my mother allowed me to sleep downstairs. thirty-something stuffed animals had to be brought down in addition to pillows and blanket and when i was finally happily sitting on my bed it … squeaked. loud enough to concern my father who had built it and no, i couldn't sleep in that bed, something was wrong! how i convinced them, by tantrum or smiles, i don't know, but he and my brother took the entire bed apart and rebuild it in my room the same evening.

 

 

these days it is not so much about presents for myself, but i actually love giving gifts. i think there is nothing more wonderful than finding that perfect gift for someone you love and you can already see what their face will look like when they open it. this year i have already declared to 3 different people that they are getting the bestest gift of all and i mean it.

we had beautiful christmases when i was little. well, of course there were the odd ones out like the year when ariadne, our dalmatian, ate the entire goose. or the year when my dad forgot to buy champagne and then decanted a beautiful 20 year old bottle of red which was corked. there was also the year when my brother and i were left in charge of decorating the tree and decided to make a chic, all black, gucci tree and hung black cassette tapes instead of tinsel on it. let's just say gucci is not a good look for a christmas tree.

but overall our christmases were wonderful. i would watch the last unicorn, we would go to church, and then my parents would ring a bell in the lounge, announcing that the children could come inside for presents. first there would be some singing, then a champagne toast, and then i would be led to my pile first because back then there were no grandkids around yet and as the nesthäkchen i was entitled to go first.

my parents made us never wait and sit through dinner before presents. i'm still grateful for that. it also meant more peace on the dinner table afterwards. our traditional dinner is a bit of a funny one and i actually don't know how it came along but we would always have herring salad and smoked salmon with baguette. eventually foie gras was introduced and in recent years my dad always makes a ragout fin in pastetchen as a starter.

after dinner lazy family that we are, we would change out of our holiday finest and put on our pjs and watch tv. i wish i could tell you that we played board games and told stories and danced around the tree or whatever else other families do, but that would be a lie. we would eat chocolate truffles and watch sissi reruns. it was fabulous.

the morning of the 25^th i would usually be the first up and sneak downstairs. the lounge would be cold with a nice smell of candles hanging in the air. i would snuggle up next to my new toys and watch cartoons and probably eat some more chocolates too. after all anything goes for christmas breakfast.

the same ritual each year… until my parents got divorced. then everything changed. mind you i was a grown-up and i guess it shouldn't have mattered. but you know what? it always matters regardless of your age.

my brother started to celebrate christmas with his own family and my mother, well, turns out she doesn't care all that much about christmas after all. i went back home every year to celebrate with my dad. one of my sisters would join us, sometimes an aunt, usually one of his friends who was also alone. it would be a somewhat odd assortment. and while i know that it is probably a good christmas spirit to bring people together who have nobody else and my dad made it really nice for us, it never felt quite the same again for me.

i started to long. to long for a christmas like kevin, home alone minus the kevin being actually home alone part. a christmas with big chaotic house full of a gazillion people, full of family – laughing, fighting, eating on long tables.

i found this here in cape town. the big chaotic house, the long tables, more kids than one can keep count of or possibly name the family relation to, the laughing, the fighting. i loved it.

my dad who has visited me a few times loved it too. this year was supposed to be no exception but then everything changed with his heart surgery. we are returning to a small christmas at home. part of me still longs for that big celebration in the sun. the other part of me is exchanging recipe and gift ideas with my brother and my sister. my dad has ordered a christmas tree and told me i am in charge of decorating, he can only watch and drink wine this year. this part of me has bought and wrapped all the presents just in time and is now praying for the suitcase gods that it will close. this part of me is happy to have a dad to celebrate christmas with, because that is the one thing i have learned this year, that actually nothing else matters.  

A curious assortment.

There are different yoga studios for all sorts of different people. There is Kundalini and Iyengar and Jiva Mukti, there is Ashtanga and Vinyasa, Bikram and good old Hatha, and those are just the ones top of my head. The idea that all these different styles could not only co-exist in peace, but also be taught under one roof, seemed impossible for a long time and is probably still snubbed by the true defenders of (insert your kind of yoga here). Cape Town is a liberal melting pot not only for people, but also for yoga styles. So we are blessed, or cursed, depending on which side of the mat you stand, with multiple studios offering a blend of yoga styles like Hot Vinyasa, Express Bikram, Acro-Yoga in the forest, or Yoga with weights. Seems like we Capetonians like to mix it up. Interesting enough all these studios still have their very own set of followers. There is the old, established studio that gets all the newbies, the one where all the suburban Mums go and a few pro Rugby players (which might explain why all the Mums go there), the one with the really serious yogis and where all the teachers practise, and then there is the one with the models, the acrobats, and the yoga Barbies. That’s where I currently go and yes, I like it. Though sometimes I’m astonished by this curious assortment of who considers themselves yogis today.
The other day we were all in the room before class started; some chilling, some stretching, and some performing circus-like acts. Only one girl was checking emails on her Blackberry. Apparently I was the only one slightly disturbed by the sight of a phone in the room, because nobody else even looked. Back in the day I remember people would ask us politely if they could take a phone in on silent. These were usually doctors or midwives and on emergency call. But she? Call me judgemental, but for some reason she didn’t look like a doctor or a midwife and surely a call back for a go see doesn’t qualify as emergency?
She wasn’t alone though in her profession and it made me wonder if models get sponsored yoga clothes. They always wear colour coordinated outfits, which need to be adjusted frequently throughout the practise to stay coordinated. Well, it’s a tough world out there right in front of the mirror, so you gotta look good while sipping on your designer water bottle. Same goes for the long, swooshy hair and why would anyone tie it up properly beforehand so it won’t come undone while you are hanging out in downward facing dog?
The acrobats are a whole other story. I once saw a guy in tight biker shorts worn over tights. I wasn’t quite sure if that was his regular ballet dancer look or if he was hoping for added sweating thus more weight loss in the heat. I didn’t think he needed it as he had a nice six-pack and strong arms which pushed him in and out of handstands for a warm up. There is usually quite a few of them. One I have seen a couple of times and I swear he must have escaped the circus, because that was the last time I saw such upper body strength and control. I didn’t think what he was doing qualified as yoga, but I will admit I was starring. It was kind of like getting an exclusive sneak-peak at Cirque du Soleil.
Then there are the proper yoga Barbies. They are usually a mix of girls who have either been practising for years or are just blessed with incredible flexible limbs. They look like a proper pretzel while they make you feel like the Weisswurst to go with it. It takes a solid ego to put your mat down next to them and you have to remember really hard that yoga is not about what it looks like from the outside, but what it feels like from the inside. And before you think me really mean, I used to love my Barbies and yes, I’m simply also a bit envious of these genetically blessed ladies.
My mother, a yoga teacher for most of her life, would probably shake her head at what we call yoga these days and who does it. Sometimes when I wait for class to start I do too. But then the acrobats, the models, the Barbies, and I all get into Child’s Pose and the room becomes quiet. That’s the moment when I make my peace with this assortment of so called yogis. At the end of the day whatever brought us onto the mats, now we are here, all doing yoga. Who cares if someone came for spiritual enlightenment or a slimmer waist line? Yoga is for everybody. Even if your hair is too shiny to be true.

P.S. After last night's class I think it is vital for your information that I add another group to this assortment: the moaner. Monica Seles had nothing on the girl I was next to yesterday. She may have just voiced her annoyment with me as I was late (may I add second ever class only!!) or because she was having a hard time, all well and good, but boy I was confused by these sounds coming from her. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind sounds when doing yoga at all, let it all out if that works for you... but she, she must have been practising for a porn star audition. Nobody makes sounds like this when they are laying still and not think of a certain something!

Barbie on the go.

When I was a little girl all my clothes were pink. Of course, what else? Barbie was my best friend and Barbie liked it pink. One time I fell in love with a pair of red Nike sneakers with glittery Velcro strips. My Mum refused to buy them and stood the tantrum following this announcement bravely, because she knew I would never wear anything else than pink, glittery Velcro or not.
Much has changed in my wardrobe since. My friend Katrin once remarked that my wardrobe is pretty grey. Grey as in black, white, navy, and yes, grey. The last attempt I made of wearing something pink was a light rosé knit jersey wrap thingy from Nicolas Ghesquiere’s first collection ever for Balenciaga. I got it because I thought it would make me feel and look like a ballerina. It didn’t. I wore it twice. I still have it though, because I like to think that maybe one day it will turn me into the Swan Princess after all. And of course it is Balenciaga. Almost vintage Balenciaga by now. I couldn’t bear the argument with any future daughter of mine why I gave the Balenciaga to the maid and don’t I love her and how could I do that to her (that’s how I imagine my mother-daughter arguments…).
So that was it, no more pink for me. Till now. I went to Cape Union, my new favourite shop, and got my essentials for Zambia. My very pink essentials as it turns out:

Come now! Which girl can resist a pink headlamp and of course the water bottle has to match. So it seems you can take the Barbie out of the girl’s room, but you can never take her out of the girl’s heart…

The teenager in me.

I was quiet last week, because work stuck me at a stand at the Marketing Indaba for two days. Oh the joy! It ended in a successful pizza evening at Col'Cacchio where I was being adventurous for a change and 10 hours of sleep followed by a full yoga class. It was in fact so full that some new girls timidly asked whether the classes were always that full or if they could still bring more people along in the future.

I will write something more coherent than a weekend recap later, but did want to share something that my yoga studio just posted quickly. In general I hate motivational quotes on blogs, facebook, etc. and don’t like posting them myself but this stuck with me and just made me very happy:

Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times,
Come, yet again, come, come.

In case you wonder, it is by Rumi, who was a 13th century poet and Sufi mystic. I have decided that any quotes by Dr. Seuss and Rumi will get a carte blanche from me.

On another note – I got a lovely email from my sister this morning, praising my blog and my stories and my writing in general. Very sweet indeed. Then she suggested to put my stories in a book and name it something like “Experiences and life of a Teenie”. I’m unsure whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult. I am well aware of the fact that I do sometimes still behave like a teenager, but... I am actually not and quite happy about it. Do my stories make me sound like a teenager? Again, not so sure... Only few excitements actually happened when I was still living at home. I was in fact such a good teenager that my mother suggested I should ditch more classes and have more fun. Okay, she took that back quickly, but you get my idea. Either way, from now I on I shall indicate time and era of stories of my life more clearly.

P.S. The only “naughty” story I can remember, which my sister could relate to anyhow was the time I bought my 1001. Barbie. I was 11 or so and still needed an adult with me to go draw money from the bank with me. Since my mother said I had enough Barbies already (can one ever really have enough Barbies??) and wouldn’t allow it, I convinced my sister to go with. She took me to the bank and then to the store. I’m sure it was worth all the trouble she got in once we went into our sauna in the basement to see the glow-in-the-dark Barbie glow and my little face glowing as well.

Dr. Seuss' wisdom.

Men are like cigarettes and breaking the bad habit can be impossibly hard. Once you think you have done it and quit, don’t be fooled by thinking you may just have a sneaky one for a special occasion slip a few weeks later. You will be right back in it head over heels.  I have realized that yesterday. I’m trying to quit and not the cigarettes. So there I was thinking I could pull a sneaky one and wham! Smacked over the head, I realized that for me the sneaky ‘once in a while and will do no harm’ occasion does not work. Unfortunately I am an all or nothing girl. I know that moderation is the key to everything, even though my Mum would not agree how I twist her principal here to make it suit my mood. It doesn’t matter though, because I’m just no good at it and that blows.

So now I am attempting the nothing and having realized that lots of smokes and wine only help so far, I am trying to go the get busy and organize route. Organizing the outside always organizes my inside. Even when I was a child the last resort to save a crappy day for me was to sort my Barbie clothes and accessories. It always worked like a charm.

Due to a sad lack of Barbies in my life I started here with new colours and layout. I wasn’t feeling the girly, balmy lavender anymore, but was craving something more electric and eclectic. For the time being at least. I am one of these people who frequently move their furniture around to get a new perspective on things without moving (well, I frequently do that too, who am I kidding). I decided I can do the same with my blog. There you have it. I was able to take my sunglasses off after a while, so no worries, your eyes will get used to it. I’m also trying to infiltrate some energy into myself and my writing which I am not feeling right now and thought some bright colour may help. Will see how it goes. For now I just wanted to share something I found in my little notebook, which I use for ideas and inspirations, yesterday. It makes me smile and it makes me feel like everything is going to be alright.

“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” – Dr. Seuss