Tag: joy

1317: Never Gonna Dance Again

Aug 27 -- yayWe went to a wedding today — that of our friends George and Mitu — and it was a pretty spectacular affair. Given their respective families’ diverse cultural and religious backgrounds (civil ceremony, followed by Islamic blessing, plus traditional Bengali and Ukrainian ceremonies, plus some Greek dancing somewhere along the way), there was a hell of a lot going on all day. I wouldn’t expect anything less from this particular couple; one of many complimentary things I can say about them is that they certainly don’t do things by halves.

As the evening session got underway, though, I found myself becoming contemplative, specifically with regard to the matter of dancing. I have never been a particularly good dancer, though when I first started university all it generally took to actually get me on the dance floor was a few vodka and Red Bulls. These days, though… I just can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to do it at all, and I find that fact a little distressing.

It’s not that I particularly want to dance, see — I think dancing is, on the whole, one of the more ridiculous things the human race has decided is a good way to spend its time — but it’s more the wider picture: over the last few years I’ve become very conscious of the fact that I find it very difficult to outwardly express joy in any form, whether that’s simply through saying something positive, “acting” excited or doing something typically associated with joyfulness like, say, dancing.

The precise reasons for this state of mind elude me somewhat, though I have more than a few suspicions that it’s something to do with either or both of the two related issues that are depression and self-esteem. Whenever I feel like I’m being “pressured” to act excited or joyful, I just clam up and feel horribly embarrassed; like if I do outwardly display some form of excitement or joy, people will immediately call it out for being “fake” or something. Perhaps “fake” isn’t the right word; it just doesn’t feel “right” to do or express these things. I can’t quite pin down if it’s a sense of feeling like I don’t “deserve” to feel these things — I don’t think it’s that — or whether it’s just a sense of embarrassment at being anything other than the stony-faced dude in the corner of the room.

I think it’s also something to do with social pressure. I have no problem with being excited when I’m by myself (ooer) and, as regular readers will note, I also have no problem with expressing excitement for something via the medium of the written word. But place me in a situation where I’m supposed to be acting excited? I can’t do it. I feel like people are judging me and will somehow not believe that I’m happy or excited if I don’t do it “enough” — ironically, though, this often makes me do some sort of half-hearted Fluttershy-style “yay” rather than genuinely act excited, which probably leads to the exact issue I’m afraid of.

(Incidentally, that whole “yay” scene with Fluttershy is absolutely, positively, 100% the reason why I love that show so much. I absolutely am her, in more ways than one.)

Sooooo. Yeah. If something cool happens to you, that’s great. I really am happy for you. If I don’t appear to be showing it on my face, however, it’s nothing personal. It’s just the way I am.

Yay.

#oneaday, Day 290: Ever Onward

Something that someone told me recently (yay for specifics) has stuck with me. That something was the phrase “you don’t stop knowing someone when you’re not with them any more”. Those perhaps weren’t the exact words, but the sentiment stands. And it’s true, whatever the context of you not being with that person any more is. It doesn’t have to be a romantic thing. It could simply be a friendship thing.

I have two examples in mind here. Just recently, I had the good fortune to be reunited with a buddy from school with whom I’d kept in idle contact with—the occasional Facebook comment or tweet—but hadn’t seen face-to-face since the time he visited me during my first year of university, got roaringly drunk with me and then proceeded to assist me in the consumption of a pound of Tesco Value mild cheddar cheese at about 3 in the morning. Actually, there was an incident subsequent to that which involved several people vomiting out of the window of a house onto the corrugated plastic roof of what passed for a “conservatory” in student accommodation. But the cheese incident is the one that remains fresh in my memory.

Said incident was at least ten years ago now, but when we met up in the village pub for a pint and a chat it was like that time had ceased to exist—or at least didn’t matter. We hadn’t seen each other for ages, and yet suddenly we were back to talking about the word “COCK!”, driving in search of “old man pubs” and ending up in the local Tesco garage’s forecourt at 2 in the morning eating pre-packed sandwiches because the nearest club (15 miles away) was shit and/or full, and the old man pubs in question were either shut or had vanished into some sort of rural space-time anomaly. It was, to say the least, awesome. Not all reunions go this way, and I’m sure there are plenty of people I was at school with who are completely different people now. But then I have no idea where they are now, so a reunion is unlikely anyway.

The other example I have in mind is something I wrote about way back on Day 106; the idea of crystallised memories. I probably didn’t coin this term but it’s one I’m particularly fond of: the idea that inanimate objects can possess memories and trigger powerful emotional responses simply by their presence. A crystallised memory can be a tiny thing, like a dirty penny you find in the depths of your coat pocket. Perhaps you remember how it got so dirty. Or where you found it. Or what you were doing when you dropped it into your pocket.

Alternatively, as the case may be, a crystallised memory could be a whole city. Cities are places that are full of life, constantly on the move, changing, morphing, filling with people during the day and evaporating them in the dead of night. But some things don’t change amidst all the chaos—pretty amazing in itself, when you think about it—and those are the things which hold powerful emotional responses, powerful memories, senses of nostalgia, whatever it is you want to call it.

Sometimes, these things which have remained constant amidst the chaos of the daily tsunami of people that pass by them are enough to remind you of something or someone important, something that is, at times, long-forgotten. Tiny little memories which, at the time, seemed inconsequential, unimportant. And yet they are the ones which remained most vivid. A river that you once saw a hundred rubber ducks racing along. A swinging teashop sign and the delicious delights found within. The low beam that you bang your head on as you clamber into an “authentic” old pub.

Sometimes you see all those things again and they cause you pain. They remind you of what once was and what is now no longer.

And sometimes you see all those things again and they bring comfort. They still remind you of what once was and what is now no longer. But something, somewhere, causes the negativity and the pain to slip away and you’re left with those things that you should cling onto, the crystals that shine the brightest, the ones which glitter eternally.

Time heals all wounds, they say. But the good stuff that all the blood and pus and “discharge” from the wounds hides? (That was gross. Sorry.) That sticks around a whole lot longer.