Past life
My friend A. insists I was a flight attendant in my past life. I don't know exactly what brought that statement but I guess it had something to do with congeniality. It was said jokingly of course, but nevertheless, I relish at the thought of me walking up and down a wide-bodied aircraft's aisle in ravishing shirt and tie beneath the apron trying to push the food cart from the galley to the first class section --- all at 30,000 feet above sea level from New York to London.
Another friend argues that, as certain as his silky red nail polish vanishes in three days, so is my past life as social welfare secretary. I had all the making, he swears: good trekking shoes which will serve me well when I hike up to depressed areas all around the country, 20-20 vision important when I try to spot the tents and school buildings transformed as refugee centers from a helicopter, toned biceps useful when distributing hundreds of relief goods in different areas in one day, short-cropped hair which makes a beautician's life fixing my hair a lot easier when I appear on the television pleading for donation, and of course, high-bridged nose perfect for news gathering which will keep me on top of any trouble.
Still, another friend declares that there was no other way he can imagine me to be in my past life than talkshow host. There's no need to look for elaborate proof, he says. One only needs to listen very intently on how I phrase questions and how I frequently manage to have some of our friends execute juicy and entertaining depositions about their failed romances and dates. As if to make me want it more, my friend feigns deep envy with all the signature clothes I would be asked to wear and the primetime slot I would be given. I would be the town's celebrity no doubt.
All these readings have, in one way or another, their own merits. And it all boils down to this: That I'm in my best elements when I'm around people, eating with them, talking about their day and kids, finding about their interests, making them comfortable and smile.
The funny thing is this. They don't believe it when I confess I couldn't be anything of what they pictured because I'm really shy, terribly shy.
Another friend argues that, as certain as his silky red nail polish vanishes in three days, so is my past life as social welfare secretary. I had all the making, he swears: good trekking shoes which will serve me well when I hike up to depressed areas all around the country, 20-20 vision important when I try to spot the tents and school buildings transformed as refugee centers from a helicopter, toned biceps useful when distributing hundreds of relief goods in different areas in one day, short-cropped hair which makes a beautician's life fixing my hair a lot easier when I appear on the television pleading for donation, and of course, high-bridged nose perfect for news gathering which will keep me on top of any trouble.
Still, another friend declares that there was no other way he can imagine me to be in my past life than talkshow host. There's no need to look for elaborate proof, he says. One only needs to listen very intently on how I phrase questions and how I frequently manage to have some of our friends execute juicy and entertaining depositions about their failed romances and dates. As if to make me want it more, my friend feigns deep envy with all the signature clothes I would be asked to wear and the primetime slot I would be given. I would be the town's celebrity no doubt.
All these readings have, in one way or another, their own merits. And it all boils down to this: That I'm in my best elements when I'm around people, eating with them, talking about their day and kids, finding about their interests, making them comfortable and smile.
The funny thing is this. They don't believe it when I confess I couldn't be anything of what they pictured because I'm really shy, terribly shy.
posted by J. @ 16:43
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