I finally feel that 2015 is beginning this week (it is only the second week of February after all): holidays in the lovely land of endless summer are so far behind us now that they are almost forgotten; there is some sort of school routine going on; I am valiantly attempting to exercise (more accurately, have a shower) pre school drop off and I have, finally, made it back to my favourite cafe (where my aim is to write but I mostly just drink endless cups of coffee (bonus: I have just discovered that they get progressively cheaper after the first one) and dream the day away). I am claiming that the reason for such a sluggish start to the new year is because I am in the land of the lunar new year so officially the new year does not begin until February 19. In addition to buying pre-prepared boxes of SPAM, I have also decided to compile a list of New Year's resolutions. (I encouraged husband to start writing a list of his new years resolutions last night (mostly about how he can improve as a husband. Needless to say the night did not turn out so well for either of us)). I thought writing up my list of resolutions would be rather straightforward, particularly given that I have been hanging out with myself for a few years now and thought that I knew all about me but, this week, I discovered some rather painful home truths that have affected my ability to prepare (quickly or, let's be honest here, even at all) such a list.
I cannot multi-task: I have read the recent articles popping up on my Facebook and Twitter feeds about how no-one can but I thought I could (much like how I was convinced I could do a phD simultaneously while giving birth). My attempt at multi-tasking involved listening to music on headphones through my phone while scribbling notes for a potential story while walking in a very crowded Itaewon subway station on a Friday night. I walked into a pole. Not sure who was more embarrassed: me, the pole or the hundreds of people around me who tried desperately not to laugh.
Listening to music through oversized headphones does not mean that no-one else can hear you! They most certainly will hear you when: you interrupt your best Taylor Swift impersonation to yell at the doors that are about to close you (when you belatedly emerge from your Taylor Swift stupor and realise that is actually your stop); you yell at your bag as you desperately throw stuff back into the abyss; and you yell at your headphones as you manage to get the headphones cord caught up your coat, your umbrella, your notebook and your chocolate bar as you, inconspicuously, exit.
My bag (which perhaps I should forget on trains) is a ridiculous, disgusting, bottomless pit that eats purple crayons, mixes the purple crayon that it chooses not to eat with half-eaten biscuits and then magically smears that mess with some melted chocolate into a cheese stick wrapper to create some rather special revolting grossness inside which clings onto your hand like a Northern Clingfish (this super weird fish that has a suction cap attached to its belly) as you desperately scrounge around looking for a tissue, your phone, some lip gloss or, even, a half-eaten biscuit.
When attempting to make a grown-up impression at places like a bank or husband's work, it is best to not search for a pen in said bag when at the bank because it is gross for everyone when you pile up the mess on the until then pristine bank bench. Just accept the pen that is offered (it will also most likely work unlike the one you finally discover in your bag that reeks of smelly cheese, is sticky and will inevitably also leak all over your hand when you triumphantly pull it out).
Running 10km one day is cancelled out rather quickly when you go off an drink champagne all the next day. Buying clothes after drinking champagne is not a good idea (none of this is to be interpreted that drinking champagne is also not a good idea because that would be just silly). Returning clothes that you buy after drinking champagne will mean nothing if you then decide to dress like Sporty Spice, Fluorescent Girl or some other random superhero you invent in your mind to justify your need to purchase clothes that make you look like you are twelve (although any of this is probably better than the "cougar mother" look that you apparently succeeded with (husband is always so flattering) when you initially bought clothes after drinking champagne).
It is almost impossible to dress kids up in winter clothes and still be on time for school. All you parents who do this are heroes. For me, it is an unattainable reality. Just as I think I have successfully dressed them in beanies, gloves, scarfs and boots on top of two fuzzies, tights, leggings and pants, the following will inevitably occur. One will rip everything off because they need to go to the toilet, one will pass out from insane intense body heat and the third will be lying on the floor (looking like a big pink sumo wrestler) crying about not being pink enough! Eventually, you will leave the house, with no jacket required for yourself because your internal body temperature will have reached boiling point (and you will be wishing it was already time for champagne).
Helping your eight year old with her math homework will be embarrassing for you, her and her teacher when you have to ring the teacher to ask for help.
That to be involved in any sort for a TV show in Korean you have to wear an orange beanie. I am buying one this week in the hope that it will aid me in my quest to be "discovered" (I am only 39 so am not giving up hope just yet).
Meatballs from the recently opened Ikea in Seoul are really good. This from a former vegetarian.
In a similar vein to the fact that I cannot competitively do karaoke (despite the fact that I cannot sing - it is because I am super competitive and someone else (LINDA BROWN) top scores), I cannot watch my children at soccer practice. I kind of knew already that I might have issues when it came to watching my children participate in team sports but, just in case I had any doubts, it really came out on the weekend when I might have, slightly too aggressively, started screaming at my child (in only her second game ever) to steal the ball and kick that goal. Husband has politely suggested that it is best for everyone if I stay away in future.
Last lesson (although I do feel I have known this all along): when in doubt, turn to a 1980's power ballad. Yazz and the Plastic Population: The Only Way Is Up is my current choice (mainly because I have finally realised who my dance muse is!).
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