People Stare

They do. And it drives me nuts. I stare at people too, but never longer than five seconds max. I consider it rude to be staring at people for more than ten seconds.

And I don’t know why they stare, because it’s kind of weird considering the kind of people who do it are not really what I would normally expect.

Middle aged women. One time I was having dinner with himself at a seafood restaurant and this posh, uptight-looking middle age woman who looked like she had a poker up her arse stared at me, and to the direction that I could only hope was my food, because the worst was, she could be staring at my boobs. When I’m in the shops and I see other older women, they do the up-and-down skimming over stare. Up, and down, and up again, then look straight to my eyes, look away, and look back in a matter of a split second. Then they give me one of those long stares. So long, I feel so uncomfortable and even when I stare back at them as if showing that I am aware that they are staring, they still stare.

Girls. I suspect that there are more sexually confused girls in this country than what the common public likes to think, because these girls stare in the most weirdest way ever, and I’m resolving to the most possible conclusion: they are well-hidden lesbians waiting to come out and jump me. They don’t give me the “I hate your clothes/hair/make-up” kind of stare but more like “Wow, this person has three heads and she looks like the biggest freak I’ve ever come across to” kind of stare. Even when I’m already outside the viewing distance, they crane their heads around and keep staring. With mouths open and all. Then I would be checking out whether my shirts’ buttons were unhooked or whether the zip on my pants was undone. Or whether I’ve grown another set of ears without realizing it.

Men. This comes as no surprise, because Indonesian men do stare at women and most of them are perverts, except that they seem to stare when I’m in my ugliest form – wearing ragged shirts and shorts, hair all messy and oily face like I’ve just been dumped into an oil mine, or when I’ve just finished work and on my way home, looking tired, sweaty and bleary eyed. I would like to think that the uglier people are, the lesser they provoke stares from others. I would like to think that simply by looking so unattractive I would blend in with the crowd of other tired, sweaty people who all simply feel like they look like five different kinds of shit and they just can’t wait to get home and have a shower and lie down.

When I was in Melbourne, I had an Indonesian friend who was going out with a full-on Aussie; tall, fair skinned, blond haired and blue eyed guy, and my friend was a petite Chinese-decent girl who looked more like a little kid. Whenever they went out, people stared, and most of the time it was Asian girls, most probably from Indonesia too.

Her boyfriend was like, “Are all Indonesians always staring at people like that?”

I used to tell her that it was because she and her boyfriend looked so unusual, but my theory was proven to be wrong.

Yep, Indonesians are just plain rude. They stare. For what fucking reason, I have no idea.

Back On The Employment Line

Was my first day at work at the pharmaceutical company yesterday. A quite surprising day too, actually – not quite what I’d imagined it would be.

Was wearing dark blue uniform and realized skirt was a bit on the tight side that had tremendous difficulty climbing up to my dad’s car in the morning when he dropped me off. Agonized about having to spend all day sitting in front of computer wearing really tight skirt, unable to fold legs on top of another or secretly spreading them out behind desk in manner of guy-inviting-girls-to-have-sex-style. Anyway, turned out working environment was like top-secret underground laboratorium-style sort of place, with sterile uniforms and different areas that require completely different, if not layered, other sets of uniforms.

Uniform was great, though. Was roomy cotton top with hood (to go over sterile areas to prevent hair falling and latching onto medicinal stuff, probably), cotton slacks with elastic waist band and rubber foamy shoes. Could spread out as much as want. Really felt like on set of ER or something.

Once inside safe area, was actually perfectly fine to take hoods off and there were rooms in different sizes and shapes all connected and disentangled together – some with computers and desks like normal offices and others with strange biopharmaceutical equipment and big glass tubes and massive fridges and people sieving white powder (!) and stuff. Each walls were see-thru with windows on so really felt like was working in wide open space and everyone could see what others were doing – in and outside.

But due to importance of sterility, could not have drinks on own table – must go to drinking area and even then only thing could drink was water because drinking area turned out to be small 2 x 4 m room with a water dispenser and small cupboard for people to put their plastic cups in. With their initials written on each. So coffee was definitely out of the question, let alone munching on snacks while working. Only thing could bring was inedible stuff, such as CDs, books, documents, files etc. Make up, jewellery and watches were not permitted too.

All of the areas were practically non-smoking. In fact, didn’t even recall seeing the security guard outside smoking smokedeesmoke. Wonder whether owner of company was secretly obsessed with making their workers living over-rated healthy lifestyles.

Apart from that, the food was great. There was a canteen and food amount was huge, varied and we even got fruit and chocolate milk. Chocolate milk!

Only thing that was slightly bothering was sounds of alarm ringing continuously in “Fur Elise” warning people that lunch time had started/finished and the last lunch shift was greeted by ear-deafening noise similar to that of a fire alarm. Was quite dazed to the fact that no one seemed to notice this; all eating their food slowly and talked and chewed as if the fire alarm was just in own head. Was giving “what-the-fuck-is-going-on” stares to another new co-worker who was really freaked out too, and someone next to me piped out, “You’ll get used to it.” Was relieved didn’t straight away think there actually was a fire happening.

Anyway, what a bizarre place to work.

Moving On

As I turned twenty-three this year, I had come to a realization that my life was a roller-coaster trip, with all its ups and downs and the terrified screams of fear and laughter. Everything happened so fast yet nerve-wreckingly slow at times, and I have been taken to unbelievable places that I never thought was possible for me to go to.

Being a huge dreamer that I was back then in junior high school, I was living each day of my life with my own fantasy of what life should be – shutting down reality out of my mind and drowning myself in my own world, playing guitar and drawing sketches after sketches of pictures imitating those characters from comic books until two in the mornings, waking up at six to be ready to go to school and catch up with friends.

Even though I still felt lonely when being amongst them. There was a hidden yet existing feeling that I never really belonged.

Senior high school took the biggest turn ever – as I set myself off to the land of the unknown. At least that was how it felt to me. I never felt so foreign in my whole life and that was who I was, a foreigner.

When I look back, I always wonder whether I will always stay a foreigner.

I was a lost identity just trying to find out who I really was, just like everybody else. I kept searching, fighting, struggling, winning, losing and trying to get through the tough phases of being a teenager, of coming to terms with myself, of accepting who I was, of knowing that I would never belong with the popular kids, of standing up for myself no matter what others would say or think.

I thought I would feel safer at last, getting into university and be the individual self I had always wanted to be. But by then it was time to really bid a farewell to my youth. Thoughts about the future and what I wanted to do with my life sunk in and I was petrified of having to choose and make so many decisions without the guide and help of anyone at all – not because I couldn’t ask, but merely because I knew whatever I chose would have to come from myself, not others.

And somewhere along the journey, there was love. It came and went, stayed and left, appeared and vanished. Though with it, there were tears being shed and they wouldn’t have been the first. But there were also joy and laughter, which would remained inside this yet fragile heart that became a lot more protected as the years go by.

Perhaps it was love that made me stronger, and perhaps it was also love that allowed me to be softer. It didn’t have to come from others, because I never really summoned up the courage to love myself enough.

But now I’m here. Feeling like I’m back to square one, although this time I’ve come with a lot more extra baggage and life’s experience on my shoulders, coming along a lot tougher, having lesser fantasies and dreams and more strength and courage to face the reality. Not enough optimism perhaps, but enough to get by to a point where I told myself off whenever the cynical part of me loomed out of my own conscience.

And so I move on. I am terrified, but there is no where else to go but the future – the one which I am about to make.