But I Don’t Wanna

Adulthood, I have discovered, is pretending to want to do things I don’t want to do. 

Sometimes they are things that I have a responsibility to do, like  saving the world in a tiara and a miniskirt  writing reports all day.  Like Loki, I also am burdened with glorious purpose... to vote, pay taxes, sit in an office, avoid deep fried bread in a quest to achieve the elusive Thigh Gap, and to refuse to pretend I have a long-lost African sister (I've heard of people who've claimed their parents were dead to gain vaunted Refugee status, so this woman's request wasn't too far out).  

Sometimes they are things that  bigger adults   better adults   more adulty adults  my coordinators want me to do that I don’t understand and don’t want to do on general principle because (as my three-year-old cousin used to say) I BICK!

And because I am big, I want to make my own decisions about where I live – even despite not knowing a thing about the security situation in this region.  I do feel like I have some valid reasons for not wanting to move into a new apartment (with Butters and Yet Another Person), but they were vetoed by Captain and Carrottop through a series of meetings and emails that I have paraphrased below.

Carrottop:  There are many reasons why we want you to move into a nice, new three-bedroom apartment.

Me:  But I don’t want to!

Captain:  Well, the other option is grounding you until 2018.

Me:  B-but...  This is so unfair!

Carrottop:  Everyone calm down.  We can discuss this.

Me:  I BICK!

Carrottop and Captain:  You’re moving and that’s final, young lady.

Me:  You’re not the boss of...  Right, uh, so... you want me start packing now or...? 

So that was that.  I’ll miss my Egg Lady, my Bible study group, and a police officer on the street who stopped me yesterday just to chat and politely request that I greet him sometimes.  ...Perhaps this last is a good thing; call me cynical, but I have no doubt that our relationship would have soon progressed to asking for a drink, food, and perhaps a goat for his uncle’s funeral.  As all police officers look the same to me, and as I’ve heard that to make eye contact is to dance around naked singing Bribing days are here again, I’m not sure I remember his face.  However, I do know that he lisps, so here’s hoping I’m able to recognise him and call in a favour when I’m arrested for public growling or something.   

...And that’s how I came to be moving for the 3^rd time in eight months.  As my stuff multiplies each time, we’re up to a good six large boxes and bags of what ifs and maybes.  If I ever end up moving to a village, locals may think I'm opening a Costco.  

Having lost this battle, I set my mind to another in short order. 

Me:  Can I go to a red zone with the rest of my team, pleasepleasepleaseplease?

Carrottop:  We can discuss it.

Me:  ...Are you saying I can’t go?

Captain:  It’s not safe. 

Me:  But everyone else is going!

Carrottop:  We’re not responsible for everyone else.

Me:  B-but...  This is so unfair!

Carrottop:  Listen--

Me:  No, you listen!  First you’re making me move away from all my friends and now you won’t even let me go to a socioeconomic reinsertion in a village!  You never let me do anything fun!

Captain:  A friend was killed in that area--

Me:  Meh-meh-meh-someone was killed-meh-meh-meh.

Carrottop:  I can understand that you’re frustrated--

Me:  I hate you!

Carrottop:  *gasp*

Captain:  Just give her some space.

Carrottop:  We love you, honey.

Me:  Just leave me alone!

Carrottop:  Do you want some quiche?

Me:  ...Leave it in the kitchen.

You think it wasn’t this humiliating.

You’re wrong.

At my office, my program coordinator (who is my new boss) came to my office, patted me on the head, smoothed my hair, called me an angel, pressed me to her generous bosom, and gently crooned that I wouldn’t be coming because I was white.

...And that’s why I’m currently not planning a six-day training in two rural zones with the rest of my team.  In all honesty, I'd known I likely wouldn’t be going.  My conversations with our field worker stationed in that area usually went like this:

“So maybe I’ll come out there sometime.”

“Hahaha.”

“No, I’m serious – we’ll have to do training there...”

“Hahaha.”

“It can’t be that bad--”

“Hahaha.”

“I mean, I’ll get used to--”

“Hahaha.”

“Hey, I can--”

“HAHAHA.”

For the love of God. 

After some haggling, he’d carefully agreed that I could come if I left the same day. 

As it takes six hours to get there, I’d get to spend all of 15 minutes in the village before we’d have to leave.  This was supposing, he hastened to add, that I wasn’t kidnapped on the way.

No sweat – I’d be happy to scream out a four-day training session in 15 minutes and then thrust a handful of chickens, money, and machetes at a group of desperate Congolese women.  I mean, they’d probably prefer this method to the actual You are now responsible for a business, so please don’t eat the chickens, spend the money on your sick aunt’s uncle’s father’s goat’s original owner thrice removed, or use the machetes to kill someone whose nostrils you happen to dislike lecture.    

I promise you I’m half relieved.  I mean, driving over rocks through the middle of a giant rainforest, teaching a group of mamans who can barely read or write in languages in which I’m not entirely confident, and then sleeping in whatever accommodations they have available isn’t the easiest of activities. 

But I feel bad that my colleagues and teammates are required to do these things as a matter of course while the mere threat of having to change a poopy diaper throws off my groove for a week.