A Day in the Life
The sound of my alarm wakes me to the blur of the day. I rotate my head, stretch my shoulders and pull myself to sit up for five minutes. A new day. It’s time to start a new day. My current thing is to do a Wordle, a Sudoku, and a Wordle Waffle in the morning. It’s the kind of hobby I like, a challenge, a puzzle, something that gives my brain the illusion of Sherlock Holmes in action, my childhood hero. With that, I set off to rummage for breakfast. I don’t know if it’s turning thirty, but I don’t seem capable of big breakfasts anymore. Avocado toasts were my thing until I discovered a gluten intolerance. I should get that Celiac test, I tell myself for the hundredth time, nervously putting it off nonetheless.
I ask my iPad to play Taylor Swift’s This Love. Siri doesn’t understand me. I roll my eyes, manually search for it in my songs, press play and open my emails. Time to start work.
I'm wearing a T-shirt with no bra - scratch that. I generally wear t-shirts with no bras these days so I do a quick check on my camera to make sure I'm unexposed for the upcoming meeting. As we do the generic “What time is it for you?” “How’s the weather there!” catch-ups, I realise I don't make self-deprecating jokes like I used to. One way or another, something did change once I hit 30. I just started giving lesser fucks somehow. I don’t take myself so seriously, but I don’t set the tone for anyone else to disrespect me either. I'm more interested in solutions than problems these days.
The hour-long meeting and listening to it all through my earpieces is a bit much. I take 5 minutes to scroll through Pinterest – a site with no likes, no comments, pure pictures. Home décor is my favourite. I have a carefully curated board of my ideal kitchen, living room, toilet, you name it, it’s there. Even a balcony space. I lean towards wood and rattan like those chairs my grandparents had in their village, warm lights and sage green tones. I have a hard time putting those together to make sense, this is not my skill set, but I have a vision. Even as early as January, I would have cursed myself that this was a waste of time since I can’t get a home until I have a husband or turn 35 as long as I’m in Singapore. But now? Hey, 35 seems closer and more plausible than the dreams and naivete I had at 25. So, I Pin away.
It's lunch and I realise it’s mid-May – I can indulge in my absolute favourite briyani from Shami Briyani – the one I allow myself to eat only four times a year – next month! I briefly wonder if I should make a list of things I’m looking forward to in June in my bullet journal. June. I don’t know if it’s instinct or desperate hopes, but I feel like that sense of trudging through the fog should end with this year. Halfway through a year where things feel up in the air. 2023 can only be better. A return to… certainly not the lives we were living, it wasn’t working for anyone. But perhaps, to a life where we are able to predict the elements we have control over and knowledge about.
I use the remaining of my lunch hour to post some Instagram stories and reply to comments or DMs. I read a DM that’s quivering with excitement about something I wrote recently. I’m over the moon, it will be five years this October – stop, really?? FIVE?? – since I started thendraluthaman.com. Yet, every DM feels like the first. That sheer joy is bar none. “You’re so brave, I could never have it in me to be so open about such things!! Well done!!” reads one of the sentences. I smile at that, it’s easier to bare your stripped soul to strangers than it is to share a shred of your deepest, darkest fears with loved ones. Strangers, surprisingly present no judgement. Loved ones, can break your glasshouse of dreams into a million pieces as the shatter echoes in your heart, with a single word.
I scroll through my feed and my stories – for someone who relies on social media for her ideal endeavours, I use it surprisingly little. My feed is heavily filtered, so I make sure I don’t leave some of my toxicity behind. Anddd here’s someone who has given birth. I feel that all too familiar pang. People WILL have children even though I can’t at the moment. What is this mix of jealousy, sadness, and longing, with undertones of betrayal going to do for anyone? I thought I had gotten over this. I make it a point to wish them well, truly meaning it with all of my heart. This is not about me. I can still find someone to share a future with, someone to have a child with. I remember how my period is getting shorter. I wonder if I should be eating estrogen or folic acid supplements to preserve whatever eggs I have left. I steel myself and tell myself to let it go. Yes, reducing egg count and quality at 30 and what not but I can only exercise so much control over biology. I can always move, I can adopt. Why do I think I can only become a mum if I give birth, anyway?
Another meeting, another “Hi! How was your weekend!” Someone talks about the new self-development book they’re reading. Sometimes I wonder if everyone who reads self-development books actually replicates the lifestyles described in the books. Or if they’re just trying to seem smart and fit in this capitalist world that emphasises you need to be hustling every minute of your life. I realise I’m still young under some context but I don’t understand how people still don’t see life doesn't happen in the big bangs. Life happens in the mundane, the ordinary. The every day, the plain. I catch an image of myself during the video call, I’m surprised by my looks. No to be precise, I’m surprised I like my reflection. And I’m not even wearing makeup! I tear my eyes away, to make sure no one else catches me and wonders if I’m staring at my reflection and how self-obsessed I must be. This feeling of liking how I look is still new. But, I love it.
Finally, work has ended and I rush to the window, hoping I’m in time. Whatever happened to those pastel sunsets I love? Do they not show up during the heatwave because of climate change or something?
I do my chores, I listen to Amma as she talks about her day, I eat my dinner and unlock my computer again. This time, for what keeps me going. I read things, I write things, I type things. This is the time of the day where all of me comes alive, a delicate dance on my keyboard, the paper a tapestry upon which I weave my life. I feel as content as I can be; in the grand scheme of things, I truly believe I’m more blessed than the average person and luckier. Yes, I have things I wish were different, but I also have things I never thought I would have. And for that, I send a quick thank you to the shimmering stars of the night.
I decide it’s time to call it a day, and set off to do my night routine before getting into bed. Pimples have become such a bitch in my thirties I realise as I look in the mirror. Sure, they were an endless nightmare in my teens but they felt more like Whac-A-Mole then. Now, they feel like a reminder of my non-conformity; the way some people insist on how odd it is for me to be unmarried at my age, how I stand out, like how my very existence is all they choose to see. The last couple of pimples that popped up because of all the mask-wearing left marks. With the exception of the hyperpigmentation around my eye, I had near flawless skin. Now, I have marks. I pick up my dark spot correcting serum that still pricks me with its cost. “The best investment I can make is on me,” I reassure myself and dispense the serum into my palms, observing how it is white and pure like milk. I smear a streak on my face, a blank new slate. I go to bed, ready to do it all again tomorrow.
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