I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

Big giant headache. Slept at 4am. Well, attempted to head back to sleep. Tossed some more. Woke up at 6am. Packed KF’s meals, drove to the Caltrain. Train arrives at 7:16am. Tired. But feeling ok. Showers in the morning lull the unwitting into an artificial state of awakeness.

Begin colossal run-around:

Osh run after to pick up a few containers and peat pots for Spring/Summer planting. Hobby purchases. Very important. 20 minutes later, fully stocked and satisfied.

Insert Costco petrol run.

Off to feed the fish at family home. Took the route through Golden Gate Park. Good call. On way back to Sunset, Northbound 19th is gridlocked. Fish still alive, all of them, and accounted for. The last one committed suicide on a Tuesday 9 months ago. His name was Grapefruit aka Fat Orange. Tired now. Going home. Yay.

Back home. Unload the loot. Stuffed in my workroom – made note to self to clear the evidence before KF comes home. Go, Qoo, go. Just a little more, before nice nap reward. Put all the towels in the wash. Make breakfast for crazily hungry stomach that won’t shut up. Thinking about fried bee hoon with luncheon meat and fried egg on way home. Made that I did. Was not quite the Liang Seah experience. American spam is way salty. Bee hoon too thick.

Plan short nap. Plan day: wake up, dry towels, clear loot, clean toilets, mop kitchen, vacuum carpet, clear recycling, clear trash. Throw out garbage, throw scraps for compost.

Relax. Check mail. Chomp. Blog. Last chomp. Upload photos. KF calls. Taking a sick day. To pick him at 12.15pm. Uh oh. No nap. Move tasks to 10.45am. Make fish porridge – get rice ready… no ginger! Move loot to deck storage room. Clean toilets. Pick KF. Buy ginger. Mail cheque. Nap maybe.

I’m tired already.

In an idle conversation with an old buddy we stumbled on the classically useless topic: what we find attractive in someone else.

It’s been a while since I’ve thought about that carefully. At some point after you make certain choices in life, that’s pretty much moot. The time to quantify it would’ve been before.

The easy part of the definition is the physical bit. I suppose even when I was in JC I wasn’t sure. The dudes I was interested in, didn’t fit into any specific physical mold. There were tubby ones, little ones, big eyes, small eyes, big smiles, bad teeth, short hair, long hair, masculiney ones, femininey ones. The first boyfriend was arguably prettier than me.

In college I went into my intellectual phase. Since obviously I had no idea what physical traits I preferred, and besides, it wasn’t all that, I decided intellectual superiority was it. The second boyfriend was pretty darn bright.

Subsequently, I realised all that overflowing intellectual superiority was giving me the worst case of a chronic headache, I drew out the next axis on my matrix: the personality factor. I bungled into that as well, didn’t I? Apart from the charm, infatuation and pheromones, takes a certain personality to live with another, and still think the best of the other at the end of the day.

Unfortunately, it took me to my mid 20s to figure that I wasted so much time and youth on just one dimension. Ah well. And now that it doesn’t matter anymore, I think I’ve got the formula down.

There’s the physical basket to start off with. Most of the ones that drop in that basket these days are the small eyed North Asian boys. I don’t know what it is about that look, but it’s right on the top of my list consistently. It also helps when they’ve a toothy grin that goes along with it. But more than that, I now realise that it’s also about being about to elicit a physical response sometimes – you know, the “I love the way you say good morning” bit. That explains the dude whose name I can’t remember anymore who used to live downstairs in Hall 10 at NTU who’d always make me smile when he said my name. He’d pronounce every syllable in a strangely clipped way, and made Qoomonster sound like he was just presented with his favourite dessert. I can remember how it sounds, but I can’t remember what he looks like anymore.

Then of course, the intellectual basket kicks in. Most don’t make it to this basket, which is ok by me, since entertainment is something to drool over once in a while. The intellectual basketcases should preferably have a little more self awareness and a sense of humour than the lizard boyfriend, but now I’ve come to appreciate a more mature and I guess a more real intellect. It’s not just about algorithms, but fit for function.

And then there’s the third hurdle – the personality basket. Of course, it takes nerves of steel to make it to this basket for me. After all, I know myself well enough to realise it’s not a personality that renders well to most other personalities. Most times it takes a while to figure this bit out, and perhaps at some point when the balance of power tips, dynamics change. But beside the brimming charm, there has to be something to look forward to going home for.

It all seems to easy now, but it’s a surprisingly complex problem which solution would probably take gazillions of computations per second. Fortunately, I’ve such a finely honed CPU.  Imagine the number of scores and responses required for something random, and perhaps altogether spontaneous as laughing when not required, or chirping enthusiastically in the morning on the way to work, or eating whatever I cook without a grimace, or putting up with my incessant swearing in the car.

Once in a while I’ll wonder if things would’ve been different if I hadn’t met the frog or the lizard. Would my choices have been different? Would there have been less trauma? Perhaps.

But here’s the last factor I never thought about until it was, I guess, a non-issue: timing.

If I’d met my significant out of sequence, would we have had the same conclusion?

Anyway. All this because of an idle conversation while watching a Japanese drama with small eyed boys who need haircuts.

I guess it was a few weeks before I left on vacation, Netjackal introduced me to Lala, and I promptly made use of the 50 free songs in my list and tried to fill it up with newer stuff (ie anything after the 90s) that I thought I liked, but don’t have on mp3 or cd. After a few Duffy’s and Maroon 5′s, I ended up with Oasis, and the older stuff at that. I suppose I am Generation X after all.

I’ve been back for about 10 days, enough time to decompress, unpack the luggage, get over a cold and try to ease back into a routine. Unfortunately, I’m still left with the slightly iffy, if not completely troublesome question – what now?

I’ve no f-ing clue, to be honest, where to start. I’ve never even imagined myself this old – old enough to be one of those “older” mothers even if I had a kid right now, at this minute. Old enough to know what a economic crisis is, much less a few. Old enough to read Better Homes and Gardens. My tiny 14 year old head would’ve exploded to have to consider things like finances, taxes, property, reproduction (or not), job security, and pickled cucumbers.

I met some old school friends during the trip back home (yes, that’s home. Here’s more like, staycation.) There was the St Nicks bunch – they’re grown, they’re the same yet different, we’re the same yet so different, but there’s always a tie that binds. After something like 16 years, it’s like getting to know them all over again. With my JC and Uni friends, perhaps there was less growing up involved, it’s so comforting knowing they’re always familiar, and I can always rely on them to be them. It makes me feel like me.

I suppose the point here is, everyone seems to know what they want. And they’re striving towards it. They’re sticking to their jobs whether they like it or not, they’re having kids because they want kids, they’re finding some sort of fulfilment.

I’m not sure I know what I want. To be fair I did, for a while, and had a fabulous time. But now what? Do I just go about and do the things I’m expected to do? Get a job, get a BMW, a couple of sofas and a carpet, a pendant light for the living room and a gardener? Ok, maybe throw in a cook since I’m at it, and evidently, cooking isn’t one of my strengths. That pretty much puts the lid on any plans I had to be a domestic goddess, by the way, since I can neither cook nor clean nor plant superbly. Crud.

Yet I’ve to say, I’m having as much fun at home on my own doing whatever the hell it is I wanted to do that day – making burnt curry puffs, planting spring bulbs in fall, knitting at a snail’s pace while watching korean serials on dvd – as I’ve had at on a good day at work. Anytime. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to interact with anyone. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to do anything inane.

Who knew being happy could be this complicated?

Whatever. I’m ditching thinking about it for today and planning on some pickled cucumbers this week.