Psophie and I

I’m in a relationship with my PSP .

Little black gadget created by one of those aliens in Sony’s laboratory. This little gizmo does almost everything. Plays music. Mp3, WMA ,Atrac....er….It plays music. It’s got a gorgeous little screen for showing movies which is much better than that of the iPod or Microsoft’s laudable Zune. It’s got Wi-Fi technology which means I can browse with it if I want to. There’s also a super cool EBook reader for the over 1000 eBooks I have. And finally the amazing games.

What’s not to love in the relationship?

I call my PSP , Sophie (spelt Psophie. see?).We’ve been going out for ..oh..the last five months.

Our relationship started about 13 hours after my last girlfriend dumped me.
Well maybe “dumped” is too strong a word. She didn’t dump me. We’d been going through a rough spell .One day we had a talk and she confessed that she didn’t see any respite ahead. To that end she asked that we call it quits. I gave it some thought and agreed with her.
Irreconcilable differences.

I had tears in my eyes.
Sad.
I’ll miss you. Last kiss. Sniff sniff. Hug. Hug.
The next morning I got my PSP . My Psophie.

For the next one week I completely forgot that I had just broken up with a girl I had actually considered marrying. I spent days and nights playing different games on my wonderful machine. When I got tired of being beaten by the only person that can these days, my oldest friend Ayo, I would lie down and listen to music and when I got tired of that I would read a novel and when I got tired of that….

Life was good.

Three days later my ex girlfriend sent me a text.
Nothing fancy. Not some lengthy reel of spoken love, circumstances despite. Nope. It was just a short simple text with four words written.

I hate your PSP .

It stunned me.
Not the message, but the reason behind it.

I hadn’t noticed time fly by. For the first time since I had discovered sex and relationships I had been saved the day of moaning and pondering that always followed a break up. I had simply segued into a new life with no hiccups thanks to my darling psophie. My transition had been so smooth that I had actually forgotten to call my exgirlfriend. Something I had done religiously for almost a year.

I had found my quick fix pill. Some people go shopping to cheer themselves up after a break up.Some burn love letters. Others go on a drinking binge. Some go for short daring rebounds. Wild sex in wilder locations.
And some, like little simple crazy me, just play with their PSP s.

I picked up my phone.
I sent her a reply promising to call her soon.
I went back to my PSP .

I eventually called her two months later.

Mirror mirror on the wall

Every morning I stand in front of my mirror.

The hour when I do this most habitual of acts varies. Sometimes it’s at 5 in the morning. Other times it’s at 10. There are the occasional weird hours of 2 or 3am. None of this really matters.

What is important is I do it.

Every morning I stand in front of my mirror.

I’ve been standing in front of the mirror for a long time now and every day the same face appears to stare back at me. Except it’s not the same.
Not really.

You see, during the rest of the day and subsequent night between my morning mirror rituals, life gets to work on me. My cells, God bless their million souls; start to decide amongst themselves who should go and who should stay. My skin is flexed and unflexed with countless emotional changes. Every now and then it decides to add a wrinkle here. Another there. It’s always for convenience. Never for beauty.
I think his smile would feel a lot easier if the laugh lines were more enhanced.
Let’s do it.
Work work work.

There are over a million little things that my body decides to change during my 24 hour away from the mirror. How my skin looks. The amount of leeway beneath my eye. The length of my hair. The width of my skull. In 24 hours I age in so many ways.
Only I never see it.

The next morning when I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself,i look exactly the same as I did yesterday .Barring the occasional red eye from a wild night of drinking.
Or kissing.
But I’m not. I’ve changed. I’ve aged.
Life doesn’t wait for you to adjust to it.
It sneaks up on you.

Between the ages of 5 , when I finally persuaded my mum that I was old enough to own a mirror in my room ( yes mum , I wont throw toys at it) and now , with about three mirrors hanging in different spots in my room. I must have stood in front of the mirror over 10,000 times. Not once have I caught a change between my daily appearances. Every time I pause too look I’ve always looked unchanged.

Yeah right.
If I’m going by that theory I must have had a beard and moustache when I was five.
Where did it all come from? How did it all happen? All of a sudden, I’m an adult.
Help!

Ten years after my first mirror, I caught on to what was happening. I couldn’t actually see it, and believe me I tried, but Time was slipping by. If I wasn’t careful I’d wake up one morning with gray hair all over my face and saliva dribbling down my sagging chin line.
If I was careful I’d still wake up with gray hair. Only this time I wouldn’t have the Saliva dribble.
Bummer.

Now every morning I wake up and start racing against the dribble. I Know I dont have much time. I need to accomplish all that needs to be done before the deadline.
Make no mistakes about it. There is a dead line.

You should see my list.

I’ve got to somehow be in France, Brazil, Spain, United Kingdom, Australia, Rome and Ibiza although not in that particular order.
I’ve already managed the United Kingdom and France visit. 2 out of 7 ain't bad right?
I’m supposed to kiss a girl from each of those places. The girl has to be over 18 which means there’s no cheating on that score. I’m supposed to somehow get married to an Indian lady because they’re the most beautiful ladies in the world ( Next to Nigerians).They’re renowned to be great cooks. It’s an established historical fact, that the best pancakes I’ve tasted thus far was prepared by an Indian lady. They’re also responsible for the Kama sutra. Between you and me, I think its all myth and hearsay, the claims in that book. But there’s no harm in trying.

Is there?

Then there’s my dream. I’m a physics graduate.
Bummer that! What I really want to do with my life is draw animations for the giant animation kings out there (Disney ,Pixar or DreamWorks )and thereafter sit back with the crowd in some nondescript cinema. Hear them laugh with abandon as they watch my contribution to the animated reel. When the movie ends I’d wait till the credits roll by. Watch my feet on your way out. Watch my feet!!
See my name in the cast list and smile in content.
That’s one of my dreams.

The other is to sit back in my apartment and churn out as many novels as I can. It doesn’t really matter if they top the New York Times list. Just as long as I make enough to feed my self, the looming family and sponsor my trip to the seven countries of my dreams.
I’m happy.
See?

Sigh.

Sadly both dreams appear unlikely.
With each passing day. My dreams seem to fade farther and farther away.
Life giggles on.

One night I went over my list trying to see how much of a dent I had made .
Visit countries: Nope.
Kiss Shakira. No
Buy my mum a Yacht. Ha Ha.
Publish an article: You’re kidding.
Buy a decent note book to write my list in: Er….No.
Start my Blog: Nope.

I put down the 3 paged book that had been mine in nursery school. It still had my scrawny handwriting in it.
Besides the question 2 X 2?I had answered 97.
I looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, ignoring the cobwebs and descending spider overhead,
Start my blog?
I can’t remember when I decided to do that.
Must have been between my 7098th and 8976th stand in front of the mirror. That was shortly before I got the moustache and a bit after my first wrinkle appeared.
That was ages ago.
Over 3000 mirrors visits ago.

I’d always had a diary as a kid. Filling it had been gratifying fun. Reading it afterwards had been even more fun until I forgot exactly what the codes for my secret language were. I still had the diaries. They were living testaments of my life and also evidence that hieroglyphs were no stranger to an 8 year old. I had always enjoyed keeping a journal as a kid. Had that changed 8000 mirrors later?

Just about when the spider dropped on my face I had an epiphany.

The next morning as I brushed my teeth looking for the tell tale sign of life at work I had a smile for the first time. Today I was going to accomplish one of my many wishes. I was going to start a blog. I stopped brushing my teeth to look at the face staring back at me. True I was no Denzel Washington or Taye digs or Michel Jackson( the earlier version).
But I also wasn’t a Taribo west, William Dafoe or Michael Jackson (the later version.)
I gave a grin at myself and watched the reflected face grin right back. This was as ridiculous as grins go, I had toothpaste dribbling through, but this morning I didn’t care. Today I was going to go to bed with one tick against my must do list. So what if the tick wasn’t against learning how to fly.

Today was going to be a good day.
Today I would publish my first blog.

That day was 12 mirror visits ago.