A Cynic's Melted Heart

To the untrained eye, I’m rather cynical.

I claim that love at first sight is a load of cods waddle, that being sent a bunch of roses would make me want to vomit into my 400 dhs shoes, that men who cry need to take a masculinity test, and that no, there is no such thing as a love that can better you as person. Pretty Woman was rescued by a beautiful looking Richard Gere in a limousine, when the truth is, if she were real she would have probably wound up a wrinkly crack addict, still on the game today.

How very different to the little girl I used to be.

I find it hard to try and figure out when exactly I came to bat for the side of cynicism. I cannot pinpoint one single event that made me turn from the girl who used to pretend that the 10 pound tiara her mum brought her from the Early Learning Centre, was in fact part of the Queen’s crown jewels, and that I was a Princess-in-waiting. Yes, Prince William was promised to me. He just didn’t know it.

I was the little girl who used to kick back on one of the sun loungers in our big green garden and let my head hang off the bottom. I’d then look up at the sky and watch the clouds make different shapes and make up stories about each and every one of them. When asked what I wanted to be when I was older, I’d list off something different every day.

‘Doctor!’, ‘Singer!’, ‘Actress!’, ‘Fashion Designer!’, ‘Rally Driver!'...

I have come to realise that my lack of decisiveness wasn’t because I didn’t have any direction or focus. In fact, I used to exclaim from a very young age that I most definitely would be going to university some day, to a ‘far, far, far away land’. The reason I had so many choices, was because I was such a big dreamer. I wanted to do it all. One lifetime didn’t seem like enough for me. Anything and everything seemed possible.

Now, cynicism prevails.

The batter of life has tried to change me from the girl full of dreams, to the girl who cannot even bring herself to believe that love, may in fact, be real.

The reason I bring this up is because yesterday was Valentine’s Day. As the years have gone by, I have grown to loathe it with a passion. So, when I woke up yesterday, I decided to pretend the day wasn’t happening. It was just any other day. I’d go to work zombie-fied, go through the notions, run out at 6pm, then watch the clock until it turned to midnight and the whole bastard thing was over with.

But then, something happened.

I received a text. From my mum.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day my darling girl, I love you so, so much, will call you later, love mom’.

I paused.

Because of all of my cynicism towards this ‘commercial crap’ of a day, I had completely forgotten what it is supposed to represent. This isn’t a day just for lovers. It is a day to celebrate any kind of love-an often forgotten and less reported human emotion.

I should know, I’m a journalist. Just log onto www.bbc.co.uk/news and try to count how many stories are about love. You will struggle to find many. Now as for the more negative spectrum of human emotion: hate, fear, jealousy, bitterness. That’s all there in abundance.

Love is the forgotten human emotion.

Yet, does it not exist? Without sounding too much like the trailer for ‘Love Actually’, if you do actually look around you, it’s always there. I only had to look on my phone to realise how loved I actually am. I only had to log onto Facebook and see a message from my cousin telling me ‘love u 2 much baby girl’ to see it again.

You see it when a dad is pushing his child in a pram, gleaming with pride. You see it when the elderly couple who are struggling to walk to the grocery store hold hands. You see it when families reunite at the airport’s arrival gates. You see it in a mother’s goodnight kiss to her child.

So why am I focusing on the negatives? Isn't that what evil and cynicism want?

I broke my reverie and decided to go for a coffee. As I walked past one of my colleague’s desks, I noticed her beaming smile. Her husband had sent her a beautiful arrangement of deep red roses. She looked ecstatic. It was almost infectious.

I then realised, I would not vomit if someone sent me an arrangement like that. This guy’s love for his wife was manifested through this bunch of flowers. Why would I not want that? How have I become so cynical to actually believe I do not want that?

My belief, as of yesterday, has changed.

Love is everywhere. And one day someone will love me enough to make Valentine’s Day take on that different special meaning. For now though, I’m one of the very lucky ones. I already have an abundance of love around me.

Now that’s something worth believing in.

A City On Heat

I’ve only been here on and off for about a year, but one of the things that struck me very early on is how much more, well, forward men are.

In any one given night out, the average Dubai gal will pick up numerous business cards, telephone numbers, stalkers and propositions for a bit of hot loving in the desert, on a camel, or under Garhoud Bridge. The amount of times I’ve opened my purse in the morning to find various business cards flying out at me are uncountable. Ahmed, Mohammed, James, Thierry, Justin etc etc. And yes, most of the time I’m sat asking Ahmed? Ahmed who?!

Now, this isn’t an excuse for me to sit and boast about my admirers (trust me, some of them are nothing to boast about). ANY girl living in Dubai (single, or otherwise-makes no difference even if you’re wearing a wedding ring) will find the same thing. The guys are persistent, pushy and will stop at nothing to get a chance with you. A combination of the fact that men outnumber women by about 3 to 1, desert heat, and ex-pat loneliness seem to send men wild out here. (well, more wild than normal)

One particular French guy that I met in Boudoir one night stands out in my mind. About five minutes before leaving the bar, I got talking to him through my free cocktail haze. We exchanged numbers, and I left.

Half an hour later, I already had a missed call from the guy. I ignored it, I was too busy dancing. The next day I woke up to three missed calls and a text message ‘Good morning beautiful’. At this stage I couldn’t even remember what the guy looked like, let alone anything else.

He persistently text every day for about a week asking what I was up to. By the seventh day I caved and sent a message back apologising, that I’d been really busy and maybe we could arrange something in the future. My bad, I know, but I hate being impolite!

About a week later I got a rather annoyed text from him. It was something along the lines of ‘hello Miss I’m so overbooked all the time, guessing you’re too important to meet me’. Now I don’t have many experiences with French guys, so I don’t know whether they think being ignored is a good thing. Brits tend to get the hint when they are ignored…well Brits living in Britain that is. It seems that once guys pass Dubai immigration, their crotch area takes over even more brain capacity than normal.

It took him two months to stop contacting me. I’d only been in touch once.

Another French guy could not take the fact that I didn’t want to meet him, so decided that it was my friend’s fault and began texting me insults about her. What a way to try and win me over!

We’ve been in all sorts of crazy situations. Guys chasing after us in cars, guys following us down the street, and even guys trying to follow us into our apartments.
There’s been Matrix guy, French guy, French guy number 2 (even more of an ass), Egyptian guy (who somehow found my work number and thought it would be a good idea to ring me there), Shisha guy(s), Local Hottie, Local Attire guy…The list is endless.

All in all, I find it quite amusing. But it’s hard for a gal like me who isn’t a subscriber to the ‘Fast Love’ plan to separate the players from the bigger players. For now, I guess I will just sit back and observe the fun until one of the normal ones gets off a plane.

Maybe my best bet is to go and snatch one before immigration?