5Cs to 5Bs: The Alphabet of Singaporean Love

On my recent trip back to Singapore, I bumped into an old friend at Takashimaya. As I was walking by Tiffany’s, I saw him buying something. I rushed in to say hello as well as to find out whether he was picking out a rock! Ooh how exciting I thought.

“Hello K! Long time no see.”

“Oh it’s you! How’s New York?”

After the exchange of pleasantries, I boldly asked if he needed to tell me any good news.

“No, I am buying a gift for my niece and I am also not going to get married in the foreseeable future!”

He sure sounded jaded but I didn’t want to probe further. So we picked out a gift for the birthday girl.

Then, K confided that he was dating a 25 year-old lady and how he came to relationship fatigue.

During my growing up years (K’s included), Singaporeans were criticised for being too materialistic. The relationship or marriage equation is simple: The man must have the 5 Cs to be deemed courtship-worthy:

1. Condominium

2. Cash

3. Car

4. Credit Card

5. Career

K told me how he had been re-educated about the alphabets of Singaporean love. The 25 year-old had told him that the girls today no longer crave for the 5 Cs, but the 5 Bs.

They want:

1. Not just a condominium, but a Bungalow

2. Not just cash, but a Billionaire

3. Not just a car, but at least a BMW

4. Not just a credit card, but own a Bank (gasp!)

5. Not just a career, but be a Boss

I would say, not only did I sympathise with K, I thought this to be ridiculous. If we were to measure love by material goods, then should we all be lonely souls because we deserve it?

I was flabbergasted, a tad disgusted by what I heard to say the least. If I were K, I would rather be celibate than give in to the impossible demands of women in Singapore. Or is it just Singapore? That is another question in itself.

K then told me that he was going to concentrate on his career, earn big bucks and buy a wife when he reaches 40. This is just sad. I told him maybe he hasn’t met “The One” yet and am sure she will not that avaricious.

In my generation, we were once capable of being ‘Mesdemoiselles Materialistic’; now the young girls are touted to be ‘Mesdemoiselles More-than-Materialistic’.

Surely there must be other versions of this alphabet of love, but I lament about the inflation of love. Can you imagine? Even love has to be put through economic inflation!

As I pen this, I simply ask myself, “What are we becoming or what have we become?”

Disco Biscuits

Today marks the first day of my training with a trainer. Who would have thought that I would succumb to being a gym freak? Me? At a gym? Looking like a hamster trapped in a glass cage? A few years ago, you would not see me at the gym much, even though I had a corporate gym membership.

Let me tell you how I ended up, in what I used to call "the glass cage."

Run, Rabbit, Run...

One fateful night, I was feeling peckish and it was snowing. I decided to run to Duane Reade (in New York, there is a Duane Reade almost every three blocks). Duane Reade is similar to a 7-Eleven in Singapore. I ventured into the cookies department and picked out this particular brand of Italian biscuits-Stella D’Oro Margherite made in the Bronx, New York.

As it was two packs for five dollars, I thought this was a great deal especially since I was not going to buy them again. Or so I thought. That very night, my husband and I finished all twenty sticks in the pack. Each stick was about as long as an iPhone, and approximately half the thickness.

The Disco Biscuits!

Caloric count: 65 calories per stick. We didn’t look at the information on the back until we had finished the whole packet. It is very delicious. It is not pretentious. It is a simple yet flavorful old-school biscuit. It is not as heavy as shortbread. It is light and fluffy akin to a chiffon cake, but has the texture of a regular biscuit. It is not too sweet and does not leave you satiated.

Within weeks, I had purchased 24 packets and counting. My jeans were tighter and tighter as I could chomp down a pack in a day. As I typed the beginning of this story, I had a biscuit in my mouth. This biscuit could make me salivate just thinking about it.

The 2 very important objects in my life.

I had three options:

1. Keep buying and get sick of it after stuffing my face silly. Not working. Next option please.

2. Stop buying immediately. Tried cold turkey but didn’t help. I would sit in church and dream about the biscuit during the priest’s sermon.

3. Join a gym to counter the calorie and fat intake.

I chose option 3. I joined the nearest gym and decided to enjoy my biscuit but work out. I have been to the gym everyday for 10 days now. Today I upped the ante by meeting a personal trainer to fight the flab.

In retrospect, I did not foresee that a $2.50 per pack of biscuits would cost me $145 per month at the gym. Obviously, the one year away from the banking industry has robbed me of the ability to count or read value!

My trainer, CJ, was intimidating. I had to allow him to use calipers to pinch my fat on my triceps, abdomen and thigh. He was allowed into the secret mysterious world of my weight and height; furthermore, he could comment on anything he wanted. How terrifying. As he did test after test, the suspense nearly killed me. Anyhow, I was rather shocked by my results. My body fat ratio was below average! My resting heart rate is 45 beats per minute, which was a beat away from the “Elite” category in my age group! I am trim and fit, biscuit or not. The only few points I need to work on are improving flexibility in my hip flexors (wherever they are), strengthening my core muscles and losing some weight (I added the last point myself as I like to be skinny).

With CJ's implicit backing, I skipped gleefully home, the whole time dreaming about gorging "the Disco Biscuit". However, the truth is my jeans have been feeling very tight of late. Perhaps it is a hormonal time and I am suffering from water retention. Or perhaps it is a permanent condition.

The reality is, denial is a beautiful thing.

Fat, I am not.

Weight put on, I surely have.

Biscuits I will eat

Life I will enjoy.

*Some pictures taken from the internet*

Yoga and Yoda

I am one of those unlucky people who have extra long limbs splashed with inflexibility.  Long limbs are good but inflexibility not.  My muscles (especially my hamstrings) do not seem to extend much for some reason and I fear that when I grow older, I will shrivel up looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

My aim for the year was to be able to touch my toes when I bend over by Christmas.  So I thought to myself that I have to practice yoga to improve my flexibility.


I must, I must, I must touch my toes!

When I was still living in Singapore, my very good friend, JZ, introduced me to yoga.  JZ was a gymnast so flexibility was innate.  She dragged me into class and boy did I struggle.  After two minutes, I had wanted to walk out but I did not want to embarrass her. Everything was horrid. I could not understand a word the instructor was spewing and I could not bend anywhere.  The last 10 minutes was sheer bliss to me.  The instructor had told us to lie down and relax.


Elegant tree pose which JZ can easily do

We were made to take very deep breaths and clear our heads.  And I fell asleep.  I was in slumber on a yoga mat, in the middle of the class.  JZ said under her breath, ”Babe, wake up.”

That was the last time I was going to embarrass myself, or any of my friends.  I swore off yoga.


Some of the yoga poses I probably did the first time round, without me knowing.

Now that I am in New York, bored with a gym membership and no friends to embarrass, I decide to rediscover yoga.

The first class was a mistake.  I accidentally went for the advanced yoga class.  I was beyond a beginner.  The instructor was very kind and patient to see me through 60 minutes of shock and bewilderment.  I felt like an alien drowning in a sea of flexible homosapiens!

Words like “downward dog," “cobra pose," “dolphin," “tree," “vinyasa,"  “chaturanga," “reverse warrior," “pigeon” and “lotus” made me think I was in a Kama Sutra class! I had no idea what each term was; let alone how to do it.  I copied the guy in front of me.  The lady next to me did not just touch her toes; she put her palms underneath her feet while keeping her legs straight.  Oh, did I add that she was 62?  Lily is her name.


Caterpillar crawling...


...and searching for food from the sky.

People like Lily make me feel like killing myself on a bad day, or inspired on a good one.  Born with a competitive nature, I stuck it through 2 months of yoga.  I want to challenge myself and if 60-somethings can do it, so can I.

I realised that breathing is a fundamental of yoga.  Every graceful movement (for some) is done in accordance to either an inhale or an exhale. After a month of frequent yoga sessions (at least 3 times a week), I dare say that I can do a “cobra pose” from chaturanga better now.  It looks like a caterpillar crawling and searching for food from the sky.  Initially I must have looked like Chewbacca doing yoga, mane and all.  Awkward and clumsy I was.


The same frustrated look (and hair) I have whilst in a yoga class.

Today, for the first time, I went to a yoga class taught by a male instructor.  He is very graceful, handsome and speaks with a strong Greek accent.  His physique embodies a yoga ideal.  He has a strong but lean body, fluidity of movement, and absolute precision in every pose.  Just as I thought I knew quite a bit about yoga, this "Yoda" made us do something I have never heard of or imagined.  He told us to put both our index fingers in our ears and hum like a sweet honeybee, “not a mosquito."  Remove and repeat 3 times and thereafter, focus on our right ears.  We should hear a high-pitched sound.



Errrr, Yoda, I heard nada…


Some pictures taken off the internet

Junk and Junkies

I checked into a "clinic" last weekend for five hours. It is one of the best in Manhattan. It never fails to soothe me, make me feel pretty and make me feel good all over, at least for a bit. Then it makes me feel guilty and broke.

The "clinic" in question - Saks Fifth Avenue.

Retail therapy is such an overused and abused term.  Women love it; men loathe it.  Women squeal with each purchase; men feel their credit card melt with each swipe.


Shopping!

In Singapore, shopping for clothes is much easier as it is summer all year round.  I have lived in Singapore for most of my life and do not have enough winter clothes now that I live in New York.


Snow storm in New York winter 2009/10

So I told my dear husband that I needed more clothes.  He stared at me and said innocently, “Our walk-in closet and the two others in the adjoining room are already filled with your clothes.”

I glared back at him and muttered, “I do not have enough winter wear.”


Frozen tree in Central Park

And so I managed to drag him to my favorite clinic.  He was tasked to be my retail version of a wingman and to give me comments about each piece of garment.

Being a woman is not simple.  We are complex creatures to begin with, and when we shop, we make truly important, mind-blowing decisions.  Men should be more patient with us if we cannot decide between smoky-grey and charcoal-grey, or salmon-pink and rusty-pink.  We always strive to dress the best for them.  They should be constantly reminded: You are the main reason why we dress up (clears throat).

For starters, we looked at mink coats.  I have been trying to envision myself in fur for a while now but I still cannot get used to the thought of wearing an animal on me.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to play animal activist and I do wear leather. Just not fur. The image of the whole animal on me is just not alluring.  To convince myself otherwise, I decided to try some on.

The first coat made me look like Sesame Street's Big Bird.  The only thing different was the color but I still felt like a bird.  A clumsy bird.



The second coat made me feel 50 years old.  Perhaps it is the connotation that most older woman wear fur.  It is no doubt that a fur coat looks luxurious and expensive but somehow, I felt my youth dissipate in it.

The third coat, by then, would simply hang in its glorious mane, on the rack.

We ventured into the "Young Ladies Fashion” department.  I had a smirk on my face but was feeling apprehensive at the same time.  I do not consider myself old, but not that young either. I consoled myself by incessantly chanting, “30s is the new 20s” in my head.

We immediately stumbled upon a sleeveless fire-engine-red shift dress. On closer inspection, the dress was made up of hearts sewn together. I decided to try it on for the fun of it. I never thought that I was going to buy it as I always thought that hearts look too girly for my persona. The only size left was a US 2, which translates to extra-small. My husband and I laughed out loud but he convinced me to put my definitely-larger-than-extra-small body into the dress.


THE red dress

Voilà.  It fitted well.  Shocking! I had to buy the dress.  I do not own a size 2 in my closet.  I needed to buy this dress then, if not the day before.  No debate, no questions, no nothing.  Just a yes to size 2.  I felt super slim when I walked out of the shop with the dress in hand.  The sales person was shocked to find out that I am in my thirties.  Ooh, I love cheap thrills.  Even if she had lied through her teeth.

In New York, it is common knowledge that a woman cannot wear mini-skirts past the age of 35.  I have to wear them now before the societal expiration date.  With a vengeance, I swept two mini skirts into my shopping bag.  With another swoop, the bag was laden with two skinny tops.  Now, anxious of the fact that I have gathered only summer clothes so far, I started hunting high and low for winter clothes, before my husband could make any murmur.  I took a thick black cardigan with simple details and used it to cover the summer clothes in the bag.


The mini-skirt which I haven't had the courage to wear...yet.

No comment from the man?  Phew.  The coast was clear.  I could sense his weariness and suggested tea.  Between tea and stretching our legs, it occurred to me that shopping is like a drug; it is addictive.  The more you get, the more you want.  The point of satiation is incomprehensible.  After you get hit, you always come back for more, and it certainly brings you highs and lows.

I suddenly felt like a junkie.  I am sure there is a retail version of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) in Manhattan for rehabilitation and I was worried that label would get stuck on me.

Instead of shopping for more, I told my husband I wanted to go home.  He agreed and said, ”OK, tomorrow we will carry on shopping for proper winter clothes.”

Oops.  And I thought he hadn’t noticed.



Some pictures taken off the internet.

Our Anniversary

Our anniversary was a double celebration: it marked our first year of marriage and our first year in New York.

"Being married" – a year ago, these words were foreign to me.  Well, not exactly foreign but I was merely acquainted with them.





You see, I used to be a typical career woman.  I loved clinching deals and sniffing out new ones.  I always joked that there was no need to get married; it was better to make loads of money and check myself into a home when I grew old.  There was no need for dependency.  That was passé.

They say you meet "The One" when you least expect it.

I remember asking my colleague about her husband and how she knew he was "The One."  They got married within six months of meeting each other.  She threw me a hackneyed “when you know, you know."  I secretly rolled my eyes and thought, “Whatever."

So, it was at yet another work-do that I would meet "Him," and I was highly inebriated on sangria and Dom Perignon.  But even when the so-called beer goggles wore off, his looks and personality still charmed me as the evening wore on.

Before long, we started dating, and our relationship just got better as time went by.  How strange.  I was used to the cliché that things only go downhill henceforth.

We only saw each other on weekends as he worked in Hong Kong and I, Singapore.  To bridge the gap, we would take turns traveling to one another's home base every Friday and return to our respective countries on the late flight Sunday.


One of the things we would do over the weekend in Hong Kong (Horse Racing in Sha Tin). In this picture, it appears that the horse is headless. Fear not, his head is bent over to his left.

This arrangement worked out fine as we were both busy bankers.  We coped well until he received news that he was going to be posted to New York City.

I have never had much faith in long-distance relationships.  Hong Kong-Singapore was manageable but sometimes still a pain.  New York-Singapore?  How about no way, Jose?  I loved my job and my colleagues, not to mention my family and friends.  It was a hard choice.

It was around that time that he proposed marriage.  Now, I love risk, but this was going to be the biggest test of my love yet.  Risk in business could be hedged.  Risk in love -–in my opinion – ends in a binary result: you either win or you lose.

But you know what I decided in the end.

Yes, I quit my job, packed my bags and moved to New York after our civil marriage in Singapore.  I had taken on a new role: an unemployed housewife.

Even after a year, I am still not used to putting down “homemaker” as my occupation on custom forms.  I cringe each time I have to write that down.  But I don't mean to offend all the great housewives out there.  It is the hardest job one can ever do.  It is such a selfless job, but one for which I feel I receive no personal gratification.


Beware the amateur chef!

I was simply not accustomed to my new life.  I used to be rewarded in dollars for the amount of hard work I put in.  Now, the math was incorrect!

My husband was empathetic.  He knew how career-minded I was.  He felt guilty about uprooting me from my job, my family, my friends and, most of all, for the loss of my sense of independence.  He even suggested drawing up a "contract" with an arbitrary salary, so that I could pretend that he had employed me, if that would make me feel better.

No, he wasn't suggesting a prenuptial agreement.  We both think that kills any romance in a relationship.  It is akin to a self-fulfilling prophecy that your marriage will end at some point.

Eventually, I decided on a fancy new work title with my "boss": I am now the Secretary of Home Affairs.  Literally.

I deal with everything at home – from leaking pipes to bank managers.  I wear more hats than I thought I ever would.  Oh, and my work wardrobe has also grown: On some evenings, I dress up as a corporate wife.  Then I get to wear sweats to the gym and casual clothes to run errands.


My new best friends!

But I no longer wear power suits, which I miss.  I have an undefined job scope, which I still cannot fathom at times.  I have no colleagues to chat with, and I can go an entire day without speaking to anyone.

Instead of whining, I should tell you the perks of my new job.

I get to wake up at 10 a.m. everyday.  No more 7 a.m. breakfast meetings and midnight conference calls.  My time is my own.  I have salsa lessons three times a week and Spanish classes twice a week.  I have also learned how to cook and clean.  I dictate what I do with my life, for the most part.

But these changes have also been a shock to my system.  I can no longer tolerate caffeine or alcohol much, and I get tipsy after two glasses of wine.  Mind you, I could chug a bottle or two in my heyday.

In a sense, I am detoxifying my body and my spirit.  I now have time to say "hello" to the wine merchants downstairs.  I have time to chat with fellow shoppers and I have time to write blogs!

I am now in the second year of my new job, which I cannot terminate as I wish.  I did not get a pay increase but I did receive a paltry year-end bonus – just like the rest of the average Joes serving the powers-that-be in the banking industry!

I am in awe of women who are full-time mothers and homemakers.  This tale is to thank my mum for her years of dedication to her family.  And to all the great homemakers out there – three cheers for you all!