Style blogs are all the rage. Cyberspace is inundated with photo after photo of what people are wearing and how they are wearing it. Everyone is a ‘stylista fashionista’ and I’m enjoying the uprising. Some days I wish this blog was a lot more exciting with fun pictures and things all over the place but I am notoriously hopeless with a camera and worse still, the least photogenic person to ever walk the earth. I also hate dressing up. In my hay days, you had to give me advance notice of any parties or nights out because it was impossible for me to pick out an outfit at less than a week’s notice. I can’t tell you how many times I cancelled outings out of frustration at not being able to decide what to wear. Thankfully, I’ve delivered from that crazy behaviour but I’m at my happiest lying on my dirty red sofa in a kaftan, watching Nollywood movies on YouTube and eating Butterkist cinema sweet popcorn. Within five minutes of walking through my front door, I change into my joggers and a tank and bundle my hair under a pair of tights turned sleeping cap. I must not carry this unsexy behaviour to my husband’s house.
Speaking of my dirty red sofa, a month ago, I convinced a friend to take me to Ikea to buy a new sofa cover as the old one has reached embarrassing levels of filthy. One month later, I still haven’t changed it. The new cover smiles at me, I smile back. I’ve now convinced myself the old one isn’t dirty enough. I need to wait till even a pig refuses to sit on it before I change it. I don’t understand myself some times.
I really don’t understand myself some times. Lately, I’ve noticed that my heart has thawed a little. I’ve become more sensitive and things. One of my friends reckons it’s a good thing because apparently, soft and mushy is the way forward but I’m not convinced. The day I find myself shedding tears because Tom was mean to Jerry, I’m reverting to the old MEE!
MEE. Those are my initial and not a funky way of writing me. Once upon a time everyone called me Osayi but not so much over the last ten years. These days, everyone calls me Mary. When I first decided to start using my middle name Mary, it wasn’t because I liked it. On the contrary I hated the name. I just got tired of people murdering Osayi so I decided to make life less irritating for myself. Some people who knew me as Osayi got the hump about it.
“Why are you ashamed of your cultural identity?”
See me see trouble o! Wetin concern agbero with overload?! If my parents didn’t want me to use the name Mary, surely they wouldn’t have put it on my birth certificate AND passport?! In any case, even if I decide to christen myself ‘Pippy Longstockings’, how does that affect the salary they are paying you?!
Meanwhile, this sun is doing my head in. Surely I’m not the only person in this world that isn’t a fan? The thing makes me grumpy and irritable…or maybe that’s a result of the mass display of sexy legs in barely there shorts. Lord, I need me a pair of pins to rival Miranda Kerr’s!!!
And so shall it be.