Extraordinarily Ordinary

Worst thing you could possibly ever do to someone: go ahead and make them believe they're exceptional. Exceptionally good or outstandingly bad. Happened, eeerm, to a friend of mine, to be misled , on and on, in concentric and vicious circles, from trivial to core levels. True story, thus now she's learning stuff the hard way and paying the dues for not knowing how to take in the averageness.

Let's imagine this little bitter story. Say we have a baby girl who happens to walk and talk 'exceptionally well' when 1 year old. While the parents are a bit bummed for not having some gags and stutters to laugh about, they say, damn, we did well, this is a good one, one hell of an exceptional child. Say the girl goes on doing some unusual stuff for her age, drawing, singing, reading, being adorable, conquesting the adults, being first in class and shit. Say she learns from the ones around her she is doing some amazing things, thus she must be exceptional. Also say she starts to learn and value the taste of this outstandingness, to the point where it does not suffice for her to be exceptional on her own, but also by comparison.

Say she goes on and on like that, living her life and making her choices ruled by this god of exception, and that everyone is very happy to feed on that. Say she cries for any less than maximum grade, and suffers for every person she has chosen and does not love her exceptionally. Say she cannot bear to accept minor success, mild pain or mere happiness, because one must be extraordinary, no matter the price. That the only thing she is sure of is that over the top is always better than fair. And that life is only worth living from a certain degree of comparison upwards.

Say that she is just learning the hard way that averageness is an option, even if it is not. And that there are times when you cannot be exceptional...if you are not.

Failure junkie

There was a time when I had learned the hard way that one has to enjoy every day they get to live and breathe. I had conceded that one has to appreciate every experience, be it positive or negative, to the fullest, and always get something [the most] out of it. It sounds like extreme motivational crap, but at the time I had reasons to think it was true. After taking in and spitting out all the anger and frustration, I had reasons to think for a while that I was the luckiest. I had dodged a bullet, so I needed not trip on the trivia, be unhappy or dissatisfied for the most insignificant reasons. Because then the significant stuff span in a completely superior sphere.

But of course that any experience, no matter how significantly good or bad, fades away with time. Did I hear someone say time heals everything? They were right. So I started to forget. And to calibrate the significance of all happenings to my current status. And now being confident that there is a tomorrow, of course I can make a huge deal about my nail polish chipping. Or a genuine drama because French does not stick to me once and for all.

Thus I went back to being an addict for failure.It's like running around in circles and always finding reasons to be malcontent, of course making everyone well aware of it and if possible also spreading a sense of guilt all over. It works like this. You think you want something, work for it, scream and shout. It eventually happens, but maybe not exactly when you wanted it or with some minor adjustments. Then you don't want it anymore, set your mind to having failed, just because, well, you can.It doesn't even matter if some things work out for the best, there's always something that does not happen just perfectly. And you, being addicted to dissatisfaction, will choose to cling to that instead.

That I complain a lot, well, it's common fact. People around me always try to remind me that there's some things that are not even worth complaining about. That I am selfish and should think about those who are really having a hard time before going all bitchy about some meaningless shit. I am aware of my selfishness, and I can even be sympathetic to other persons' misfortunes. But on one hand I cannot do anything to change that, and on the other I had my own share of big misfortunes. Now I just face my own small unhappinesses tailored to my small existence. Which are by no means less significant, which trouble me more than necessary, it is true, and into which I dive fullheartedly, like the failure junkie that I am.

Ça va? Hell no.

I grew older and fancier all of the sudden. I left behind the old famous pair question-answer "-How are you?-Fine" for the classier "-Ça va?-Oui." However, a trivial question is the same no matter the language. And lying, even if in French, is still lying.

The overcrowded trains that are always late and smelling funky, Ça ne va pas. Neither do the complicated subway hallways, forever scenting like piss.

The lilliputian apartments with see-through bathroom doors, Ça ne va pas.

People reaching a whole new level of inefficiency and rudeness, Ça, for sure, ne va pas. Likewise putting on hold the idea of making local friends.

Having to clench your teeth and force yourself to get out of the bed in the morning, not looking forward to anything, Ça, for sure, must be wrong. Always having the impression you are wasting people's time, but mostly yours, again, awkward.

Being sucked in by a completely messed up system, which drains away your positive energy and motivation, I must say, Ça ne va pas. Suddenly finding Africa to be an appealing option, what about that?

Despite of all the tasty pain au chocolat and sparkling tours, my honeymoon period is done. And I just learned the hard way that you cannot force any kind of love on people, and I am for sure not in love with this. So, just like I always answered "Fine" with a huge smile on my face or a nervous laugh, I keep saying "Ça va bien", even if it most definitely doesn't.

Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

Making excuses can become a vicious hobby. If you are preoccupied with developing your career, it may in time even turn into a full time job. Should you want to go and surf a little bit the scholar side, you might as well get your PhD in the art of being apologetic. And you reckon it's okay, like with all your other nasty habits, you think that if all the others do it, more or less, it is for sure acceptable and why not somewhat normal. But what happens when making excuses becomes a way of life, the only one you acknowledge? When you're so far off in this soothing routine that you start making excuses even to your own self? Say you reach that awkward moment when you are so caught up into finding an excuse for the frustration, or the unhappiness, or all the things happening (or not) in your world that it soaks up all your stamina. Say I reached it.

I personally make excuses, I'd even say I mastered an expert level. You'd imagine, since I so like to excel in everything I embark upon, with a slight preference for the destructive. I feed them excuses back and forward. Sometimes because I am lazy, sometimes cause I am introverted or weak or afraid. Other times because I am a too naive, and despite all odds still a believer. I make excuses equally for and to myself, unbiasedly for and  to the people around me. But so much conciliatory feedback and forth has got me fed up.

I know it should be as simple as this. If you suck at doing your job, it is probably because for some sort of twisted reason it is not the right one for you. If one does not make you equally peaceful and thrilled, it is simply probably because they are not the right one for you. If someone doesn't write or call or <insert random action> you back, it's because they don't want to. If people are constantly cold or mean, it is not because they are damaged or twisted and they secretly need you to fix them, it is just because they don't care enough to make an effort. So they probably don't deserve any effort back, not even the one to make an excuse for them.  If you are not happy with something, it is probably because you are doing it wrong, and not because all the planets aligned in order for you to be miserable. And yes, I cannot only imagine, but also know, that most of the time, making an excuse is easier than standing up to any kind of discomfort. But also I, the ultimate excuse junkie, can vouch that (more often than just) sometimes this string of easiest choices and this tray of appealing apologetic cupcakes ends up in a huge pile of debris. Okay, maybe this was a bit too figuratively put. Or too culinary?

For what is worth, as I conceded before, life is too short to remove usb safely. Or to keep making excuses when it gets down to your own hapiness. Eeerm, apologies, but can we try for a little while no alarms and no surprises, and no more excuses, please?

Unless they are the really good kind.

Everything is Changing and I Don't Feel the Same

So I say I wander my own land. I've chosen, more or less, to wander here, stating  not to fear the distance, the loneliness, the novelty or the change. And it's true, distance gives me perspective, loneliness (although extremely rare and momentary) gives me time (though not so much as I expected and needed) to introspect and quietness (if I ignore my neighbors moving furniture all the time) to think about my own self, novelty is amazing by its own nature, change however gives me mixed feelings.

See, unlike some people who have a huge list of golden rules and principles (and good for them!), I don't have too many stable lifelong beliefs (and yes, I know saying that is redundant, we already set in stone my bipolarity). But on the tip of my tongue these days happens to be one of them, which is of course the trigger for this odyssey (or more like soap opera) episode.

I often say (and also strongly believe it) that people cannot change fundamentally, of course, without completely excluding that one exception that confirms the rule, which to my defense, I did not yet have the chance to encounter. I agree, people might be influenced by their fellows (sometimes friends, more often than normal enemies [drumroll.... inception, parentheses within parentheses, just to briefly touch on our dysfunctional habit of putting in more effort to impress people we don't like than people we like, doing and trying things we wouldn't normally do] to try another type of music, to adopt a funkier styling or to smoke a cigarette. This range of different endeavors, scaled according to their importance, say 1 for tasting a spicy pork roll when you don't really like pork and 10 for moving in with your friend's friend, who you happen not to stand (not sure if I got the grading accurately but you see my point), can depict some fleeting behavioural adaptation, but, who are we kidding, not a veritable change of character. So, bad news to all the dreamy girls out there who are dating jerks and still hope they will change in time. Mmmnope, they most definitely won't, so if a nice guy is what you want, just find one that is already nice.

Now that I clarified the 'never-changing paradigm', of course there's a corollary, actually the topic I wanted to develop to begin with. Despite their characters which are bound not to change, people are experiencing  ever-changing circumstances, feelings, relationships. And this is what worries me, the dynamics of all these elements that I cannot control, which even if not fundamentally changing me or my significant others, do have a huge say on how our course of events develops.

I guess there is no unique approach and probably no generally accepted good way to act upon change hitting us. Some people shut up about it, choosing to disappear in the tenebrousness of the change that was imposed on them, to ignore the mess and to run away from taking responsibility (a neverending run if you ask me). Some book a ticket last minute and they go back in time, to indulge in what used to be before the change (a momentary run if you ask me). Some others slap the change in her face with some more change, giving up on any trace of balance (reckless behaviour if you ask me, the one I personally embrace most, resulting in blonde hair for example).

See, I don't know if  anyone gets my point, these guys don't . The essence is there if we change the song name though. Everything is changing. And I don't feel the same.

You Own Me, Lucky You.

One quarter down from the first third of my very own life changing experience, one of the first slightly sour evenings, thus a sudden urge to write down the things I've learned and/or experienced so far.

Firstly about Paris, France and the French. No stereotype setting intended, but simply a biased subjective summary of the stuff I had the fortune/misfortune to go through. The first impressions, expressed here, obviously remain valid.

The almighty cornerstone, which unfortunately sets the pace and mood for each and every of my days here: the language. While pleasant for the ear, it's painful to be learnt. And how naive should an expat be to even hope of fast becoming articulate and having a dreamy accent accompanying an incredibly fast-paced discourse?  So yes, here, they speak a lot, and fast, and loud, both to the point and beating around the bush. And no, having studied French for a decade and a half does not help much, it all resets when speaking to a native. And no, if they have the French option open, they will not speak to you in another language.

The food. Is still great, and I say this after having tried several traditional dishes and also international food cooked their way. Sweets are unbelievable, probably a reasonable explanation for the tons of weight I've put on. But then again, how could one give up on their 'macaron', 'croissant', 'eclair' or 'pain au chocolat'? Then again, after my other expat experience in Norway (more details right here), no wonder the French food is a miracle. Their cheese, their wine, their quiches, goddam'em.

The people. Are really nice in general, but considerably kinder if you make the effort to address them in their own language (yes, again the language paradigm, I might have a slight obsession). The guys are pretty shy, and, as previously noted, pretty...pretty, probably way too pretty. And they're really big on Eastpack backpacks, literally each Parisian guy has one. The women are outspoken and straightforward, and not as stereotypically ladylike and fashionable as I would have expected. Oh and really big on tights and blonde highlights. I mean really, really enthusiastic. Overall they're quite pleasant people, having managed to shake out  my preconception about the rude typical French. All peachy peachy, but have I mentioned the 'no English language' policy?

Places to visit, things to do. The abundance is overwhelming, and I'm still baffled by my cheesy girly nature and by how a quick glimpse to a tacky sparkling Tour Eiffel can turn my day around. Seriously speaking though, Paris has so much to offer,  that planning a trip here should be on anyone's shortlist. I'm not going to start enumerating a list of landmarks to be more convincing, you can find a 'top 10' or a 'top 50' anywhere. Just know it from me as well that when it comes to travelling, Paris, it is worth it!

Miscellaneous. A few more random facts before the length of the opinion-sharing becomes unbearable. Really tiny, overpriced, cozy apartments, a weirdly inefficient and slow work rhythm, great transportation system, strangely high prices for cosmetics, many benefits for youth under 26, a fair range of shopping opportunities, very moody weather.

Secondly, about me in Paris. Basically, the equation is simple, Crina+Paris=Love. But then again, on one hand anyone+Paris=Love, on the other Crina+anything can equal love if the circumstances are right, this being an (obvious) hint to my being prone to getting overly attached to people, places, objects, especially on grounds of novelty and loneliness. Fact is that even though I am terribly missing some elements from back home and I have it rough sometimes, for the time being I am (overall) happier here than anywhere else I've been before. Fact is that after seas and oceans of Bucharest tears, the first shy wave of Parisian ones is apparently yet to arrive, so something must be right. Fact is that I am my worst critic, and this is crippling my joy and taking away some of this great experience, also keeping myself from bringing my A game. Fact is that I am happy, but not happy enough, I am doing good, but not good enough.

So Paris, you own me, lucky you. Why won't you own me already?

To Wish Impossible Things

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated.I would clench my teeth every time things would go weird and be stressed through the roof at the slightest sign of derail from the planned trajectory. Every time something would not go as my (mild) inner control freak would imagine, I would summon the Gods and have that awkward conversation about what I keep doing wrong to deserve such intricacies. Then I would remind them that I already had my fair share of convoluted, so some monotony would be good for a change. 

Of course, derailments and delays would occur as frequently as in our beloved national railway system. And what else remained there than to stir up the drama, to pump up the blood pressure, murder some afore-happy neurons, complain tons, get on people's nerves a lot and come out as a needy brat, cry some supposedly legit tears and curse a little more whoever was making everything so complicated. Whatever this complicated meant, and measured relative to...whatever. 

Random or deep equally, everything would get to me. See, I wished I were less sensitive, both teeth wise and emotions wise, for example. I wished I would love without a 2000+ km lag, but I guess even if people and circumstances change significantly, that doesn't seem to get better. I wished I did not feel the strange need to prove I was worth it all the time. I wished I found the perfect shampoo and I wouldn't hate conditioner so much, that would have made things easier for my hair, whom I worship even if not worshiped back, despite of the literal twists and turns and breaks. I wished I were not so sickish and fearful. I wished I could get to that point when I would concede I have enough stuff and voluntarily decide to stop recurring to shopping therapy, thus putting an end to literally buying something (no matter how insignificant) every single day. I wished for more honest conversations and screamed out loud affection. I hoped I would stop eating out of boredom and get over my newly acquired weight self-consciousness. I wished I figured out where I wanted to go professionally. I wished I spoke perfect French and I didn't choose to be shy and introvert in the outmost inappropriate circumstances. I wished I lost my stupid nervous guffaw I bursted into every time I didn't know how to handle a situation. 

Less drama, more balance, more intimacy, less awkwardness, more genuine laughter, less shutting in, plane tickets bought in the right direction, nails not breaking, the right person/place/time mix, cheesiness in cheese cake only, longer and warmer days, a sense of security and a pointer to what is right,  ratless picnics on the shore of Seine, these are merely a percentile of what I would have liked to see change.

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated, so I would cry my heart out longing for some straightforward happenings. Four weeks of wonderfully estranged being, and I dry cheekedly say that I might as well have learnt something the hard way, while fullheartedly diving into the complicated. To stop wishing for impossible things.