The Anatomy of Relevance

So I totally stole that from Yasmin, but do you blame me? That girl knows what she's talking about. She has got it goin' on. Etc. By some swoop of luck, Yasmin is also one of the only couple people in my life who think I have a broader relevance in the world. It's so completely arrogant to think you're relevant in any way, isn't it? Yet it's the one thing we're all crossing our fingers for constantly. Silently, because it would be so lame to admit to anyone you'd like to be more. More than you? More than now? I have a whole Filofax of rhetorical questions, but why go down that road tonight? Tonight I'm more interested in learning what fucking relevance actually is.

This being a brand new year, I'm actually feeling hopeful about what's to come, unlike the super grim conversation in writing Yasmin and I had had at the end of 2010. The world is a little older this year, as are we, and as people are so fond of saying, we're all a little bit more set in our ways. Which in my case would mean, I'm digging my heels in and standing by my choices a little bit more this year. The good thing about being a little bit older is that there's going be less opinions contesting your own. Everyone figures you know what you're talking about at 30, more so than at 23 or whatever.

But not always.

At 23 I was more serious-minded, at 18, even more so, at 15 I could have been a professional pallbearer, and so on. My life's plan was all chalked out by the time I was 20, and had things gone according to plan, I would be writing about the travails of being a 30-year-old mother of three. Or not writing at all. You'd probably find me brooding under that poster of Homeboy at Roadside Cafe while I scowled at people smoking sheesha, which my serious self as well as my fluffy, Kardashian lovin' self thinks is for suckers. Man up and smoke real cigarettes people! Or man up and say no to tobacco and nicotine! Either way, if you're smoking sheesha, we're never going to be best friends. On the other hand, you'd probably be looking at me funny because I had brought my toddlers to the smoke infested Roadside, which I love, by the way.

Anyway, as I've said before, life hasn't gone according to plan, but I kinda love where things are right now. Please don't quote back John Lennon at me. Unless you've heard every song on John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, in which case, feel free to quote Lennon at me any time of day. I keep digressing from relevance and its place in our lives. Somehow, in modern-day Pakistan, and I believe this to be a very Pakistani phenomenon, unless you're constantly saying very important things, you're not relevant.

But that would be the case anywhere! You might argue, and I agree. But see, Pakistan is the focus of a lot of the world's hoopla right now, including our own, and somehow, if it's not about what Amreeka pandering chors our politicians are, or how ridiculous the state of Pakistani cricket is, and how plain horrible things are right now, any contribution to conversation you make is irrelevant. I'm not saying everyone should chill out and get a mani-pedi, but I am saying, chill out. A little bit. And how will you do that if you spend all your time tweeting links to super duper important articles and opeds from around the world, which highlight all these problems? Moreover, if you're tweeting all this on the minute, plus your take on it, when are you actually reading anything? I am genuinely curious here. On the flipside is the other end of the social-intellectual spectrum: If you're not married and have a bagful of really, really bad marital issues, no one cares what you have to say.

So you see, I'm stuck in the zone of irrelevance. I don't like Imran Khan. I'm not particularly left or right wing, although if I had to pick, I'd lean more to the left, I have not read A Case of Exploding Mangoes, and left The Reluctant Fundamentalist midway. I did read Beautiful From This Angle, but I don't think it qualifies as chick lit on any level. Or as lit for that matter. I didn't change my Facebook picture to one of Benazir Bhutto post December 27, 2007.

I like red nail polish. I like Whistler and Pakistani music. I like intensely funny people although I understand they're possibly just very intense at their core more than funny. I don't adore the beach although I live in Karachi. I love life and have an absolute romance with people of all kinds. My name is Zainab, and I am irrelevant.

When you are old...Don't go to Hot Spot

Miraal stretches her legs across the wooden bench comfortably, and I worry for her safety. Any minute now, the really mean guy at The Hot Spot counter is going to throw the cash register at her and ask her to sit properly. 'Uh, you wanna take your feet off the bench?' I ask her. She ignores me and twirls a hot pink strand of hair around her finger reflectively. 'These guys are really coordinated, it's cool,' she nods towards a young couple dressed in red for him n' her at a table across from us. I hope it wasn't intentional. I hope mean counter dude can't see her.

A group of tiny girls giggles at a table near us. They're actually really tiny and have to be 10 or something. 'How are parents letting their toddlers out on a weeknight?' I ask Miraal. God, I feel old. If you think your maturity is being taken for granted at home, I suggest you run to The Hot Spot right away and find yourself aging beyond your years. Either that, or a movie at the Atrium. You know how there are all these cranky old ladies at the movies telling you kids to shut the fuck up and sit the hell down? I'm those old ladies.

'O-levels?' she guesses. 'They probably have tuitions in the area.' Suddenly the tiny gigglers have a communal rapture. Someone has just made an entrance. I'm guessing zitty 15-year-old hunk from Math tuition. Nope, it's another chick. 'Amnaaaa!' they all squeal. Jeez girls, calm down. It's just...uh...it's someone very stylish.

Amna has on those huge glasses that make everyone look like my 9th grade Islamiat teacher and her bangs are all pouffed out. She has a pale pout, obviously, and an emerald green shawl draped around her shoulders casually.There's just too much stuff happening around the general area of her face, but points for trying, I guess. Her friends are all in the velour jacket genre right now. 'I got my new camera,' she says lazily. The tinys have another seizure of joy. Profile pictures all round, I'm guessing. Amna and the gang gets up to order.

'Where are they getting all this money from!' Miraal is totally scandalized. I'm mesmerized by the sight of  a boy sitting alone in a corner, broodily staring at his table. He looks like a young Ali Hamza. I wonder if he will get up in a second and pull a gun out at all of us. Can't trust kids these days.

'Hiiii!' Yep, two boys have walked in to hang with the Tiny Velours. 'Hi Amna,' says the chubby one in a tone that suggests he will like, not eat his burger or something if she doesn't say hi back. It's cool though, the girls are already buying everyone food. Young Ali Hamza is looking over at the kids now, smiling sadly at the enthusiastic ways of youth. I think he hasn't read that sign that says seats are reserved for people who place orders, a warning which Miraal believes is part of all the other Hot Spot mock signs. I think not. I've been snapped at by Mr Counter Man too many times for ordering an unavailable shake flavour. The Hot Spot does not kid around about business.

'Bet he hates his hair,' Miraal says, looking at the other dude surrounded by velour and Amna. He's got curly hair. 'He shouldn't, it looks good, he's cute.' I catch myself. 'I mean, you know, I wouldn't date him, but you know,' Miraal is laughing. 'Shit, am I a cougar?'

Curls is just walking around now completely ignoring all the food that's been bought for him. I don't know about you, but I never say no to a free meal. Also, I'm not a cougar type. Just establishing.

I am so sleepy I wish my sundae had come in a flat bowl instead of a glass so I could just lay my head on the table and eat. Everybody tells you all the useless stuff about growing older, and none of the important things, like you'll  find yourself being unable to function on less than 8 hours of sleep. It's always really irrelevant info. 'Your biological clock starts ticking, you should stop thinking you'll find love and just settle down. Okay, mobile Cosmo. Or, 'you should save about 30 percent of your paycheck every month,' or 'you think being married is easy? Babe, I'm telling you, it's not. Don't get married.' Uh, okay. Points one and three usually come from the same source.

The door opens and three guys walk in, the leader of the pack in a leather jacket and carefully arched eyebrows. The Tiny Velours give him a discreet once over. Miraal snorts. We're officially very unhip. Time to take our gray, full of sleep selves home.

Detour: How to ace a blind date

Here are things I wish someone had told me about blind dates aka people creating situations where you have to make conversation with the guy in the suede jacket with elbow patches. Number one: I need to stay away from anything suede. Which is funny because all I wanted when I was 12 was a brown suede jacket and skirt combo. Number two: Leave your sense of humour at home.

It's funny, all your life you are told to have a sense of humour about everything from the mean girls in class boycotting you for an entire year to losing the love of your life to gaining 35 pounds. So that's what you do: you build a whole personality that laughs in the face of adversity and cellulite. People love it. Your friends love it, and your mom tells everyone what an epitome of strength and good humour their kid is. That is till you have to meet and greet with a boy you did not grow up with, who is not already madly infatuated with all your charms and fart jokes and thinks you're actually kind of an idiot. Suddenly you're standing on the side of the road, rain fallin' on your shoes, wondering how can this guy not love me already?

This entire year has been a race to meet my future husband before 30 comes calling. Okay, it was kinda like that, and it was kinda people that other people thought I'd really hit it off with, and frankly I was tired of saying no all the time and sounding like a bizarre cat-lady type telling everyone 'I'll meet him when it's time!' Just a heads up - this is a race that 30 won. I did meet some spectacular people though, who made great fashion choices and asked me inappropriate questions about my fitness routines. However, nothing prepares you for that first meeting, where you are trying to get conversation going because if you don't, you may have to stab yourself with a fork just to see if you're still alive. Here's a few observations you might find helpful.

• Arrive early so you don't have to worry about making an entrance, and keep your car handy, if there was no Batmobile, how would Robin whisk Bruce Wayne away from painful dates? I know nothing about Batman beyond the cartoon series, and Val Kilmer telling Nicole Kidman, 'Chicks love the car.' The '90s, what a blast.
• Bring a friend. This doesn't count if your friend is also his friend, because he will also bring a friend and they'll all know each other and...
• Bring a book. All these people who know everyone except you on this 'date' will have conversations that exclude you, and tell you afterward you din't seem into their very eligible friend. You might as well take this opportunity to read one of those supremely difficult Russian dudes. I recommend Dostoevsky.
• Try not to laugh out loud when your friend texts asking you if the 'douchy side-friend' is there. You'll end up laughing in the middle of the douche's loving stories about your 'date' crashing his car. 
• Five months on, try to hold the urge to put the word date in quotes and air quotes everytime you talk about it. 

I know, you're probably thinking I had no sense of humour about this to begin with. I did! It's just hard when someone you didn't really want to be introduced to in the first place completely wins you over by being smart and funny, and then politely, ugh, rejects you. You get over it in, oh about a few months if you're me, which you're probably glad you're not right now, and suddenly find the humour in the situation.

The only thing I'd like to point out is, I tried. Work or love, I tried, and somehow, even though I'm not acing anything just yet, it just feels like I might. Eventually.

It’s the last day of the year and…

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. But I know what everyone else wants me to be. 19. No that would just be me.

It’s the last day of the year and another step being taken towards 30.

Your twenties are not the swinging times that those before you may have suggested and you fear THE thirties will be worse. Does one downplay the fact that being thirty and single is not flirty but just depressing? Maybe I should just tune out when my family starts to take up the conversation that I’m not doing much with my life despite my efforts.

Or perhaps I WOULD be better off working 40 hour weeks training to be something I don’t want to be in television. ‘Cause you know, it’s TV! How can you not be into that?

It’s easy. Just watch me not care.

That sets the tone for the New Year: I don’t care, anymore!