Smacking Of Affection
When the girls met today (yes - the girls! ... okay, a few of the girls ... okay, really just us four), somebody decided we should do Suntec City Mall.
[Short digression:
I have a love-hate relationship with that place. It is a maze of a mall, and the rush of crowd at every turn and dead-end gives me a headache. I'd worked there, and I'd been forcibly chained there (quite literally) when my cohort held our graduation exhibition there; but I also have the beautiful adolescent memory of one moon-less night spent with Pumpkin by the fountain (which had been turned off for maintenance that night - sometimes, you just can't catch a break ... especially if you were me).]
After a very mediocre lunch at Fish & Co., attended to by apparently frazzled staff who must've had blinkers on because we could never catch their attention, we wandered around aimlessly like Valium-ed rats in their laboratory maze. As we passed by TopShop, Cal said she would like to have a browse, so I shuffled robotically into the boutique.
About three steps into the boutique, I heard a loud smack that scared the bejezus outta me, followed almost immediately by a sharp sting on my left shoulder blade.
There is a saying in Mandarin, which, loosely translated, goes: "To wallop is [a mark of] affection; to scold is [an indication of] love". (Personally, I think this is why there are millions of Chinese parents out there - especially those of the older generations - whose only physical contact with their kids is through corporal punishment; or, to put it another way: there are millions of Chinese kids out there whose only memories of physical contact with their parents are those of corporal punishments.)
A retarded moment later, I realized I was the one who had been smacked.
Turning around to see who had hit me so fucking hard, I saw Andrea.
Then, right there, right in the storefront of the boutique, right in front of bemused sales personnel and oblivious shoppers, was a high-volume exchange along the lines of "Ow! Why the hell did you hit me so fucking hard?" and "Serves you right! Why didn't you tell me you were back in Singapore, huh? Huh?!"
I'd almost forgotten I didn't inform any of my friends (save three, and, by default, the one who reads this blog) of my return - I didn't think it was important to. Would my return make a difference in their lives? Not at all.
Fiona, who'd left for Perth when she was sixteen, used to give me (and her other secondary school friends) a ring whenever she flew home for her vacation. I remember thinking: why call me? We aren't that close; there's nothing much to say between the two of us, and it's not like we'd ever meet up - just the two of us - unless there's a gathering of old school or band mates.
Therefore I didn't think I ought to text or ring my old friends up when I returned. I'd thought: who gives a fuck whether you're back on the ol' island or not?
So it was pretty touching (albeit a pretty painful sorta touching) to get yelled at by darling Andrea for not informing her (and Kai) of my return. Wow, I seriously didn't think anybody would give a damn.
And it's quite true too, that Chinese saying. I realize how I've always shown my affection physically: not for me are hugs and kisses (which I reserve mainly for girls) - oh no; loud slaps on the back and hearty punches to the arm - that is where the lurve is at, my friend.
Maybe that's why I always seem to bruise Pumpkin whenever we'd hung out together. Once, when I ran into him, I greeted him with a hard punch on his arm (I think I've got pretty mean ones). It not only shocked him, but also his friends who were with him ... not unlike my serendipitous meeting with Andrea today.
Standing there, having gotten a great whack on my back and getting yelled at by her ... it all just smacked of affection.
(If not, then perhaps I'm getting to be more and more of sado-masochist in my old age ...)
(23:41 SGT)
[Short digression:
I have a love-hate relationship with that place. It is a maze of a mall, and the rush of crowd at every turn and dead-end gives me a headache. I'd worked there, and I'd been forcibly chained there (quite literally) when my cohort held our graduation exhibition there; but I also have the beautiful adolescent memory of one moon-less night spent with Pumpkin by the fountain (which had been turned off for maintenance that night - sometimes, you just can't catch a break ... especially if you were me).]
After a very mediocre lunch at Fish & Co., attended to by apparently frazzled staff who must've had blinkers on because we could never catch their attention, we wandered around aimlessly like Valium-ed rats in their laboratory maze. As we passed by TopShop, Cal said she would like to have a browse, so I shuffled robotically into the boutique.
About three steps into the boutique, I heard a loud smack that scared the bejezus outta me, followed almost immediately by a sharp sting on my left shoulder blade.
There is a saying in Mandarin, which, loosely translated, goes: "To wallop is [a mark of] affection; to scold is [an indication of] love". (Personally, I think this is why there are millions of Chinese parents out there - especially those of the older generations - whose only physical contact with their kids is through corporal punishment; or, to put it another way: there are millions of Chinese kids out there whose only memories of physical contact with their parents are those of corporal punishments.)
A retarded moment later, I realized I was the one who had been smacked.
Turning around to see who had hit me so fucking hard, I saw Andrea.
Then, right there, right in the storefront of the boutique, right in front of bemused sales personnel and oblivious shoppers, was a high-volume exchange along the lines of "Ow! Why the hell did you hit me so fucking hard?" and "Serves you right! Why didn't you tell me you were back in Singapore, huh? Huh?!"
I'd almost forgotten I didn't inform any of my friends (save three, and, by default, the one who reads this blog) of my return - I didn't think it was important to. Would my return make a difference in their lives? Not at all.
Fiona, who'd left for Perth when she was sixteen, used to give me (and her other secondary school friends) a ring whenever she flew home for her vacation. I remember thinking: why call me? We aren't that close; there's nothing much to say between the two of us, and it's not like we'd ever meet up - just the two of us - unless there's a gathering of old school or band mates.
Therefore I didn't think I ought to text or ring my old friends up when I returned. I'd thought: who gives a fuck whether you're back on the ol' island or not?
So it was pretty touching (albeit a pretty painful sorta touching) to get yelled at by darling Andrea for not informing her (and Kai) of my return. Wow, I seriously didn't think anybody would give a damn.
And it's quite true too, that Chinese saying. I realize how I've always shown my affection physically: not for me are hugs and kisses (which I reserve mainly for girls) - oh no; loud slaps on the back and hearty punches to the arm - that is where the lurve is at, my friend.
Maybe that's why I always seem to bruise Pumpkin whenever we'd hung out together. Once, when I ran into him, I greeted him with a hard punch on his arm (I think I've got pretty mean ones). It not only shocked him, but also his friends who were with him ... not unlike my serendipitous meeting with Andrea today.
Standing there, having gotten a great whack on my back and getting yelled at by her ... it all just smacked of affection.
(If not, then perhaps I'm getting to be more and more of sado-masochist in my old age ...)
(23:41 SGT)
posted by s at 04:41
1 Comments:
Fiona, who'd left for Perth when she was sixteen, used to give me (and her other secondary school friends) a ring whenever she flew home for her vacation.
reading that line (and re-reading it), i wondered about the significance of her giving everyone rings ie. little bands of metal/plastic/wood, etc. heh... it would've been an expensive habit to maintain...
not until i saw your next paragraph, did i realise.
Post a Comment
<< Home