I haven’t written in a diary since 2006, and I stopped then because I found out my cousin was reading it diligently (and secretly), so I tore every page into tiny bits and never wrote in a diary again. I used to address those posts to myself. (What can I say? I was young.) It occurred to me a few days ago that my disposition has undergone a slight shift, because every time something upsetting occurs, I now think of ways to write it and form entire paragraphs in my head while in the shower. And sometimes, unfortunately for you, dear reader, you are left witnessing the verbal vomit. A friend once asked me, “So what do you blog about? Is it like a Dear Diary sort of a thing?” I wasn’t offended (not too much, at least), but maybe he wasn’t so off the mark. Which now leads me to the question, what was I doing before I started this blog? What did I do when I felt like I must get the words out or they might scratch their way out of my skull? I can’t quite remember. Maybe I was venting more to friends. Or maybe I found fulfillment in writing college application essays for acquaintances.
Work isn’t interesting, but interesting things sure happen at work. A colleague (who can be considered to belong to the same generation as me) said to me:
Pottu illa ma, paathuko. (The dot on your forehead is missing ma, take care.)
Just to be clear:
Now I knew I didn’t have a dot on my forehead, because I hadn’t kept one that morning. On purpose, yes. (I suspect my colleague wouldn’t have liked to hear that.) He asked me if I had something to draw the dot with or possibly a sticker dot in my handbag (don’t women usually have that sort of thing?), and then suggested I draw a dot on my forehead with a ball-point pen. Ingenious! “No, it’s okay,” I said. He looked at my empty forehead for a moment. Was that a slight shake of his head? Awkward pause. He went back to his computer.
Here’s a question for you: Take care of what? Of whom?