Yasmine’s Got Talent?

Britain’s Got Talent is back on our televisions. The competition to find the UK’s most talented act has begun and I know for sure that that act is not me. For one, I did not audition and the second, most important, reason is that I am talentless.

I have no hidden talents that would entertain people, none at all. I can juggle with no more than two pieces of fruit and even then, I drop them more often than I catch them. My sense of humour is dry and subjective, that is to say that I’m the only person that finds myself funny and anything that makes people laugh is unintentional. The same goes for my singing; what I think I sound like and what people actually have to endure could not be more different, particularly on the high notes, if I am to go by the number of blocked ears and pained winces.

Dancing? I get the Macarena wrong and I can’t find my hips. Gymnastics? I stopped being able to touch my toes at the age of five. Magic? The best I can do is find a person’s card, given that they show it to me first. What else is there… Rap? My name is Yasmine- what rhymes with Yasmine? Maybe acting? I am an extremely good liar and I can put on an excellent poker face, but I doubt that anyone would be entertained by watching me pretend to not have seen my friend’s book.

My tongue does not roll nor does it reach my nose. My eyebrows do not move along to music. My elbow does not make farting sounds. Oh! I am a talentless being! Fortunately, I am at least able to accept it. I am not okay with it but I do not delude myself. Watching all the talentless acts stand before the judges and make absolute fools out of themselves, makes me question their sanity. They don’t actually believe that they have talent, do they? It also makes me question their friends and families. Why didn’t they tell them that they had no talent? Aren’t family and friends supposed to safeguard their loved ones’ dignity, instead of tossing it around in a circle in front of a live audience and million of television viewers? Perhaps, they too have been caught up in the delusion.

I’ve always found myself a boring person and it has always been a deep desire of mine to be good at something, to excel at something other than studying, to have the ability to do something unusual that not many other people can do. Some say that everyone is talented in some way or another, so, maybe I just haven’t found my special thing yet. Should I just keep trying or will it find me on its own?

What about you there? If you are lucky enough to have found yours, what is your special talent?

Coming Up: An Olympic special- a post on my lack of sporting ability.   :)

I do it with flair

As the end of the school year draws closer, particularly for my class of seniors, it comes naturally to start the reminiscence and remember the old days of braces, big nerdy rucksacks and best friend squabbles. Oh what larks we had! (Peak times, innit?)

It started off just recalling teachers’ catchphrases and habits that although we made fun of at that moment, we were sure we would all miss. When would you ever meet another person who promised to shove Tipp-Ex down your throat if you didn’t put it away?

After every teacher was done with and all their words quoted and exhausted, it was our turn to pick out each other’s catchphrases. These were words that we were known for, often repeated and were predictably ours. I’m cool like that. Yeah bro. FML.

Many people had more than one catchphrase, some were digged up from old times and as for me; I had none. Seventeen girls sat in a circle, knocking their heads together, and they came out blank. What does Yasmine say? Understandably offended, they assured me that is was not for lack of personality, I just say so many things and do not repeat myself often. As a form of appeasement, their compliments were void. Surely, I must say something more than once. I can not be the only girl without a catchphrase.

Then, finally, not because I was whining, someone came with a suggestion. A phrase that I do not say often, but I do recall saying once or twice, and had not even remembered until that moment: I do it with flair. What a curious catchphrase. It sounds pompous, obnoxious and all types of swottish but I have said it.

My friend (or so she calls herself), once commented on my manner of walking, resulting in my self-conscious tiptoeing and retarded, robotic movements. She told me I walked funny and once someone tells you that, it’s hard to walk the way usually do. So, in need of reassurance, I asked around and learned that I do not drift, I walk with purpose. “What do you mean?” I asked, eyebrows furrowed with a puzzled look on my face. You walk as if you are going somewhere. Tired of cryptic answers, I went to my teacher and she briefly summarised that I have good posture. Really? I went back to my friend and I told her: I don’t walk funny. I do it with flair.

So, what is everybody’s catchphrase?

Celebrating 50 years of endurance

Fifty years is an incredibly long time. It’s five times a decade and half a century. It’s the number of years my grandparents have been living as a married couple, arguing constantly and lovingly and the number of years I would love to do the same. Fifty years is an amazing accomplishment.

Last weekend I escaped the Halloween trick-or-treaters and flew off to Spain to attend my grandparents’ bodas de oro (Golden Anniversary). It was a much awaited event that we’d been planning and joking about for years, teasing my grandmother with suggestions that she dress in white and re-walk the aisle whilst my grandfather assured us that he probably wouldn’t make it. He did. Even in their old age and deteriorating health they made it to fifty years and I am proud of them both perhaps even a little jealous.

Just watching them re-exchange their wedding rings and peck each other on the lips made me imagine myself in many years time doing the same. I wonder if they remember their grandparents anniversaries’ and when I am in the same position, will I remember theirs? What about my grandchildren, will they remember mine? All it takes is a few generations worth of family together in celebration, to shrink the timeline of my existence and those intertwined, into the relatively tiny space that is my head as I try to grasp the complicated concept of time. All those different times, beginning and ending, co-existing and separating, and generally making my head ache in confusion.

I hope that after all that internal questioning I actually manage to make it to fifty years of marriage. It would be a terrible disappointment if I were to annoy my husband to an early grave unless I were to consider celebrating in solitude which would be incredibly disrespectful to the deceased. Then, there is the possibility that he annoys me to divorce however it seems unlikely as I will endure just about anything to get my Golden Anniversary. Divorce is not an option.

I want to be able to share the joy of a fruitful fifty years, surrounded by a family built on love. Gather them all around for group photos even as they begin to bore and their cheeks begin to ache. Cry with tears of laughter as a surprise cake is brought in, accompanied by a merry jingle and topped of with a pair of bobbing dolls, magnetically joined at the lips. Toast to fifty long years I will never regret and then when all is silent, cry “long live the couple!”

 

Is this a sign or a teenage dream?

It follows me. Everywhere I go, it is not too far behind. Everywhere I look, it is peeking at the corner. It changes colour, as if to hide itself from me, but I can see past that. It is difficult for an outsider to tell which is the one with the obsession. The stalker or the one that likes to be stalked. Perhaps it is destiny that allows two to pass each other by, close but unattainable for the moment. I wish.

I am not a car enthusiast and in the past if you had asked me what my dream car was I would have given you a colour but with this car it is different. I know nothing about my future vehicle and have only just managed to narrow it down to a Volkswagen Beetle but why bother with the finer details when I can recognise its cheeky shine from a mile a way? I can only come up with one word to describe it : cute. So, incredibly cute and not mine.

I haven’t yet got a license and my only experience of driving is bumper cars and the Legoland Driving School but already I have a mental claim on the car. I’m on a constant hunt for “my car” and a trip to the supermarket is usually accompanied by at least three exclamations of “look, it’s my car”. The poor delusional teenager in me is for lack of better words…delusional.

Only recently have they started to pop up everywhere. Perhaps they have become more popular or maybe I have suddenly become aware of them. Either way, I’ll take it as a sign. What other explanation could there possibly be? A higher power must be trying to tell me something, a little sneak peek into my future? Coincidence is overruled at the third time. Please let it be fate.

Last night I had the most peculiar dream that really shows the extent of my obsession. An old lady was driving my car, it was electric blue and a 1972. Then, with as much tact as a curious toddler, I kindly asked her to leave it to me when she reached her expiry date. Thoughtless and not something I think I would usually do, but in my defense it was a dream. It was just a pity that she remained living for the entire duration of my slumber. It seems that even in my fantasies there is a limit.

By the time I save up enough, cars will probably be a thing of the past. We will all be teleporting from place to place or too lazy to leave our television sets so I’m not even going to start. Instead I will hope that destiny can overcome a £15,000 price tag and until then I’ll keep dreaming. As my mother says: it doesn’t cost a thing.

However, if any one is lucky enough to own one of these cars and is feeling charitable feel free to come knocking at my door. I don’t mind if you intervene with destiny and speed up the process I will welcome you with wide open arms and an almighty grin.

How about you, what is your dream car? Colours are acceptable

Stand up for the elderly

Usually when I take the bus, I always ignore the first few seats at the front and make my way towards the back even if they are empty. It is not that I prefer the back as it is usually the stuffier, noisier and smellier part of the bus and depending on how packed the bus is it can be quite difficult to navigate through the crowd and make it out of the doors. However, I am ashamed to say, I do not like giving up my seat to old people.

When you’re old and wrinkly, access to the front seats becomes a right of passage and as soon as you enter you expect them to be vacated immediately, especially if the person sitting is a lazy, able-bodied teenager. I have no problem with that and I try to give up my seat as often as I can but sometimes, I don’t know why,  I just get embarrassed to do so even though I know I shouldn’t. Why feel embarrassed in doing a good action?

I suppose sometimes I fear that I may offend them so I feel awkward and get stuck for what to say when offering up my seat. Umm… excuse me, you look great and really fit even though you have reached a mature age and to congratulate you for such an amazing achievement, not because I think you look frail or tired, I think that you deserve my seat. Somehow, I don’t think that would go down too well. Many old people are in denial and still see themselves as sparkling fit youths, not liking to be treated the age they are. I’m terrible at judging age and I know that the day will come when I offer my seat to a proud mutton dressed as lamb and live to regret it.

Then, you have those old ladies that tell you to keep your seat because they’re not going far even though you can seem them leaning against the yellow bar, supporting their balance. What do you do in that situation? You feel bad and would like to insist but really don’t think you should argue with someone five times your age. See the dilemma?

This morning, I took the bus with my mother and unlike I would usually do, we filled the two front seats. Coincidentally, an old lady came on at the next stop and stood in front of us, expectantly. My mother immediately offered up her seat and insisted about five times before the lady would accept it, telling her that she felt bad. Now, that’s quite commendable of her and I would love to be able to do the same but I don’t think I could as I am a generally quieter person and not as out going as her. I don’t like to be under the spotlight, in a bus full of spectators.

Someone must have been trying to test me because right at the next stop another old lady hobbled on, taking the previous position of my neighbour. She too claimed not to be going too far and I pretended not to see her, but the old lady on my right pointed at the “priority seats” sign besides me prompting me to get up and evacuate.

So, damned if I do, damned if I don’t; either way I get embarrassed. Therefore, next time I will get over my fear and do the right thing…. or I could just sit at the back.

What do you think? Am I just being irrational? I can’t help it.

I wonder…The adoration of Jenna Fox

I’ve just read a book and I wonder… I love books that make you wonder; thought-provoking books that stir feelings inside you; feelings of gratitude, empathy, desire and wonderment. Different scenarios play in your head, parts of the book merging with your own life, putting you into the protagonist role. What if things were different? What if I hadn’t been so lucky? What if I were in her shoes?

Jenna Fox is a seventeen year old girl who wakes up with no recollection of her life only to be told by her parents that she has been in a year-long comma after surviving a car accident. Obviously her lack of memory is a problem but as she watches her whole life back on video, cherished memories that she can’t remember, she spots things that don’t make sense. She feels different and things don’t add up. As well as her memory, she is missing two inches and a scar. Secrets begin to unfold, the dots are connected and she soon finds out the unfortunate truth. She survived the accident but her body is not her own.

Following the accident Jenna was in a critical condition and her parent’s just couldn’t bear to let her go. They couldn’t let nature run its course. Modern science took over. They created new legs for her, new arms, a new face. She looks like herself but the only thing that remains is ten percent of her brain. Imagine finding that out… you are only ten percent of your original self. Your heart is not beating. It is just pretending. You are not breathing. You are just pretending. What does that make you? Incomplete? A miracle? A freak? Lucky? Not to worry though, your mum has saved an ovary and uploaded the school curriculum into your brain. Thanks mum, it’s okay now.

Jenna is understandably shaken by what has happened to her, finding difficulty in coming to terms with who or what she is and struggling with her feelings towards her parents. Their love for her was so strong that they would do anything to save their little girl but was it really their choice to make? The ethical implications of their actions are also explored as she learns about the Federal Science Ethics Board  “the yea and nay of all research and a lot of medical procedures”. They control what can and can not be done in regards to medical technology, aiming to preserve our humanity by placing the limits and making the rules, rules that Jenna’s parents have broken. Biodigital enhancement is only allowed up to forty-nine percent. Jenna is over the limit. Illegal.

It’s hard to put yourself into that position and even attempt to envision what you would do in her place because it seems so unlikely to ever happen. You feel confident in your humanity. There is no doubt that those hands are yours. Are they? It is a fictional book but don’t forget how much science is advancing. Everyday it becomes an even greater possibility. Look around you. Look at the medical advances. Have a wonder.

 

 

What if things were different?

What if you hadn’t been so lucky?

What if you were in her shoes?

Yasmine in the World Wide Web

Last night, I was in the bathroom going about my usual business; contemplating the meaning of life; when I received an unexpected spark of total genius. During my musings and out of a random muddle of disconnected  thoughts a blog name appeared before me: Yasmine in the World Wide Web.

It is a simple name but nonetheless allow me to explain. My name is Yasmine (hi ) and I am a small, miniscule, microscopic part of the greater cyber-universe that is the Internet. As an individual I contribute to those three big “W”s. I am a part of something much greater than just a few jotted down sentences in an inconsequential journal hidden under a mattress. Hence the blog title.

I have been trying to come up with a blog title for a considerable amount of time yet is only when I am not actively thinking of one and in the most unlikely of places that I actually do. What is it about the toilet that stimulates such creativity and induces that light bulb moment? I’m no psychologist but if I were to have a guess I would assume it has something to do with the way you feel shut off from the world, giving you the confidence to explore your deeper thoughts and triggering vigorous brain activity…

I’m also no historian but there must be a reason that all the history books fail to mention the exact locations of the conceptions of all the greatest inventions. Where exactly was Thomas Edison when he had what we would now, thanks to him, call his light bulb moment? Any guesses?

My blog title does not compare to a light bulb, unless you think so, but I am more than a little bit proud of the result of my bathroom activities. The only thing that could dampen my excitement would be the discovery that the title in not my own and that it has simply remained in my exceptionally retentive subconscious after reading someone elses blog. Oh, what a tragedy that would be! Here I am gloating and it’s not even an original idea.

What do you think of my new title? Any ideas for a tagline?