Pride

pride

Pronunciation:/prʌɪd/

 noun

[mass noun]

1a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements, the achievements of one’s close associates, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired

 verb

(pride oneself on/upon)

be especially proud of (a particular quality or skill): he prided himself on his honesty

***

We walked down the hall, both nervous and in anticipation; after hours of studying we just wanted to be done with it as soon as posible. I opened the door to the inner corridor and saw the profesor standing in front of his office.

“You're here for the exam, right?“ he asked.

“Indeed we are.“ I answered.

“Why, come inside and lets get this over with.“

***

Half an hour or so later we came out of his office with our heads raised high, proud of ourselves and happy because it went very well. 

Lovers

It was a cold, somber spring morning and I firmly grabbed the pole as the bus pulled out, trying to retain balance in my high heels while my iPod was playing Starlight by Muse.

I noticed them right away; she was seductively leaning against the pole and he was watching her with lust and sparkles mixed in his eyes. He grabbed her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her passionately. They made me feel quite uncomfortable and I turned my head away, desperately trying not to watch them but they were standing right in front of me and I could still see them. They didn’t mind people watching them though. They only had eyes for each other as if they were alone on the bus, smiling, whispering into each others ears and kissing.

I bet their morning wasn’t somber and I’m sure they didn’t notice the ominous dark clouds gathering above the city. 

Handbags

I recently bought a new handbag, which was followed by moving contents of my old handbag to the new one. This is always, without exception, an interesting experience; I’m even considering calling it a journey.

You see, women tend to carry around a lot of things, almost all of them equally important and/or needed, and all of them need to be carefully moved to their new, most often bigger home. I’ve noticed that my handbags are getting bigger as I’m getting older and there are more and more things I can’t leave my home without. A makeup bag is one of those essential items my life depends on; and those also tend to grow as years pass, just as wallets do. There are several other objects that I can’t live without – a planner, a water bottle, hand moisturiser, sunglasses, my iPod and so forth. Then, there is also clutter that ends up in my handbag by chance, such as wrinkled receipts, old theatre or movie tickets and an old pack of gum; those can usually be found at the bottom of a handbag or in some more or less secret compartment. The clutter won’t be transferred to the new bag; instead it’ll be thrown away or, in some rare cases, left in the old handbag.

I always grab the first chance I get to move things from my old bag to the new one. This is usually in the car; while Mr S drives us home from the successful hunt I admire the catch and make the transition. This time it was different though; I bought the bag in the city centre and had to survive the whole bus ride home with my new acquisition patiently waiting in a huge pink shopping bag.

As soon as I got home I took my new precious out of the shopping bag and proudly displayed it on the white sofa, which is used as storage for all sort of things rather than sitting. The right end is reserved for my handbag and the left one for Mr Starlights bag; between those two we usually put our clothes when we change and don’t feel like folding them right away. From time to time it becomes a bookshelf when I put a bunch of books that need to be returned to the library right next to my handbag, making sure I won’t forget them at home just in case I’ll be leaving the apartment in a hurry the next morning.

I recently bought a new handbag, which was followed by an interesting journey. Moving contents of my old handbag to the new one always includes finding an item or two I forgot about and it recalls a happy memory that draws a dreamy smile to my face.  

Photo was taken by my friend Alja, you can find more of her magnificent photos here.

A blue-haired girl

I'm at the bus stop, waiting for my bus to arrive, curiously observing my surroundings. There are people whooshing by on their bicycles, occasionally dinging their bell when some negligent pedestrian, most often an inconsiderate teenager, occupies the bicycle path. 

I watch them, the bicyclists not the teenagers, feeling a bit guilty because I always take the bus instead of cycling. I check the time on my new iPod, considering borrowing a bike and actually doing it for once rather than thinking about it and having a guilty conscience. It seems that faith doesn’t want me to lose some weight because I’m already a bit late which is not typical for me. Also, it’s still too cold to ride a bike so I quickly abandon the idea, trying to ignore the fact that there are lots of people cycling so it probably isn’t that cold. I try to occupy my guilty mind with one of the most inspiring things in the world – watching random people. 

Bicyclists pass by too fast for me to take a good look at them, unlike my fellow bus-goers; most of them hang around long enough for me to think up their life stories. Not everyone is interesting enough though, after years of watching people my standards are pretty high. A blue-haired girl dressed like a hippie, for instance, doesn’t meet the criteria. She’s probably frustrated because she’s always been just a bit too chubby to fit in so she’s trying to make friends by being different. I seriously doubt that her vivid blue hair helps her in any way.

Before I manage to find someone worth my time, the bus I’m waiting for arrives. I take one last look at the people whooshing by, promising myself that I’ll get up early enough to cycle to the university tomorrow, looking forward to watching bus passengers for the next fifteen minutes. 

100 words: Light-footed

I open the doors of the wardrobe where my spring and summer shoes are stored. My favourite time of the year is approaching which means that the days are getting warmer and that I don’t need my winter boots anymore.

I grab my favourite pair of flip-flops (the shiny yellow ones) and smile. I look at them for a while before I put them back, knowing that they’ll have to wait a bit longer.

I reach inside once again and take what I was looking for, my black ballerinas. I quickly slip them on and walk outside, light-footed and happy.

Photo taken from here.

100 words: Worn out

I'm looking through the window, craving for a summer storm. I have never felt like this in spring; these feelings are reserved for summer. I’m tired and worn out and I need something to happen, something to change.

Usually I feel like this in summer, after weeks of unbearable heat and drought.

I know I’m feeling like this because I haven’t been out for weeks. I need to go out and enjoy this beautiful spring instead of lying in bed, ill. I need and want to get better.

I’m looking through the window, craving for summer and for summer storms. 

100 words: Spring in the city

It seems that each year when it arrives the whole world becomes more lively and happy, even the city which I hold so dear. 

As the days are getting longer and longer the street lights light up later every day.

Sun rays are getting stronger and warmer each day and they wake up the earth and all the creatures living on it. Even cities are awakening; the streets and gardens of the bars are getting crowded with smiling people wearing vividly coloured light jackets and blazers.

Spring has arrived and the world seems like a much nicer and happier place.

Photo taken from here.

100 words: Bedridden

I don’t have a cold very often but when I do I’m very well taken care of.

He always orders me to stay in bed: “I’ll bring you whatever you need or want;“ and so he does. I sleep most of the time but when I’m awake he always asks what I want to eat and conjures up even the most extraordinary desires I have and makes sure that I’m comfortable at all times. To be honest, he spoils me rotten.

I hate having a cold but nonetheless I’m glad to know that he’s here to take care of me.

Photo taken from here.

Volunteer

I enter the lift and press the button with the number four on it. I’m nervously thinking about how I will do, if there’s something I shouldn’t say and what I should say. Before I leave the lift I take one last look in the mirror, fix a strand of hair that was out of place and check my make-up. It all looks fine.

A few moments later I enter the office where three smiling faces are looking at me and when a cup of tea is offered most of my fears fade away. I feel welcome.

We sit down and start talking about their how the institute is organized. The director is explaining what they think I could do and which conferences they think would be interesting for me to attend with them. I’m a bit surprised since I didn’t expect all of this but at the same time I’m very happy and excited because I realise that this is a big and important opportunity for me and that I can gain a lot; not just a lot of working experience but also new acquaintances. We talk for an hour or so about all sorts of things regarding my voluntary work at their institute and then the director realises that it’s lunchtime and I’m invited to join them.

We enter the lift and someone presses the button with the letter P on it. I smile and they all smile back; I think I did well and they liked me.

A wisdom tooth

Nothing could have ever prepared me for this situation and I’m sure I wouldn’t react any differently even if I someone had told me how.

I’m sitting on a green leather chair, trying to relax and gain control over my body. Unsuccessfully. Every muscle in my body is tense, like a guitar string. I realise that my wet palms are grabbing my thighs uncontrolably and I loosen the grip.

Suddenly something falls into my throat and I start coughing.

“Spit it out, spit it out!!” the surgeon yells, which only frightens me and I react the way I probably shouldn’t have – I swallow whatever was in my throat.

I don’t see the expression on their faces because my whole body is covered with green fabric, with a hole in it that only reveals my mouth. Everything stops for a moment and then the surgeon pokes my lower gum.

“Do you feel this?”

I want to scream but only a distorted yes comes out of my mouth, which is full of tubes and other medical instruments.

“Right, you need more local anaesthesia.“ he says and pokes me with the needle. The time that passes seems like an eternity but I’m sure it’s only a matter of minutes until anaesthesia kicks in and we continue with the procedure.

The second tooth goes out as smoothly as the first one and soon a nurse uncovers me and the surgeon looks at me for a second until he starts explaining what happened.

“You swallowed a tooth.” he says and I stare at him incredulously.

“Are you serious?” I can’t quite believe what he is saying; I thought I ate a small piece of my tooth, not the whole thing.

“Yes, you swallowed your tooth so you’ll have to have you lungs x-rayed; we want to make sure that the tooth isn’t in your lungs.“

“You’re serious, aren’t you?“

“Yes.”

I start laughing loudly and everyone stares at me for a while and then they all start to laugh at me.

My reaction might be inappropriate but I can’t imagine anything appropriate to do when an oral surgeon tells you that you just swallowed your own wisdom tooth.

Photo taken from here.

100 words: Not Valentine's

He woke me up quietly with his sweet, gentle voice.

”Honey, wake up.“ he said.

“I don’t want to get up just yet. Can I stay in bed all day, please?“

“I’ve made breakfast for you, it’s already on the table.”

”You’re too sweet.” I smiled and got up.

On the dining table I saw a plate with scrambled eggs and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, my favourite breakfast.

It wasn’t Valentine’s day, it was an ordinary day. I don’t need a special day to show him how much I love and cherish him and neither does he.

Photo taken from here.

100 words: The concertmaster

She got my attention the moment she walked into the hall, looking glamorous in a long black dress with little crystals on her torso and with her blonde hair strapped together at the nape.

When everyone was at their place they all quietly looked at her, waiting for her nod. She lead them in tuning, kindly smiled when they finished and waited for the conductor to walk into the hall; they shook hands and only then she sat down.

The orchestra started playing Webern's Passacaglia and her face brightened, it was obvious that this is what she is living for.  

Photo taken from here.