step back from the ledge, my friend
What freak of nature decided that an AIM (AOL Instant Messenger) buddy list can only hold a maximum of 200 screen names? I’m constantly thwarted in my attempts to add the 201st person with the appearance of a box stating, No more buddies can be added to your buddy list.
Man, that’s just plain wrong.
And, no, I don’t feel like downloading MSN either.
everything I ever took for granted/i want to see it through
I am currently in the process of designing a flyer – based around a gorgeous painting/collage (the scanner doesn’t do it justice, and, of course it’s the machine’s fault, not mine) by my sister – for my internship workshop and I have finally metaphorically thrown up my hands in exasperation and decided that both Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator can go straight to hell.
Why I even have the Adobe Illustrator file open in the first place, I don’t quite rightly know, since all I’ve done is stare at it wide-eyed for the past fifteen minutes. Clearly, my creative talents do not lie in the design area.
But I’m going to figure all this out, oh yes, I will.
After I finish eating the rest of my white cheddar cheez-it crackers and check my emails a few more times.
[p.s. The flyer is related to a workshop I’m putting together, regarding “Identity Formation & Self-Esteem.” I want to make that the subtitle, but I still need a short, catchy main title. Give me some ideas, please. Quick, quick! Much appreciated.]
I had thought that three weeks of lazily, obstinately making everyone chauffeur me to places during winter break would take its toll once school resumed, but I was wrong. The 120-mile roundtrip is going well so far – as of today, the second day of school – with none of the exhaustion I had been expecting. And, truth to tell, I even missed all the driving. Looks like the Commuter Extraordinaire is back in business, folks.
The first week or two of a brand-new quarter is always wonderfully relaxing. Today, for example, I wandered into the university bookstore, brushed past all the harried, anxious freshmen, ignored the inner voice reminding me I had yet to buy my textbooks and instead picked a few novels off the shelves. I then settled into an armchair in the corner, my back to the bank of the windows, and read for an hour.
12 noon found me with a group of friends, debating the merits of one restaurant against another. The choice finally made, we began walking, then kept bumping into acquaintances, classmates, and friends along the way. It took us almost a half hour to walk the two blocks up the street to get food. Somayya called me twice: “Where are you guys? You walk slower than slow! I’ll be done with my food by the time you even get here.†Lunch with an old high school friend (chicken shawarma, anyone?). Excellent vantage point right next to the main window – kept running out the door to call after and flag down friends passing by outside. Had reunions out on the sidewalk, trying to maintain our precarious balance between wet grass and muddy concrete. Finally gave Jason his gift of Sami Yusuf’s Al-Mu’allim, which I bought at the Zaytuna conference last December. Ran into another old high school friend, who tried to give me grief about not taking any pre-med neurobiology courses with him. In between all this, I attended two classes, which seemed to consist mainly of even more reunion sessions.
By 4 p.m., I was tired – tired of meeting people, tired of playing catch-up on everyone’s activities over the last few weeks, tired of hearing my own voice in endless (although amusing and gratifying) conversation with people. I immediately thought of my friend D, who, whenever life gets to her and she feels stressed and in dire need of some “quiet time,†grabs her discman and headphones and walks down to the park, where she hops on a swing and whiles away the time.
So I decided to do the same. Drove down to the park, left my car at the side of the street and walked the rest of the way, up the hill to the childrens’ playground next to the skate park. Stuffed my cell phone into my pocket, carelessly dropped my bag onto the sand, kicked off my shoes and settled on a swing.
The park was empty, except for an old couple sitting on a park bench several yards to my left. I glanced at them while swinging, and wondered what their stories were. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed them noticing me, and wondered what they thought of me, whether they speculated silently on who I was and how I fit into the picture, the slight girl with the headwrap and black coat and olive-green pants (“Nice new pants, army girl,†Somayya had commented earlier in the day).
They left soon afterwards, and I was left to my own thoughts. The park was so devoid of noise that, for a split second, I wondered if I had accidentally switched off my hearing aids. I touched my ears, realized my hearing aids were still on, and marveled at the lack of sound. A young boy cycled by and smiled at me. I returned the smile, and his dog paused momentarily, seemingly entranced by the back-and-forth motion of my swing, sniffing at the sand before running back to follow the boy.
After a while, I wasn’t the only one there. To my left, skaters and bikers perfecting their moves and maneuvers in the skate park. To my right, soccer practice on the elementary school field. I chose to look straight ahead, focusing on the juxtaposition of colors before me – the vibrant orange-and-blue jungle gym highlighted against a bleak gray winter sky.
My cell phone rang, an unwelcome intruder, a noisy blare that resounded through the otherwise quiet playground area. I jumped in surprise, and my swing twisted wildly. I fumbled around, trying to remove the phone from my coat pocket, and almost fell off the swing in the process.
“Where are you?†asked D.
“I’m at the swings!†I laughed, quite pleased with myself.
“Really?†she said, surprised. “I’m so proud. So what music are you listening to?â€
“Nothing,†I replied. “I’m not listening to anything.â€
I spent an hour listening to the sound of nothingness, and it was beautiful.
I was talking to Bushra on AIM several nights ago, and right before I signed off, she said, “You know, you never write about your mother.†On this weblog, she meant. Which is true, I know. Over the past year of blogging, I’ve made many, many references to my father, sharing stories about his quirky personality and silly habits, his sense of humor, the way he is intertwined with the countless memories of my childhood.
My mother has always been a teller of stories, but she becomes rather uneasy at finding herself the center of attention – unlike my father, who is always in the spotlight and is comfortable being there. My mother is not reserved, she’s just shy. My cousin, Somayya, always says my mother is the nicest person in the whole entire world, and just as often accuses me of taking advantage of her. She would be quite right on both counts.
This post, then, is for my mother, or my Ummy, as I call her. She is no less loved than my father, and what follows are some of the reasons why I love her. This is by no means a comprehensive list, though I’m warning you, it’s long.
My first clear memory of my mother is from when I was a toddler, the day I climbed out of my crib and painted my parents’ bedroom walls, the hallway wall, my clothes, and almost my entire face with my mother’s beautiful cranberry-colored lipstick. Instead of smacking me, she laughed and told my father to grab the camera – which is why I’m now the remarkably proud possessor of a series of photos showcasing my early artistic endeavors. I’m staring blankly at the camera in each photo, except for the one where I’m licking my lips as if to say, “Mmm, yummy.â€
The second earliest memory is, again, from when I was very young, perhaps four. Our father was away on a business trip overseas, so we all piled into bed with our mother. My little brother and I fidgeted around, then started hitting each other. My mother yelled at me, and I silently cried myself to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night to find her wiping my tears away.
I always associate my mother with kindergarten. She used to help me with my homework, especially the time I had to create a collage for each letter of the alphabet. Most little children are taught that “A is for Apple.†Not so with me. My mother helped me cut out pictures of trains. “A is for Amtrak,†didn’t you know?
Once, I ran several blocks home from kindergarten to proudly present my mother with my plaster-of-paris handprint plaque, complete with my shakily scribbled name at the bottom. I made it as far as our back walkway before I tripped and fell. The handprint plaque shattered into numerous pieces on the bricks, and I sat there and sobbed my little heart out. My mother came running over, gathered me into a hug, and told me it was all okay. Later, we tried gluing the plaque back together. I can’t remember if it worked.
Once, she removed a three-inch-long thorn from my knee with a tweezer. She’s my hero.
I love my mother because she’s a sucker for soap operas. Sometimes, when I’m on break from school and really bored, she even manages to sucker me into watching soap operas with her, and enjoying them. Good Lord, save me from this melodrama.
I love my mother because when we used to drive home from Sacramento in the middle of the night during my childhood, I used to lean my head against her arm and fall asleep. Now I’m taller than her, admittedly not by much, but enough so that resting my head on her shoulder is out of the question.
I love my mother, even though she parted my hair down the middle and scraped it back into a tight braid for my third-grade school photograph. That is the one elementary school photo in which I don’t look like a cute kid. Well, I wasn’t so cute in fourth-grade either; that, however, was not through any fault of my mother’s, but because my two front teeth were still growing in.
My mother taught me how to cook when I was thirteen years old. The first thing I ever cooked on my own was potatoes, so I believe I’m justified in blaming her for my obsession with french fries, a mania that is well-documented on this weblog.
I love my mother because she sings when she thinks no one is listening.
I inherited her high cheekbones, her indecisiveness, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, and also – according to my father – her stubbornness, though I think it’s very likely I inherited that in equal measure from him as well.
My mother hates my loud rock music, and I hate her sappy Hindi songs, so whenever we drive anywhere together we compromise on Urdu/Arabic nasheeds and Sardar Ali Takkar’s Puhktu ghazals, and I love her because she beautifully translates for me line by line, infallibly.
My mother didn’t even learn to understand or speak Pukhtu until she married my father when she was twenty-one. But they spoke Pukhtu with each other all through my childhood, so it was the first language I learned as well. Sadly, I’ve forgotten most of it. We’re back to English and Hindku now.
My mother grew up very poor in Pakistan, with literally no formal education at all beyond learning to read the Qur’an in Arabic. She enrolled in English courses and had private tutors once she married my father and moved to Canada and the U.S., but her English reading and writing skills are still halting at best. In order to write out the grocery list, she removes items from the cupboards, drawers, and refrigerator, places them on the kitchen counter, and carefully, hesitantly, copies down the names printed on the labels. Her painstakingly-executed handwriting never fails to make me smile.
My mother is frugal, though alhamdulillah we’ve rarely had reason to watch our spending. She makes me strictly account for nearly every cent she loans me, and she orders groceries weeks before those specific items even run out. This is all related, I think, to her impoverished life before she married my father, and I love her for her frugality, because it makes me conscious of the manner in which I spend my money.
Once my mother starts laughing, she can’t stop for minutes on end. This is especially true at the dinner table, for some reason. She’ll start laughing silently for several seconds before we even notice. This invariably makes the rest of us giggle out loud. By the time we start the full-fledged guffawing, no one besides her even knows why we’re even laughing in the first place.
I love my mother because she always says to me, “Do what you will. You’re going to do what you want anyway, so why should I waste my breath?†She’s too nice, which is why I get away with all my rebel-child antics.
My mother makes me laugh and then flinch in turn whenever she says to me, “May your children be just like you!†after I frustrate her with my rebelliousness and aforementioned stubbornness.
My mother has a soft heart, and can’t stay angry for long. During tense mornings after an argument, I’ll attempt to head out the door with a gruff “Fi aman’Allah [in God’s trust/protection], Ummy,†but she’ll stop me with an affectionate “Don’t be angry with me†and then give me a hug.
My mother gives the best hugs.
My mother sometimes gets her y’s and j’s mixed up, and I’m sure you realize why this infuriates me so. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times she has pronounced my name as “jaasMEEN.†And all through my childhood, she called me “Thooree,†which I hated. It was short for my middle name, which means “the hidden†or “the veiled†in Arabic. For the record, I love my middle name; it was the nickname that I couldn’t stand, because “thooree” also means “squash” in Hindku – as in the vegetable, yes. As in the vegetable I hate, yes.
Whenever I trip or bump my head or something suddenly goes wrong, my instinctive reaction is to curse, whereas my mother, in the same situation, will reflexively exclaim, “Bismillah!†[in God’s name]
I know (vague outlines) of my family’s genealogy thanks to my mother, who told us countless stories of her and my father’s childhoods while we sat enthralled at the dining room table, asking many questions. She related all the funny stories of my father’s boyhood, such as the time he went over to the next village without telling his mother and along the way got chased by a cow, and the time he got into a fist-fight with an older boy (who, interestingly enough, grew up to marry one of my aunts). To this day, my father insists these adventures never happened, but his own mother gleefully told me the very same stories, so they must be true.
I love my mother because her wants are simple. The way to her heart is through Tupperware containers. I’m serious. Buy her Tupperware, and she’ll love you forever. For multiple sets of teacups, she just might even consider adopting you.
I love my mother because she loves tea and I hate it, but she still loves me, no matter how often I disparage her tea.
I love my mother, and I take her for granted.
[p.s. So, peoples, tell me stuff about your mothers.]
– only because SecretAgentMAN was already taken…
Beautiful and evocative poetry, hilariously insane ramblings
– “a wonderful, truly inspiring story” [via Ublog]
A Road Paved With Pledges and Pain
– darn east coast keeps tripping me up
– safe area america
Graphic novelist Joe Sacco goes back to Sarajevo with his powerful new book “The Fixer” — and talks about why the entire U.S. population should be tried for war crimes. [Click through a couple of random ads in order to get full access to the article. It’s well worth it.]
Do you see any contradiction in the fact that you want to be a part of America, you sell your books here, and yet you’re very critical of the American people?
I have a deep affection for this country, and in many ways living here and deciding to seek citizenship is my little way of taking some personal responsibility for how it acts. So I don’t see a contradiction at all. I see a duty.
Just a little while ago, I was standing in the boys’ department of Target, making mind-boggling decisions regarding whether to buy boys size-small t-shirts in packs of three or five – for myself, of course, since little boys size-small t-shirts fit me very nicely, I’ve recently realized. Actually, I’ve decided to take over the whole boys department, and the mens for that matter, too, because my dad owns the thickest, comfiest, warmest pair of socks I’ve ever worn in my entire life. So I’m all set: boys t-shirts + mens socks = very warm Yasmine. I’m still a strong proponent of toe socks though, don’t worry.
I love Target, I really do. But every time I go there, I run into people I’d rather not. For example, today, while checking out the rack of t-shirts, a young woman of Indian ethnicity approached me, bearing a clipboard and pen.
“Would you like to sign up for a Target card?” she asked. “You get 10% savings on all purchases.”
“No, thanks,” I said politely. “I already have one of those, and I never even use it.”
She looked at me curiously. “Where are you from?”
I mentally rolled my eyes. “Do you mean my ethnicity, or nationality?”
“Nationality.”
I grinned. “I’m American.”
“Oh,” she replied, flustered. “Ethnicity, then.”
“Pakistani.”
She squinted. “You look sort of familiar—”
“—Yes, I know,” I cut in impatiently. “It’s because you asked me the exact same questions the last time, too.” Her eyes widened, and she immediately turned and scuttled away without another word, while I stood there wondering whether to laugh out loud or be horrified at my rudeness.
Okay, so I admit it, I’m such a mean and difficult person to deal with. And the fact that I know it and still carry on with my deliberate obnoxiousness probably makes it even worse a thing. But I’ve never been particularly successful at making or fulfilling New Years’ resolutions, so who cares. The fact is, I just hate being pigeonholed, and it seems to happen wherever I go. So there’s my justification.
I bought my sister a pack of Truffles from Target though. And she loves me now. So maybe I turned out okay after all. Sort of.
slow days
Okay, so I know I’m slacking off on the updating. This winter break has made me realize that I have a greater store of interesting/weird stories when I’m actually in school.
During my remaining week-and-a-half of break, I desperately need to:
– Pay some mechanic hundreds of dollars to replace my car’s valve cover gasket, distributor-o-ring, and rear break pads and rotors – whatever half of those things even mean
– Get traffic school out of the way
– Finish planning and verify/finalize all details regarding a workshop for my internship
– Sell back my textbooks so I can make some easy money again
I’m sure I’m forgetting a few things, but who cares.
Meanwhile, I’ve been spending lots of time sleeping, to prepare for future all-nighters during this winter quarter coming up. Oh, and I made my sister give me a hair cut yesterday. Nothing has recently given me more gleeful satisfaction than watching half of all my hair lying in dark swirls on the bathroom tiles. I’ve been so impatient with it lately that I was almost all set to grab a pair of scissors and chop it all off myself, but the last time I tried that method I was about 8 years old and I ended up with inch-long bangs framing my forehead. Not so great an idea.
And I’ve read about 5 books in the past week. Right now I’m in the middle of Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. Many thanks to Yaser for mentioning it on his site so long ago – I’ve had my eye on it ever since, finally bought my own copy in October, and have been recommending it to everyone even though I didn’t have time to make it beyond the first 50 pages until now. Pi practices not only Hinduism, but also Christianity, and Islam. Such a cool kid. He’s my new hero, besides MacGuyver.
What you can do, if you’re oh so bored:
– Read that book. Seriously.
– Read my archives. (Don’t go beyond the summer. Really.)
– Read all the weblogs I’ve linked. (I think I’ve practically linked everyone and their mother. Good Lord. And, yes, I read all those sites regularly. No wonder I’m such a slacker.)
Don’t worry, I’m not going away for too long. Just a couple days, while I finish this book and be a little productive in other things. And I think I’ve somehow got roped into mowing the lawn this afternoon. I mean, really, what’s up with that?
forget the village, it takes a halaqa
I’ve figured out a great way to form lasting friendships: Go ice skating. This is especially successful if you don’t know how to ice skate in the first place. After all, it’s practically impossible to remain dignified or reserved if you have little or no skating experience. After the people you go skating with haul you around the ice while you grip their hands and repeat, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,†after they see you fall on your ass a bajillion times, after they laugh at you and take photos of you falling on your ass and then good-naturedly haul you back up to stand on slippery ice in shaky skates, there’s really no way to keep those guards up. You’re practically forced to build lasting friendships this way. After all, don’t forget, they still have those incriminating photos of you falling on your ass, you know.
Went ice skating with the halaqa crew a couple days ago. This was my second time, the first time being three years ago. Not that I retained any skills from the first time anyway. The first ten minutes were spent holding tightly to either S or M’s hands and gingerly gliding along behind them as they hauled me around the rink. After we went down the rink once, S turned around and led me down in the opposite direction. “Oh my God,†I screamed, as we whizzed through a streaming mass of skaters, “we’re going against oncoming traffic!†She couldn’t stop laughing at me. F was involved in holding onto the wall and mumbling, “Ohmygod, ohmygod…†M patiently responded with, “Ya Allah…,†while I was far more occupied with frowning at the ice and muttering, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.†I’m a great role model, what can I say.
I refused to lift my feet at first, because I was afraid I would fall. Needless to say, I fell on my ass several times anyway. “Oh, I get it!†I said excitedly to M, after the first fall. “If you fall on your ass, it’s not so painful, really.†I condescendingly patted F on the shoulder and advised, “Falling doesn’t even hurt. You just need to go ahead and fall the first time and get over it.†Served me right for my overconfidence, then, that when I fell the second time, it was hard enough that I got the breath knocked out of me. That was right before I started laughing and the girls crowded around to laugh and take photos. Later, when I had decided that taking cautious, tentative steps on my own was more useful than holding on to people, I made a halting, solo trip around the rink. I got better at it after a while, too. I made funny faces at all the little kids, cautiously dodged the parents, and enviously watched the 5-year-olds who whizzed by like pros. Jerks.
I was admiring the jeans of the girl in front of me – made up of light- and dark-blue patches – and thinking, “Hey, that’s cool, I want a pair like that!†when I fell again. Along came the good ol’ halaqa crew to my rescue, once again. In the resulting confusion as they tried to haul me back up, a couple more girls fell. My sister laughed and remarked, “It takes a halaqa.†I laughed, too. “I’m going to write a book,†I said. “Forget It Takes a Village. This one’s going to be called, It Takes a Halaqa.†I’m amusing, I know.
The best part, by far, was when we wrangled a bucket from somewhere, turned it upside down, and zoomed around the skating rink. M pushed me over the ice while I hunched my shoulders, laughed helplessly and held on to the bucket for dear life. After one turn around, she stopped and looked at me questioningly. “Let’s do it again!†I said. So we did. Fun times, yo.
I’ve been paying for all those falls though. Me, I don’t even know how to sit down correctly – sitting like a lady, as more proper people would call it. This is actually a problem, I’ve realized over the past couple of days. Every time I fling myself into a chair or sofa or the front seat of my car, my butt hurts, and my leg muscles cramp up. And rotating my arms and shoulders to wrap my hijab around my head in the mornings is semi-painful, too. But it was all well-worth it, don’t worry.
This is what M had to say about our day:
Doughnuts from Albertsons: $4
Getting into Iceland: $7
Renting skates: $3
Pushing a giggling Yasmine on the ice while she sits on a bucket: Priceless
Sometimes I can’t believe I’m at least 5 years older than some of these girls.
And just re-reading how many times I’ve used the word “ass†in this post is making me giggle, too. Looks like my inner preschooler tendencies are alive and well. Then again, I would hope preschoolers had a better vocabulary than that. Based on my own experiences with them, preschoolers are far more amused by the word “underwear†anyway. Smart kids.
just another day in paradise
By the time I finished my last errand of the evening today, it was dark and raining. I came out of the grocery store squinting against the rain and fog and bright headlights that crawled across the parking lot. The man standing just outside the doors nodded and smiled at me. He was bundled up snugly against the cold: cap pulled low on his forehead, coat zipped up to his chin, thick gloves on hands that steadily rang the bell for whichever local charity he was representing, perhaps the Salvation Army. My gaze flicked away. I slowed down indecisively a couple feet away, pretended to ignore him, and tried to remember my parking spot. I realized that if I made a dash for it, I could be at my car in no more than three seconds. In spite of the rain pounding down on my head, I threw another cursory glance in the man’s direction. He looked back at me, watching me steadily as I hesitated. I thought of the sixty dollars worth of groceries in my shopping cart, the new shirt I had just bought myself and which I may wear tomorrow, the hot dinner waiting for me at home, and I was ashamed at myself for being so tempted to walk away, as I have so many times before. In exactly three seconds, I could be at my car. In exactly four minutes, I could be home…
“You sure picked a crazy evening for this,†I said, trying to maintain a hold on my shopping cart. “So much rain!â€
He shrugged, grinning affably. “Can’t let a little bit of rain hold us back, you know.â€
I tried to dig my wallet out of my bag, but I needed both hands, and my shopping cart was rolling away. “You gotta do what you gotta do,†I said absently, hooking my foot around the bottom of the cart.
He nodded, laughing. “You gotta do what you gotta do,†he agreed, and came over, holding onto my cart while I found my wallet and dropped the bills into the kettle.
You gotta do what you gotta do.
Sometimes, I wish I knew what I’m supposed to be doing. Or, even better, I wish that I were doing more, even if meant just standing outside in the rain and ringing a bell for some charity while holiday shoppers looked right through me. Sometimes, it’s so easy to distance oneself from the front lines of human need.
“I believe that serving the best ends of humanity means getting out in the middle of it just as it is, not staying home writing checks and thinking hopeful thoughts. The world does not need tourists who ride by in a bus clicking their tongues. The world as it is needs those who will love it enough to change it, with what they have, where they are. And you’re damned right that’s idealistic. No apology. When idealism goes in the trash as junk mail, we’re finished.
“In way one or another, I’m going back to kettle duty on the streets this year – literally or in some equivalent task… I will have to stand still for a while and see the world as it goes by. As I have gone by. It will give me a chance to listen for the far-off sound of a bell rung by a child in front of the Woolworth’s store in Waco, Texas, one winter’s eve. To imagine my father standing beside me. To see his face. To hear the bell of another kid clanging away in the rainy Seattle night. To see his face. And to turn and look at the window glass in the storefront behind me and see my own reflection. If you see me, put something in the kettle. Be generous. I’d hate to have to hit you with the tambourine.”
– Robert Fulghum
Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door
Meanwhile, the Zaytuna Conference is tomorrow. Just the kind of focus I need.
[Flipping through my course notes the other day, I came across a long, scribbled list of things to do, dated sometime in November. This, of course, is how I effectively occupy my time during psychology lectures. Some of these items I do already. Many of them I want to do more often. All of them are concrete do-able things, none of them difficult, or so I believe. Try them out yourself, too. Let me know how it goes. Here’s half of it.]
to-do list, part 1
– Smile at strangers. Watch their faces light up as they smile back.
– Buy a child a pack of crayons and a pad of construction paper. Spend an hour drawing or coloring with him/her.
– Color outside the lines. Autograph the drawing. Hang it proudly on the fridge.
– Show people they are loved. [Courtesy of Abez, who wrote a beautiful post about this once.]
– Sit outside and watch the butterflies flitting around. Sit still and don’t flinch at the bees.
– Go to a public park and spend some time on the swings.
– Strike up more conversations with total strangers.
– Walk around outside barefoot.
– Write real letters. Don’t forget to mail them, too.
– Laugh too loudly. When people look over at you, laugh louder.
– Feed the ducks.
– Don’t comb your hair for a day (or two, or three). Don’t care.
– Sing songs from your childhood, loudly and off-key.
– Buy a meal for a stranger.
– Write a letter to God. [Courtesy of Javed, whose letter I borrowed here.]
– Talk less. Talk more. Whichever is applicable.
– Lie down on the grass and stare at the sky.
– Take the back-roads. Get lost. It’s okay.
– Blow air-kisses.
– Pay for the car behind yours at the tollbooth.
– Speak in a voice different from your normal one, all day. [Courtesy of Chai, whose actual advice was, “Walk around everywhere speaking with a voice that is unbefitting your body type.†Absolutely hilarious.]
– Tell yourself you are beautiful. Believe it.
– Invest in flip-flops. Toe socks optional.
– Call up a long-lost friend.
– Give someone the gift of your time and undivided attention.
– Crinkle your eyes when you smile. Make it look genuine, not as if you’re squinting.
– Buy more fuzzy socks.
– Pick flowers for special people.
– Open the door for someone.
– Go on road trips. Drive safely.
– Volunteer. For something. Anything.
[If you have any to add, share ’em in the comment box.]