On Plans

I have to fight to get into and out of my bedroom every day.  I'm used to the creative license taken by local builders, but when even my full body weight on the door doesn't work, there is a problem.  I have to full-on run into the door and some days I think I'd rather have one of my roommates watch me sleep or catch me mid-bra-rotation.  In addition, there is an unexpected step in the path to and from the front door/bathroom region, which is a nightmare for naturally clumsy people; I've ruled out nighttime jaunts unless my desire to empty my bladder is greater than my fear of losing teeth.

However, I am now generally overjoyed with our apartment, and this is entirely due to Grandpa.  He built each of us a shelf with a hanging rack for clothes – and a bookshelf for Timbit because he loves her best – and I finally feel settled.  Finally.  At nearly the halfway point of our assignment, most of my things are unpacked and organised and I'm not moving out of this sunny little room for the next two years.

But wait! my mom says.  You said it was two years and you're almost done one year so that means you'd better improve your maths real quick, Firstborn for Whom I Was in Labour for a Week.

I had just been telling Pastor over the weekend that unless I began doing something time-consuming, vital, and Times-cover-worthy, I was going home in early 2018.

Today, my boss asked me when I was leaving.  I resolved to pepper the document he'd just sent me to translate with all the four-letter words I was thinking.  He went on to hope that I'd stay through 2018.

Me:  R-really?  I-I mean-- really?!
Boss:  Yes!
Me:  M-me?  I mean... Me?!

After a series of lights and fireworks behind my eyes, I weakly joked that this local organization would have to support me as my international one does.

Boss:  Yes!  I'm not sure if we can afford you--

--Ohhh, you can afford me.

Boss:  --as an expatriate, but we should be able to do something.

I find this highly doubtful, but it was nice of him to offer and pretend he needs me.  I think being a 'white person' (even a sort of discount one) has something to do with this ephemeral job offer, but I take compliments where I can.  However, he doesn't know that I'm about to request a nearly month-long vacation, which is more than my colleagues get in years (unless they're between contracts, otherwise known as 'unemployment').

I thought about all this as I translated a document of testimonials from our beneficiaries.

...[Avec l'aide de cette organization] j'ai achete une chevre qui a mis bas plusiers fois...

Maman X from the middle of a forest in Central Africa says:  Thanks for the extraordinarily fecund goat!

I feel even more useless as we've now  received funding for a new project and our staff has grown by leaps and bounds.   One of my new colleagues is of that rare breed – a Congolese psychologist who is a Christian feminist.  She inspires me and I'm enjoying this fragile relationship.  However, she leans toward the idea that women are better than men, and may yet confide that she believes the Holy Spirit to be a blue-tentacled tree from Betelgeuse, so I'm still proceeding with caution.

Other interactions require a measure of forethought as well.  Like conversations with young men at church, even though I'm only chatty with the ones who are disinterested in me or who have girlfriends.  One of the latter was deeply impressed by Canada's no-dowry policy and then further awed by India's screw-women one.  I am worried this may have caused him to do something drastic, though we were speaking in English and I may have misunderstood (surprise).

Him:  It's been so long!  You never answer my phone calls!

And that will never change, darling.

Him:  You make me happy when I see you!

...This escalated quickly.

Him:  I think we need to talk.

That phrase should be thrown out of the English language.  Or shortened to a four-letter word – it'd fill me with the same generalized disgust, but faster.

Him:  But first I need to ask you: How old are you?

Nothing we have to discuss should have that question as a corollary.

Me:  I'm 28.  Old.

Him:  No!  You're still young!

Me:  Nope.  Really very old.  Really.  Why did you want to know?

Him:  When you're interested in someone, you should ask questions about them.

Me:  I see.

Him:  I want to be on a plane to Canada one day – porrrr!

Me:  I see.

Him:  And then I will come to your house at 7am – porrr!

Sorry, is that the sound of the doorbell or the plane still?

Me:  I see.

Him:  When will you come to my church?

On the morning of the wedding, no doubt.

Again, it's not that I think he's interested in me, personally – he's either just being friendly or flirting just a little, which makes me nervous, which makes me smile vacuously, which encourages him to keep doing whatever it is he's doing.

This superpower comes with great responsibility and will come in handy when my family in India meets my nose ring.  I'm practicing making my speech behind an ear-to-ear grin:

Yes, I'm still a Christian.  No, I'm not pregnant.  Yes, it hurt.  No, Mama did not give me permission for it.  I know you don't like it; you don't have to get one, I promise.  Yes, I'm still a Christian.  No, I'm not pregnant...