Danyal: Where I Learn About Life, Lager and Comedy

There are lots of things that have to be factored into what kind of person you end up becoming as an adult. Your socio-economic background, your parents' socio-economic background, birth order, ethnicity, religious background, social conditioning...the list goes on, is endless, and very hard to memorize, which is why Sociology is not the best subject to pick for an easy A in your A-levels. Just sayin'.

Between Weberiansim and Marxism, which are the only two I actually remember a decade on, sociologists ignore a socialization of the third kind: Sitcoms. No? You don't agree? How many of you between the ages of 25 and 35 been labeled a 'Monica' or a 'Joey' by your friends? Exactly. I fancy myself a Chandler, in case you were wondering, and would totes date a Ross. Geeky fossil enthusiasts take note - no, not you, Crystal Harris! I mean real fossils! Like that gross snail-shaped rock your dad picked up on a hike in Hunza once. I have to say that being a kid growing up with parents who were gone a lot, the TV was my parents. My sister Zehra will kill me for saying this, as she fancies herself my parents as well. But let's just say for the sake of my story that the TV brought us both up, okay, Z? Zehra was a total Rachel, BT dubs. Always the hottie with the hot boys. If god hadn't made us sisters, we would not be friends.

Sitcoms have taught me loads of stuff, like when I get married my husband's no good brother will come live with us, and off us, which is why I made great friends with Ali's brothers. It wasn't so hard, they were great kids. They've taught me my parents can and will go bonkers one day. Too late for that one, sitcom mafia, mine have been a little off ever since I've known them. For instance, my mother insists on calling Yasmin and myself 'Bechari Bachis' and then laughs herself silly for  about 15 years. My dad doesn't have a sense of humour, so thankfully we're A-okay on the humiliating jokes front there. He does  know how to cut deep with his serious analyses of things though. How many of your own parents have told you you look like Sheikh Hasina Wajed? And I know, because of sitcoms, that it's okay if I'm broke and my job's a joke and my love life's DOA.

My friend Danyal has not benefited from all the sitcom watching though. For one, they've left him with an attention span which leaves a lot to be desired. If there's no punchline or laughtrack, Danyal doesn't want to hear it. He will literally fall asleep while you're talking. And I did not misuse literally here. Many a time I have been regaling Danyal with my stories, which are all very interesting, only to notice he blinked 20 minutes ago but never opened his eyes again. Thanks buddy. Wait till you're telling me about one of your Natashas or Sashas or Alaynas next. Watch me crack out my pipe and tobacco and copy of Time magazine. Just you wait. In case you wondered why all Danyal's girls have such exotic names, it's because they were born after the year '95 when normal names like Zainab became unhip. Okay, I kid. '90, maybe.

Danyal's a true romantic at heart, he loves long walks and candlelight, like seriously. And he comes up with these incredibly thoughtful gifts and surprises for all the ladies. Like once he dated this girl who was an actor, and he had a fake Tony with her name on made for her. But ask him if this is the one, and he'll say, 'yeah, I like her very much, but...'

Suffice it to say, Danyal is everything that petrifies me about men, and being friends with him means I'm forearmed and all those good things. Anyway, Danyal and sitcoms. Because if anyone has watched as much crap TV as me and listened to as much bad music, it's Danyal - and he is convinced of the truth of all the things he sees and hears, if Billy Idol is saying it, it must be true. However, because of all the pop music and pop television, he has a list of things he must find in a woman, and also must feel when he finds those things. What? So, what Danyal wants is to be like whoever it is that Charlie Sheen plays on that show with potential serial killer John Cryer, Two and a Half Men, and wants a girl like the chick from Big Bang Theory, who probably knows how to cook, and is smart but not a show off about it. Again, what? And he needs to feel the following:

•  Like he's found the key to open any door
• Like she's a candle in the window
• Like he'd hate anything to happen to her
• Like a virgin, touched for the very first time

The last bit's my assumption, but I'm sure he would agree.

The good thing about hanging out with Danyal is that I know which of my jokes will definitely work because he'll laugh. Otherwise he just yawns and says 'the fuck are you saying?' I'm very bitter about the falling asleep thing right now, clearly, but Danyal has been trying to explain it away as a Vitamin D deficiency. Okay, what?

I think there's a great article on Cracked about this, things movies need to stop teaching us about love or something. I should link it up here, but Danyal has all those ailments. And that makes me think, that maybe so do all of us. All of us watch way too much TV, as god intended, and listen to way too much music that makes us build our lives a certain way. I mean, Mr Tom Waites has convinced me I don't need a home as long as I have a head to lay somewhere. We're all looking for that big dream of fulfillment, which means we're never happy with what we have. I mean, what if the big dream involves your job in middle management and the person that keeps asking you out that you're totally meh about at best, but you're all caught up trying to be a literary genius with a proclivity towards men who like their accessories in metallic shades? Or maybe your destiny isn't to be known as the inventor of the toasted strudel but like, marketing? Jeez. The alternatives do not sound like fun.

Oh, and, Durkheimism. I remembered another one. This still makes no case for A-level Sociology.

Anatomy of the Ignorant

It’s difficult to be me in this day and age. By 'me' I do mean me; Yasmin. For every twenty guy's guy there is only one girlie girl. Me. Is it because I’ve had positive male influences in my life? I’m not sure but I’ve had my share of heartache from men. Just because I don’t watch documentaries about the Vagina Monologues or follow Fatima Bhutto on Twitter doesn’t mean I don’t respect the Feminist Movement. Did I miss the feminist initiation in college? Because who wouldn’t want to hang out with a bunch of angry females?

I wasn’t the politically aware one in college. I was the girl who was never without a boyfriend. I can’t even remember being single since my 7th birthday and then the boyfriend train never stopped. His name was Zeeshan and we would sit together during the school's midday break. That started in the spring when he sat down next to me and I never told him not to. Until that summer when we broke up with me, well it wasn’t actually much of a break up, he just decided to sit next to some other girl when school reconvened and I never got the hint... even all these years later. That’s why people who say, “I want to be alone for some time” don’t make much sense to me, I mean maybe I’m just not interesting enough to be by myself. I embraced every interest that any boyfriend has had. I’ve dated a vegan also means I’ve been a vegan for the duration of the relationship.

This is why women don’t like me very much at least not the new fangled women. Is it wrong to support a man’s interest? Plus you always have someone to do stuff for you. Though many may argue that this is against everything that women have worked so hard to achieve I just think while women were working hard men were becoming lazier. They don’t even have to try too hard to bed anyone because it's supposed to be liberating to let people see what you look like without your clothes. I didn't know liberating also meant embarrassing, may be it's just me. I'm still learning. Baby steps, Yasmin! Baby steps!

So how does a girl like me who's never been without a number of potential Mr.Rights judge sexual libertines? I have a system and it works for me. A lady never tells. Let's just say I like to give those lazy guys a bit of a challenge and reward subsequent efforts with woolen mittens. I'll hear you out, I mean I respect people's opinions and their ideas and where those ideas originate but in the end I just don't care.

I rather make my guy's dinner than have him take me to Flo. So I decided that I'd try something new. I had my 30th birthday recently and the time to start over is now! Burn bridges or in this case, bras!

GAME PLAN
Step 1: Break up with boyfriend
Step 2: Be Profound
Step 3: Repeat steps 1 & 2

Since my hopes of marriage have been dashed this can be a new hobby. Zainab will be so upset that I haven't discuss this with her first but this is the new feminist approach of grabbing the bull by its balls. I'm sure the first thing she'll ask me is if my new boyfriend is a feminist. Ha! That should be a Burger Tips tee-shirt (no affiliation btw)! Feminist men are oxymorons! It'll be in pink and the O will be that feminine stick figure symbol. Oh no laughing, I'm a feminist now, I must read up on foreign policy and the newest way to free women who are oppressed behind veils and stoves, to let them run free without bras from the tangles of their oppressor's beards.
I'd have to give up my passion for knitting and needle point embroidery because that would mean the terrorists have won. Oh, and no more TV dramas since they are the manifestation of our archaic patriarchal system that we (women crusaders) are fighting against. As a new outlet for my creativity it would have to be within the realms of social media like a Tumblr account with feminist quotes on images of Georgia O'Keefe's paintings of "flowers".

Yes, I can see it happening very clearly: rallies, sit-ins, protests, oh my!

Step 4: Stock up on kholapuris and Hashmi surma.

Living theatrically: How to ace a job interview

My lungs feel like they're about to explode. These are the worst moments I've spent in a faux suede chair, ever. On the other hand, what did I expect? Faux suede isn't exactly made of win. Waiting in a room full of other job hopefuls isn't made of win either, it's made of courage. Yes brain, it's made of courage, this is Sparta, now shut it.

What? Did I just say job and hopeful? Am I actually overcoming the Stockholm Syndrome that binds Fareeda and myself? Why, I think I just did. It's good stuff. I may write a book about how brave I feel as I step into a world where companies feel five interviews for one position are reasonable. Right now though, my lungs are giving way. I can't breathe. This is worse than waiting for a boy to call you. Text you. Follow you on Twitter? I don't get it. I don't get the very modern rules of this modern world, and my etiquette on any given occasion has been falling short of desirable lately.

Maybe.

It's been about a year since I sat in on that meeting with BZ and the Metro crew, and it feels as though nothing has changed, but also everything. I've been out on three blind dates for one, with three blind mice. One of them had actually escaped Karl Lagerfeld's experimental fountain of eternal youth experiments. That is the only reason I believe he thought it was okay to ask me if I watch my weight because women tend to get 'too comfortable' once they settle down. The brutal lab tests. He wasn't a bad sort though, for a blind mouse. Ha ha! Oh this pain when I breathe in...no amount of laughter will make it go away.

A man rushes into the lounge, waving around a piece of paper. "Zai-nab?" he calls, "Is Zai-nab here?" I nod at him and get up. We have only known each other about two seconds and he already can't be bothered to pronounce the simplest name right. It's okay. Sparta.

"I see that you have applied for one of our writing positions," he says, frowning at my CV as if he cannot figure out why there's like, so much stuff on one piece of paper. "But you've studied photography, is that correct?"

If I've learnt one thing in the last few months, it is this: There is a time and place to be a smartass. This isn't one of them. I need to impress this man, with, if nothing, then my ability to hold a sane conversation with a functioning member of society. Another functioning member of society.

"Yes." Short and simple, like the little black dress. It's the best analogy I can come up with on the spot to convince myself of my answer's effectiveness.

"So...why do you want to write and edit, all this publishing-print stuff?" he looks very, very confused. I want to help him find a way out, it's the number one secret to all my successful human interactions. I like helping people. This is exactly why my third blind date, Hammad, found me so riveting he refused to call me after weeks of getting to know each other over our hatred of vampires. I try not to think about it. It was not my shining moment, to paraphrase musician and great mind of our times, Hash.

"I love to write," I tell him, "and I adore editing." My interviewer is all eyebrow of skepticism.

"Yes well. Well, do you have any questions?" he asks.

I want to throw my hands over my face and sob. No, I want to tell him. This is my five thousandth and first interview with you guys, I have no more questions. I want answers. Answers, for the love of Suri Cruise's gold stilettos!

I give up. I curl my mouth and shake my head. I can't speak anymore. He reads me my rights should I win this job. I smile and thank him and tell him it was great meeting him. I walk out, a cramp in my side, my lungs rattling against my ribs. Some people would throw up, I only do that when I'm excited. This was not exciting. I fish out my phone and text Yasmin.

Get thee to the nunnery or whatever

It’s Monday! Or rather the end of Monday which I am welcoming with open arms, as usual. The end of Monday means the rest of the week can’t be any worse than the day that has gone by. Kind of like when you have cramps and you think ‘okay, so this hurts but at least I’m not pregnant with a two-headed baby.’ Which, if I was, would be pretty cool because it would be like that story in the Bible about when Baby Jesus was born. And it would be ironic, because a two headed baby is exactly what I have wished on my ex-boyfriends, Ali, Ali and Ali. Yes they were all called Ali. I’ve never met an Ali I didn’t like (at first). This is probably why amma always tells me not to wish ill on others, because it comes back to you. She also says I will be married within the year, and that my pictures never get picked up by National Geographic magazine because they are too broody. (P.S. How can a shot of lions at the zoo be broody? It’s just lions; I am just a wildlife photographer, isn’t my job to document animals and nature as is?)

Suffice it to say, I take everything my mother says to heart, with a pinch of salt. Which means whatever. Basically I end up high-fiving Yasmin every time Bosszilla can’t make it to work because she has ‘a strategy meeting with key players in the industry’, but then take my high fives back because it’s rude to be happy about someone else having to work really hard and as it will come back to me in the form of …my own intense concept development meetings which are actually just cocktails with my friends?

Yes, I hardly know what I’m talking about, most of the time. But I gesticulate a lot and use words like gesticulate a lot and people seem to think I know my shit. That’s how I got through studying photography at school for four years. I would take pictures I liked and then plug in a concept somewhere and get standing ovations. Sadly the SO’s were always for the concept and never for the pics, which were always “very emotive” but too “obscure”. But as I always say, at least I got my degree. Of course back then I was going to take on the world with my tremendous, artistic take on Pakistan’s natural resources and urban wildlife. Now I have a take on anything but. Mostly my take is on severely important people like Justin Bieber and how to get great hair like his. Sometimes it’s about what cut jeans are totally in vogue. Other times I like to stretch myself and ruminate on the finer points of being married to a Scientologist. Basically, it’s life at Metro.

In case you don’t know what Metro is, may I please rent out some space under your rock? Everybody knows Metropolitan, the magazine that feeds on fashion and creates pink cloud shaped, gold-dusted stories of grandeur about it. Bits of it dabble in music and performance arts, and a slummy little space is devoted to comment pieces on celebrity gossip. Which brings me to my new role in the world: gossip um, journalist. Occasional commentator on whatever. When it comes to where I stand in life, you will find me using the term a lot. It rolls right off the tongue and can stand for you know, whatever. Everything and nothing. Photographer and voracious sleazy tabloid reader. Dying to put on a skirt and go dancing but can’t miss reruns of How I Met Your Mother.

So I end up doing whatever. In work and in life: whatever.

I ended up at Metro as a way to make some money while I waited for Nat Geo to recognize my genius. Or for someone to commission me for a BBC documentary. Sadly neither has happened yet. On the plus side I get paid by the 5^th of every month and am totally up and up on who is hooking up with whom and also what Ted Casablanca thinks about it. One of my secret desires is to be Ted Casablanca. When I was a kid, I always looked up into starry nights and prayed to god to let me be a gay gossip columnist when I grew up. So life is good. I could well be on my way to become the first Pakistani paparazzo. At least I’ll be able to break out my camera every once in a while then. Right now after a busy day of sulking at my desk as I sift through all the tabloids online and in person, all I want to do eventually is drown myself in a tub of chai and sorrow.

Today for instance, had been meticulously chalked out by Yasmin and myself. Meeting at 12, over at 1, back to work by 1:30. What happened ultimately was meeting at 12, Bosszilla shows up at a little after, and meeting goes to hell in a pretty little clutch. Okay so I can’t be all martyr like about this one. Yasmin did all the talking. Mehreen and I pretty much spaced out and played a mental game of chess. At least that’s what I think Mehreen was doing because she was intensely staring into a space just above her knee.

Anyway, Fareeda, or BZ as we very affectionately call her, managed to drag the girls into her lair of smoke and vagueness around 2 p.m. at which point I decided I needed to finish my piece on what I think the RPatz and Kristen Stewart relationship means for the relationships their fans are in. It’s a very serious piece written with a totally serious face and I got quotes and everything from a behavioral analyst. I might have been voted worst girlfriend ever and forever more by the three Alis, but I can wax eloquent about other people’s romances at length.

But life isn’t just about Metro and Fareeda, although those are the top two things I dream about at night. Mostly life is about regrabbing that plan in my head I had of who and where I want to be. This painful question was posed to me at a party recently. Where do you see yourself in five years? Instead of saying, whatever, fuck you for asking such an unimaginative question, I laughed and said I don’t know. Wherever life takes me. Like life is a big adventure and I’m Jim Corbett. Just out hunting man eating tigers in Indian jungles.

Truth is though, I don’t know. I don’t know about so many things that it scares me. At 29, I should have a better answer than I don’t know. I planned for every eventuality in life early on, except for this one. I chose an alternative career incase Nat Geo never comes calling and I was always aware that circumstances change plans. I just never knew that the last week of 2010 would throw me deep into the bowels of introspection and make me climb out all uncertain about what exactly it is that I want to be doing. I still want to be Pakistan’s Ted C, and I still want to be lying on my stomach trying to get one good shot of migratory birds that gather around puddles in Phase 8, but there is something more I need to be doing. I just wish I knew what it was.

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!