Fight or Flight?

It happens to be a legit medical term; “fight, or flight”. When you are under stress or some sort of attack the body, the brain, the nerves are all faced with the reaction to either fight or take flight. And how does the body show this uncertainty to either run for the hills or throat punch your attacker? Well, that’s an easy one; you blush. When you don’t know whether to run or to stay put, your body, brain and nerves work furiously to decide how to protect yourself; and there it is, possibly the biggest problem of them all.

When it comes to blushing I am an expert. Not at avoiding it, no, at being prize in portraying that rosy glow. Well for me, it’s more like a giant beacon of red, but a more feminine and demure glow is how I wish to portray myself. I have attempted to find ways of avoiding this blushing problem that I have somehow contracted in my years through puberty and a generally painful progression into society. I have narrowed it down to a few sources of the problem.

Firstly, they (and by they I mean “the internet”) suggest that blushing can often be exacerbated by a lack of self-confidence. Secondly, that the body’s response to the “fight or flight” complex is easily triggered, apparently it is a medical condition; and thirdly, clumped together is emotional stress, social anxiety and being love struck.  As far as I’m concerned I think my levels of self-confidence are we they should be, not overly self-confident in which people find it painful to be around me, and not lacking self-confidence to the point where I find it painful to be around myself. More importantly, I’m 90% sure I don’t suffer from a scary medical condition with an unattractive name. I’m just a serial blusher due to reason three, emotional stress, social anxiety and being love struck.

Because everyone has blushed at some stage in their lives I feel eyes rolling about my blushing complex. In which case you may roll away, because it may not be a medical condition but it is turning out to be problematic in my life. Social anxiety, otherwise known as “awkward moments”, fly around Grahamstown (and life in general) like it is going out of fashion. What is important to note here is that I find myself in awkward situations far too often; and most of them develop from the very similar blush inducing problem, being love struck. I’m not proud, but because I harbor a fear of one day blushing to my death, I have become rather apt at avoiding said awkward moments. For example I once hid behind a car to avoid social interaction with a once struck upon love. It wasn’t successful, but the attempt was made.

I realise that I’m going about this the wrong way, that indeed flight is not the best option in tackling the attack of social anxiety. But faced with the prospect of looking like a stop street when shoved into an emotionally distressing situation I struggle to see a way out of this. I’m pretty certain that I’m not the only serial blusher out there. Everyone goes trough a bout of awkward moments that you’d just rather avoid, because you know very well that the moment the social anxiety hits that face of yours is going show every uncomfortable thought you have in the most subtle colour of them all, blood red.

Coming to terms with my blushing problem has given me two options. I can either, continue in flight mode and avoid those awkward moments altogether and live a blush free and happy life. Or, I can change over into fight mode, and walk head on into those awkward moments filled with embarrassment, social anxiety, and emotional stress and just hope like hell my face doesn’t react differently.

 

The Game Changer

There is something to be said for being able to play “The Game”. Of course there are no defined rules, it’s like prison rules. Anything goes. But when did romance become a sport, a game of people’s feelings? Excuse my naivety but shouldn’t it be, that if you like a girl (or boy) you say something, or do something to make sure she knows it, isn’t this what Shakespeare taught us, what Hollywood shows us and what most love Ballads proclaim? I’ve clearly missed the memo.

I can’t be the only one on the playing field who feels like the smallest player on a rugby team. I’m sure there are other “players” out there hoping someone will call the ref for a time out. If we’re all running around hoping to “win”, then surely by way of playing the game, someone is going to lose? No body likes to lose, so you kit up and face the opponent.

I’ll be honest; I’m no good at this game. I can’t ignore someone if I like them, pretend not to be interested in their interests, flirt with their friends to make them jealous. These Jedi mind tricks are just too much for me, making me look like Bambi on ice. And what’s worse than being useless at the game? Playing against a pro; someone who is fearless when it comes to ignoring you, pretending not to be interested, flirting with your friends, and then roundhouse kicking the logic out of you and treating you like gold, or an ice-cold beer. These are the players you have to watch out for. Their crafty tactics (like “the back handed compliment”) makes them impossible to predict and more importantly, impossible to escape from.

So here is my question; how do you survive on a playing field filled with seasoned professionals and serial gamers. Do you toughen up, get into training and join them? Do you pull an “Underdog” move and come back and conquer everyone? Is that the only way? Or do you sit on the sidelines and watch the game unfold in front of your eyes, knowing that it’s easy to shout advice from the sidelines, but also knowing you’d bomb out in the first minute on the field.

I think it comes down to this: if you’re an expert at the game, if you can read people’s emotions, play like no one can get to you, steam roll the opposition, get people to bend to your will; are you really the winner at the end of the day? When you become so good at the game that eventually you forget the reasons you started playing in the first place, are you really the champion? I’ve had a lot of time and experience to judge my position on this team. Gingerly stepping out onto the playing field,  I’m going to watch out for the serial gamers, make my way to the goal posts and just hang around and wait for The Game Changer, because chances are, he’s out there failing just as dismally as I am. 

Who gave McDreamy the choice?

My favourite scene from Grey’s Anatomy is undoubtedly the scene with Meredith and McDreamy (obviously). Where Meredith is pretty much begging McDreamy to choose her. The line, “Pick me, chose me, love me” had my eyes welling up. Not inventive in dialogue but the emotion behind it is incredible. To the non-Grey’s watchers bear with me; its an emotional scene and if you are a closet romantic, such as myself, even you would want to grab some ice-cream and sob a little.

So Meredith asks McDreamy to choose her, and if you are aware of the dramatic unfolding of this scene, you’ll know that McDreamy doesn’t. It ain’t pretty, but it makes for great TV. I was team Grey all the way I’ll have you know and was just as crushed as anyone when he made the decision to, well not choose her, pick her or love her. So here is my huge issue with the situation and I’m finding this happen to me more and more in sweet, innocent little Grahamstown. Why, oh why oh why did we give “McDreamy” the choice?

                                    

Rhodes has about 7000 students give or take a few. Of those 7000 more than half are female. Of the less than half which are male, a huge number of them are gay, and of the non-gay percentage a seriously large number are taken. So we are left with a very small percentage of straight single men, and unfortunately most of them, if not all, strive to achieve the position of village idiot.

Now where does that leave me? With not much choice… It’s great for the percentage of straight single men because they are out numbered by the straight single females. And here we reach the problem. Spoilt for choice the Grahamstown man becomes a cross between Hugh Hefner and a fat lap dog, they think they’re irresistible, and they won’t get off your lap.

I’ve found myself in the position of “pick me, choose me, love me” on more than one occasion and I will admit, I have become tired of the over emotional antics. If Grahamstown men/boys – “boymen” are going to have this level of power over women in Grahamstown then I’d like to bow out now. Hand in my girl badge and remove myself from the playing field; because you can only have so many conversations with yourself saying, “He chose the wrong girl” or “Karma will get him”. Karma might get him, but she’s older and slower and it might take a while till you see the effects and feel better about yourself.

                    

So even though, 7 seasons later McDreamy and Meredith end up together, he chose wrong.  Somewhere mid season 5 I think he realized. But that doesn’t change the fact that Meredith’s heart was broken. And if I were her I probably wouldn’t have given him a second/third/fourth chance. If you’re going to make the choice, get it right the first time.

 I don’t have 8 seasons of drama to wait for McDreamy.  And I really don’t have the time, to beg him to, “pick me, choose me, love me”. So instead, I’m going to take the choice away completely. Don’t pick me, don’t choose me, and especially don’t love me. 

NIGHT TIME IS FOR SLEEPING

I decided to blog today. For no other reason other than I had some spare time (a rarity) and I realised that my last post was in 2010, a disgrace for someone who aims to be a journalist. Fact is that nowadays, writing for pleasure is more of a luxury than ever before.

These past few months I've found myself swept up, or sucked back up, into the tiny Grahamstown bubble facing second year, my second year of tertiary education. After the initial "shock horror" of how fast time flies I came to the conclusion that life exists in a vacuum down here in the “G-Spot”, as Grahamstown is referred to by many.  

Let’s take, for example, a few girls in my res. I am a strong believer in the recommended 8 hours of sleep, but if you can’t manage those, 7 hours will do. These hours are what help us to function during the day. However, it seems to me that no one has a concept of time in this place, when to sleep, when not to sleep.

When I switch my lamp off at roughly 22:30 I look out my window to see my neighbour’s light still on. Fine, she’s probably working late. When I wake up at around 6, that light is still on. What in the name of all things sane is she doing? Is she afraid of the dark? Is she a vampire? 

This seemed to bother me a great deal more than it bothered my friends when I relayed the strangeness of my neighbour. “She sleeps during the day”, was the only reply I received. She sleeps during the day. Is that what varsity is about, strange anti-social sleeping patterns? Excuse me for my naivety, but my subtle upbringing in the world of ordinary suburbia told me when the sun is up we are efficient, we do our work, we go to class, we grocery shop etc. and when that sun goes down and the lights go out, you sleep. Clearly my whole life has been a lie as I am told that this is not the case. "Nocturnal" is lifestyle many of my peers engage in.

My only issue is this, what happens when you out of the G-Town bubble and into the big wide world where, I’m hoping, the concept of sleeping at night and activity in the day is normality? Unless of course my neighbour aspires to be a night watchmen, that may be the case. 

What happens when you've made, "The Great Escape"?

It’s like a cloud that looms overhead, sort of like in a cartoon. It only rains on you. You move to the left. It moves to the left. You try run away. Bam! It follows you all the way out of focus. What on earth could I be talking about? Possible STDs I suppose? No, not quite. What I have in mind, is a little darker, a little less easy to cure, it occurs at the end of every year... none other than the looming exam results.

I believe they fall in the bracket of causes for depression, because as far as I can tell not one single fellow “Rhodent” can truly say they are in a blissful state of mind. Even though we’ve all ventured into our respective 2 month vacations; the truth is, we’re all a little nervous. This exam result indaba has really got me stressing. Even though we made a break for freedom come year end, we are all magically suppressed by this cloud.

Try explaining this to the parents, all you receive is a comment such as, “Well if you think you won’t pass, you obviously didn’t study hard enough” very disconcerting to someone with a fragile state of mind. So I made a sort of pact with myself, and so far it seems to be working quite well. Results? What results? Catch my drift? J

So in this empty void, we now find ourselves with an abundance of spare time; to reflect, to blog and to waste precious commodities like time and space. Some people have tried to find jobs, make some extra cash on the side. To those people, I applaud your efforts, they are already several steps ahead of the freeloaders enjoying their new found freedom.

But what does one do with 2 months of vacation? I thought I might conquer next year’s reading list (not likely but I said I’d try). Other than that, there are only so many cups of coffee you can drink with your friends, or so many movies you can watch. Only so many things you can youtube. What I found when I "Youtubed". Only so many jobs you can help with around the house (this all assuming that you are a freeloader like me and haven’t had the courage or the initiative to find yourself a time-sucking job).

 I think I might go into some sort of investigation on this, what can you do, with limited resources (i.e. cash), limited transportation (i.e. lack of drivers license, or car for that matter).  What is there to do for a freeloader in Pretoria? Probably the same as Grahamstown, who knows, we’ll have to wait and see, you can never get to comfortable. 

There is no place like home

Fun fact. I managed to spend about a week away from this tiny little town and in that week I caught myself saying things like damn, I left my shoes at home. Shock horror! Could it be that through the many Pick ‘n Pay runs for milk and rusks, or the constant wind rattling the window panes or the unpredictable sunshine on a cloudy day? Could it be that in the midst of all the Grahamstown chaos, I had found another home?

Of course they say that there is no place like home, and that home is where the heart is. And that’s true. As true as it can be when you really start to appreciate the things your mom does for you or the benefits of a fully stocked fridge or the beauty of your own bathroom. It makes sense then, that the people who doubled as my family, my home away from home this year would have the unfortunate ability to make me miss them uncontrollably.

My venture back to Pretoria had its bumps and bruises along the way, a ridiculous 9 hour delay at PE airport managed to plaster my grumpy face on for the remainder of that day and well into the night, as it was 11pm when we finally landed in JHB. This aspect aside the real reason for my venture was not to wait 9 hours and then collect a free ticket for future use, so long as it is within the next 12 months. No, it was to celebrate m old man’s 50^th birthday. And here I got to enjoy an evening with my wild and unruly family.

The family dynamics are confusing, when I try elaborate and explain that my Gran is a year older than my aunt and my other aunt is younger then my cousin people stare and a glazed look washes over their faces. So I stop and commit rather to explaining just how I cannot show them off in public. For one thing, my uncle had barely crossed the threshold when he asked me: “how man times have you been drunk this year? Keeping the family name high?” I could hardly respond positively to this when I was swept up by my other uncle (I have 4) and found myself under a deluge of questions like, “how is Grahamstown” and “how are the studies going” and “when do exams finish.”

Exams, the one subject I was desperate to ignore for my week of bliss, unfortunately, no such luck. But I answered the questions with appropriate answers and managed to save myself from embarrassing retellings of any other previous family gathers.

As devoted as my family is to having a good time this was only reflected in the mess of a dance floor and the two bloody noses that had nothing to do with a fight but rather overexcited geriatrics. No matter, my father’s celebration was going down in the books as one heck of success.

I could barely wipe the sleep out my eyes when I was back, back in Grahamstown, greeted by rain, wind and my second family. Only to remember that I had to get milk and it was raining, but it is Grahamstown, and although it holds someone of the people I care most about on this planet, you can never get to comfortable.  

Pedestrians versus, well, everyone

One of the things I love most about Grahamstown is that virtually everything is within walking distance (I use “love” loosely because there are times when it pains me).

Now this is great when you are a humble student on a very tight budget and no money for petrol, but the fact of the matter is that although you can roam around Grahamstown without the need to use an engine, people have cars, and they use them.

This brings me to the war that is constantly raged between pedestrians and whoever gets in our way. Speaking as an active member of the pedestrian society it really brings me joy to shout at passing cars when they drive down the street to fast, or decide not to use indicators or, merely to vent when the music is too loud. This may put me into a category of pedestrian road rage, and it’s a problem. What makes it worse is that it’s not just me, it’s everybody.

It is the reaction that we get which makes it so enjoyable to anger the drivers in Grahamstown. It’s our own personal form of payback; one could call it a silent army, whose ranks are unbeatable. We cause our damage the only way we know how. It is spurred on by the hundreds of pedestrian crossings littered all over town (if they not official – we make them official). There is absolute delight that spreads over every pedestrians’ face when they slow their walking pace over these zebra crossings, just enough to irritate the fuel cap right off.

The reactions vary, some just rev their engines angrily but they all know pedestrians were here first. The best reaction you can come across, and this is my personal favorite, is the “Sneaky Pushing Reaction Method”. Allow me to place it into context; picture a helpless pedestrian, abiding by the law and crossing where it is safe to do so. Along comes and angry looking car, ready for the show down. The pedestrian will not take this lying down and, as per army requirements, slows down their pace. The execution of “Sneaky Pushing Reaction Method” is then put into play. The car, gently edges forward, the pedestrian becomes slower, the car edges further until both parties are stationary and caught in a stare down. It’s not pretty to witness.

The war that we fight day in and day out is probably a universal one, it gets more aggressive further into town where the ruthless troops have no fear whatsoever. We make a united stand against anyone who gets in our way, donkeys, cars, weather you name it. It is unfortunate though, that there are those that risk their lives in the name of pedestrians around the world, but this is Grahamstown, and one must always look left and right (even on a one-way), because you can never get too comfortable.