February was an enormously busy month for me; I was on a staycation. I hardly ever made it to bed before midnight, I slept in pretty much everyday and successfully procrastinated the few things that stood on my to-do list throughout the whole month. As I said… enormously busy. I mean seriously, did you know how time consuming procrastinating is? Especially after the invention of Facebook. That thing is to procrastinating what the board is to surfing – the tool to perform your hobby, the key to enjoy your leisure time activity. Not that I know too much about surfing, but I assume dropping into a wave over and over again gives you the same feeling of addiction as cyber-stalking your Facebook friends over and over again does. Then, right before you pick up the work you intended to do the sunset makes you realise you’ve just procrastinated yet another day away…

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Ela wearing the Karma Skinny Pant, the Arena Sweater Vest and the Academy Tank. We like it! (Photo: Timo Jarvinen)

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The lazy boredom of February had me perform procrastination by going through the photo albums of people I don’t even know. But this didn’t even matter, as I find it simply mind blowing and highly entertaining to see what people post on Facebook these days – photos of their childhood when they had the chickenpox for example. Chickenpox! You can be the Kate Moss of babies, and chickenpox still manages to make you look disgusting. Why would I want to photo proof to the world how disgusting I was as a baby? Or then there are these husbands who use their smart phones to post photos of their wives ten seconds after they gave birth. I would straight up ask for a divorce if I was them! Why should the world need to know how pale you look after ten hours of labour?

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What I found on Facebook while procrastinating my way through February made me feel vicariously embarrassed for others and I was convinced Facebook finally needed to launch a dislike-button in order to save people from their own awkwardness. I was sure this dislike-button was the only way to make certain users reconsider their posts, but then, after I reflected on it again, I eventually took sides against it. How drastic would the consequences of this dislike-button possibly be? People would definitely start hating. It would be some sort of revival of public outlawing, the tool to communal flouting, the condemnation of all chickenpox loving dads and moms in labour…

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Flouting can doubtlessly be fun at times, but honestly, I don’t know if I could personally deal with people disliking my posts. I have this one Facebook photo album for example, in which I only put pictures I consider enormously funny. I love this album. I sometimes catch myself going through it and peeing my pants laughing at my own captions… Call me morbidly narcissistic, or hopelessly pathetic, it’s probably what I am. But I don’t have spare money to spend on psychiatric sessions or self-help groups and this album makes me feel good about myself just as chickenpox and delivery room photos encourage others. So why should I let anyone kill my dreams by disliking my photo album and letting me know that I am most likely the only person on this planet that thought those captions were funny? The truth hurts and it’s sometimes unnecessary for it to be said. This is why I plead against dislike-buttons and ask you to use the like-buttons more often. I would even say they might go down in history as the antidepressant of the 21^st century… And you know what? I personally like this idea!

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Ela

Ela wearing the Evershlott Tank and the Box Springs harem pant (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

I don’t know too much about the feelings of weekdays but did you ever ask yourself about Mondays’ emotional equilibrium? Only think of how many people curse them for their existence each time they pop up on the calendar. It must be at least two-thirds of the world population which currently amounts in about 4.5 billion human beings. What if Mondays can hear us curse them? How low could their self-esteem possibly be? I mean, 4.5 billions curses a week? Gosh! Mondays must be survivors… Don’t get me wrong. I don’t come to their defence. I’m a weekend person, and I certainly dislike Mondays for ending my most favourite time of the week. But at the same time, I have always had this soft spot for discriminated fringe groups, and this is why I recently started to worry about Mondays and wondered if there was anything at least slightly positive we could get out of them. They could simply not just be doomed to be cursed, right?

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It was during a chat with a friend when it became clear to me what positive side Mondays might come along with. My friend had just been dumped by his girlfriend for the umpteenth time and he yet again wanted her back. They lived one of these on-and-off-relationships that everyone in a circle of friends secretly wishes to be over. So when he told me over dinner that he and his ex-girl might get back together, I reacted with as much excitement as a sated dog would to the tofu steak on my plate. I advised my friend to give it more time, wait until he was able to see things more clearly for once, understand that their constant break-ups were probably for a reason and that they most likely didn’t belong together… I thought I sounded smart but what I said was obviously not what my friend wanted to hear. He looked at me completely devastated, called my advice ‘bullshit’, told me that he couldn’t stand this crap about time would heal wounds and that he no longer wanted to talk to me about this… Although I respected his wish and changed the subject, I couldn’t help being bothered by his harsh reaction. Was it possible that I (and everyone with mutual convictions) could just be wrong? Could time actually heal wounds or was it really just an awfully overrated verbal tranquillizer that only existed in the dreams of creators of painfully romantic Hollywood movies?

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Well, I reflected about this long and intensively and I have to stick to the ‘no’. There was this one thing life and especially being single had taught me and this was that the passage of time would make us see more clearly and make wounds eventually heal. I mean, how many times did I already purportedly have a crush on a guy knowing for sure this oh-so amazing person was my designated one? And how many times did these oh-so heart-breaking crushes turn out to be a total disaster, or – if only I let time pass by – mutate into something more serious no matter how hopeless they seemed in the beginning? Yes, wasn’t it only a few Mondays ago that a wound was still bleeding and today, some nth Monday later, not even its scar is  visible anymore? Time does heal wounds, and if for for nothing else, Mondays are here to remind us of this reliably and punctually every week again.

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Up from now, I hope to make some Mondays a little brighter with my new column ‘Mondays matter’ (each 1st Monday of the month) on blog.quiksilver-women.com. Let it remind you monthly that any unanswered crush, nasty break-up or any other conceivable affaire de coeur may come and go, but Mondays will stay.

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Because Mondays do matter!

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Ela

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No need to look back, another Monday will come eventually... (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

Gimme white Christmas, but please no questions about New Year's Eve... Ela in the Midnight Rider Coat.

I have this thing for Christmas. I simply love it. And when I say «love», I include any possible emotion this word generally comes along with. It’s painful, joyful and breathtaking at once. I long for it bitterly all year, thinking of it delights my heart and experiencing it brings peace to my mind and the most content smile to my face. Now that it’s over I wish Santa had granted my request for a time machine so I could fast-forward the days to experience the tree staring and gift opening traditions of Christmas Eve again right away. Instead, Santa’s unreliability in gift delivery forces me yet another year to face an «Eve» that I dislike as much as I adore the Christmas one.

I am speaking of New Year’s «Eve», a commonly celebrated and highly esteemed holiday whose right to exist I strongly question. Don’t get me wrong I generally support social get-togethers that come with good food, bottles of champagne and a day off to recover from the firewater’s consequences. But as far as New Year’s Eve is concerned, I simply don’t get the point. I mean how absurd is the idea of choosing one day in an interval of 365 and force each and everyone to turn nuts and party as if there was no tomorrow? Who exactly did choose the date anyways? And why in this world did they think that by pure chance, 6.9 milliards would feel like turning nuts and partying as if there was no tomorrow? You are right. If I dislike New Year’s that much I should just stay home, read a few pages of a dull and cheesy Nicholas Sparks novel and dive into Neverland before the machinery of clocks in the central European time zone make the last two digits of 2009 switch. Well, easier said than done as the requests of social responsibility and communal obligation that come with New Year’s are damn hard to meet stuck all alone in ones room.

It all begins with this one question. And what are your plans for New Year’s Eve? Honestly, how many times have you been asked this recently? Well, to me, people started dropping these words about three weeks ago and they haven’t stopped yet. It might have been acceptable to answer with «I don’t know» three weeks ago, but the closer time proceeded towards the 31^st the reactions on my answer became more and more indigenous at the corner of rolling eyes street and fake compassion road. People made it clear: It is intolerable and pitiable to not have plans for New Years’ and I should better find a way to turn nuts and party as if there was no tomorrow quickly in order to not be considered a socially isolated failure.

To be honest, I still haven’t figured out the details for the big night. As much as I would like to claim that I don’t care the idea of ending up in bed with dull and cheesy Nicholas Sparks scares me. And this awfully frequent asked question shows me that I might not be the only one with mixed feelings towards this oh so happy Holiday. There is something that makes us terribly worrying about it, and I for my case have to admit that it is the fear of having to spend it all alone… Bang! There you go with my confession, world!

So in case you do feel the same, I suggest we exclude this devil of a question from our end of year small talk repertoire and start approaching these New Year’s Eves as we approach any given weekday. And now tell me, why in this world should we have plans for a given weekday’s Eve three goddamn weeks in advance?

Happy New Year to all of you!

Ela

Ela clear-sighted in the Yesterday Jacket and the Encore Dress... (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

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There is this one thing running particularly wrong in my life. Or to be more exact, it runs wrong about every other day. One could even claim that the only thing right and reliable about it is that it practically does run wrong every other day. It’s not a lot, but it is something, and probably what we have to be satisfied with in time of financial crisis and swine flu…

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Well, this thing is also known as a public clock at which I bike by every day to University. A public clock running wrong might be a low-key affair in other countries, but it is kind of a big deal in Switzerland. I mean, it’s Switzerland, the country that pretty much invented the tick and the tack that make clocks all around the world go. Time and punctuality is technically paragraphed in the Swiss constitution. Swiss mums feed their babies with it. And Swiss teachers, bosses or any other person in authority have a legal right to put a headlock on anyone that doesn’t fully meet the requirements of time and punctuality… In short, Swiss clocks do simply not just run wrong. And if they still do, they mess up Swiss people’s life like this particular one messed up mine.

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As there was a time in this clock’s life when the hands were according to their big boss in Greenwich, England, I almost fell off my bike the first time they weren’t. The clock ran about 30 minutes fast, which would have meant a 30 minutes delay for class for me, which again made me almost experience a minor heart attack. Such a reaction on being late might sound rather ‘petit bourgeois’ in your ears, but considering the Swiss breakfast and punishing standards it should no longer be surprising… So blame it on my education, but I knew no other option than to declare war on this piece of public nuisance.

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Up from then, I punished the clock with my cold shoulder, and I was almost overconfident of my victory a few days later (the clock slowly but surely began to be on time more often), when the clock’s final attack eventually forced me to my knees. It happened to run wrong on a day on which things in my life weren’t running quite right either, and that was what made the scales suddenly fell from my eyes… What if this clock ran wrong to teach me something? What if it had a message for me? Yes, what if this ugly and wrong running piece was nothing but the faster ticking reflection of my life and only ran wrong to teach me that things in my life did just as its fingers? Maybe run wrong on some days but still run right the next?

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Well, not that things were really all that simple in life, but how much easier are wrong running times to stand when we know that we just have to be patient for a day or two until they would be right again? So even if this clock is nothing more than what it really is (namely a simple, ugly and wrong running piece) it at least had the power to remind me illustratively that declaring war on wrong running things is a simple waste of time (especially in a clock’s case…). Sometimes things obviously have to go wrong to teach us right.

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Now go find your own wrong running clock and appreciate it!

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Ela

...after the scales fell from her eyes. (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

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Wants the good old postcard days back: Ela in the QSW Privilege Plaid coat (photo: creagerphoto.com)

I experienced a premiere the other day. It was the first time of my life that I decided to break off the relation to someone completely. I actually never thought much of such unconditional acts. I always hated those typical girlie fights back in high school when best girlfriends wouldn’t talk to each for a defined period of time for some stupid reason like ‘she copied my hairstyle’ or whatever. I thought it was useless and I could never understand how people could draw such lines under relationships that had meant the world to them just before… Not until the other day exactly, when I saw myself forced to make a cut and send the chosen someone packing combined with the urgent request to never return.

Of course it was not just someone… How less of a young woman’s life would my life be if the designated person wouldn’t have been a guy that I had declared as the ‘possible one’ to my girlfriends before? I’m not an expert in such questions but I assume this comes naturally with the whole break-off-touch-deal. You need to care for a person pretty badly to be at the same time bothered badly enough to give marching orders… So without getting into details among the reason of my particular break-off-touch-story, all that needs to be said is that I got let down literally all along the line, and I felt I had no other option than to completely ban this guy from my life.

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Well, easier said than done. First of all, it took me a while to convince myself that this preposterous act had nothing to do with me being preposterous, but much more with this guy being the reason why ‘preposterous’ as a word was actually invented. Once I had myself at this point, the ‘second of all’ began to torture me… Now did you know what a time-consuming and complex undertaking it was to break off contact with someone in time of modern technology? It was not like back in the good old days when our mummies could take their leather-wrapped address books and erase an entry that they once had written with great foresight in pencil and that consisted of a phone number and a mailbox address only. No, what I faced was

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an entry in my cell-phone for his private cell, his business cell, his private landline and his office number

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an entry in my laptop address book for his private e-mail, his business e-mail, his mailbox address and instant messaging contacts

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an enty in my scratch book that compiled again his cell phone number, this time with some sort of heart shape around it (luckily (or pathetically) painted in pencil…)

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and then of course a Facebook friendship I needed to cancel, a Skype contact I had to block, a Twitter feed I no longer wanted to follow and so on and so forth… All in all, it took me approximately half a day to erase any possible traces this guy had left in my life. It was exhausting. And honestly, if I had known before that this was what it takes to ban someone from my life, I would probably have found a way to live with the entry of ‘Mister Preposterous’ in all my face- and address books…

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However, once the mission was accomplished, it felt amazingly relieving to no longer see this unholy name in all my possible contact archives. As pathetic it might be breaking off a relation seems like the best choice every once in a while. And in order to keep myself this option open in a less stressful way in the future, the next guy I possibly have a crush on can have my landline and my mailbox address. And if he wants to get in touch with me, he can send me postcards. Basta. I want the good old days back… Now.

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Ela (call it nostalgia…)

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Fall-feeling: Ela reading postcards in the QSW Privilege Plaid coat (photo: creagerphoto.com)

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‘Tapetenwechsel’ is a very used up expression in German to say the least. Literally translated, it means something like ‘change of wallpaper’ (whereas by wallpaper I mean the good old analogue flowery wallpaper that our grannies used for their walls in the 70ies). In the general sense, ‘change of scene’ fits the meaning of it the most. People would use it if ever they don’t have a better advice to give when somebody is generally fed up with life. Now when I was about to leave for a trip to Scandinavia, ‘Tapetenwechsel’ for some reason became the most common word for my friends to end their good-bye speeches with…
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I’m not a big fan of used up expressions and so little do I appreciate if they are dropped to advice me. So before my trip, my beloved ones made me consequently see red by mentioning ‘Tapetenwechsel’ over and over again. Well, I have to admit that all the rage wasn’t for nothing. I had been a generally annoyed yet desperate fellow. My brain was on an unsatisfying round trip through a desert of inspiration without an oasis for miles around, all that made me wake up in the mornings was a term paper I hadn’t much more left for than a great bouquet of swearwords, and as if this wouldn’t have been enough, another arduous boy story cast long and senseless shadows on my existence as a life-loving young lady. As a result of all this, my moaning had been tiring me so intensely that I could hardly stand myself. The closer time proceeded to the departure of my trip, the more convinced I got myself that a ‘Tapetenwechsel’ was maybe really just what I needed.
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On the day of the take-off, I staggered to the airport around 4.30 am as frustrated as one can get after having experienced a pre-holiday day between endless to-do-lists, unpacked bags, a great ache in ones skull (I had failed to drown my sorrows in drink the evening before) and a sleepless night of the kind that makes setting alarms useless. I wasn’t in the mood to wake up and least of all to travel the world. By the time I arrived at the gate, the sun was about to rise and I decided to at least get hold of a pole position to that spectacle. Well believe it or not, when the first ray of yellow sunlight floated Zurich’s airport, I was in all probability the only one that still sat in the shade. I had chosen my seat in the only effort to get some badly needed energy from the raising sun, but to make matters worse, I had somehow managed to sit down in the exact angle of one of the very few window bars the huge glass façade of the gate contained… This could maybe have devastated me totally at some other time, but in this very moment, the shadow of the bar on my forehead felt so ridiculously ironic that I could no longer pity myself and had to burst out laughing instead.
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Well, the combination of not taking myself so serious anymore and a breath-taking departure over sleepy Zurich partly covered with residues of fog yet to be dispelled by the soft light of the morning sun is what finally made something in me click. A Tsunami of inspiration floated my mind out of the blue and all my sorrows that had been torturing me with dreadful lifelessness were gone. My brain was back, operating at full speed, finally gaining the satisfaction that it had been missing out on for so long. My ‘Tapetenwechsel’ was fulfilled.
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As much as used up expressions might make me want to puke, if this was really what ‘change of scene’ – or if so ‘Tapetenwechsel’ – was all about, then they score at least for once. Now if ever you are fed up with life, stop pitying yourselves for a moment, go to the local furniture shop and get new wallpaper, too. A couple of new roses on your wall and you will smile again!
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Ela (newly wallpapered)

The combination of not taking myself so serious anymore and a breath-taking departure...

May be divided internally, but smiling externally... Photo: Timo Jarvinen

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I don’t like clichés. But growing up in the Swiss Alps forces you to accept clichés, unless you want to grow up having serious issues with identifying yourself. My childhood was all about clichés and there was no other way to go than to accept that. Yes, I grew up drinking milk straight from the cow. Yes, I was one of these little girls smiling out of horse sleighs decorated with paper flowers. And yes, I was put on skis before I had done the first two steps on my feet.

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Consequently, my first rebellion around 12 was to save money to rent a snowboard and make an example out of it proving I was now a defiant teenager and would no longer ski, as my educators wanted me to. What grew out of this juvenile revolt was true love for board sports and its lifestyle. But, when growing up from a ‘teen’ to a ‘twen’, I realized that there was more to life than just a board to ride on. All of a sudden there was literature, fashion, art, music, cinema and some other urban trends that fascinated me, while my heart with much love for snowy hills still beat in my chest. And right before the inner tension became so intense that I risked getting torn into two pieces, was the time when I met Quiksilver.

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It was love at first sight. I had finally found a label that reflected exactly what I was all about and that supported me on my real talent (which I dare to say is writing) but also vouched for what I wished I were talented in (by name board sports). Realizing this opened a totally new world to me. It was all of a sudden okay to find Oscar Wilde just as inspiring as Kelly Slater, which meant it was okay to be me… Not that I have had serious personality disorders before but being associated with Quiksilver just offers me advantages which makes it a pleasure in other spheres to be Ela.

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One of the finer things little me got to experience in the last half-year was a surf trip to Fuerteventura. Well actually, not a surf trip in my case, since I lay on the beach more than I dared to throw myself in the cold water of the wintry Atlantic (to be honest, I didn’t even go near the water and the closest thing to surfing I did was to carry someone else’s board). However, I was invited to go on tour with the Euro force of the Quiksilver surf team and that meant a week of highlife in a nice Spanish casa, exploring Fuerteventura’s coast side in a 4×4, eating the healthiest and best food the Canary Islands have probably ever seen and apropos of nothing, observing pretty decent shaped male bodies while stretching before the surf sessions…

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Messing around… Alain Riou, Arantxa (wearing the Hunter dress), Fredo and I (with the Yesterday jacket) Photo : Timo Jarvinen

Considering of how bad I wanted to get rid of my roots as a Swiss mountain girl when I started to fall for urban vogues, it might be surprising how well I can live with being internally divided after this trip. Check a few pictures of our trip here below. To see the full album, go onto Quiksilver Women’s Facebook page.

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And always remember, it can be very useful to let all the hearts in your chest beat every once in a while…

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Ela (happy to be divided)

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PS: And in case you still wonder, yes, I do scream and shout as loud when the guys of the Quiksilver team succeed on the World Tour as when I receive another box of clothing!

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Philosophing about the world in the beautiful nature of Lobos. Arantxa wears the White Plains maxi dress and the Yesterday jacket. I wear the Pretty Tough jeans and the Dream of Life cardigan. Photo Timo Jarvinen

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Arantxa and I making the find of the century...She wears the Dream of Life cardigan and the Sweet Thing dress. I wear the Fictions cardigan. Photo : Timo Jarvinen

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Alain and I, exploring Fuerteventura’s backyard...I wear the Little Sister Jacket with the These Days sweater and the Pretty Tough jeans. Photo : Timo Jarvinen

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The crew in a pretty decent pad to chill at: Arantxa, Aritz Aranburu, Alain Riou, I, Fredo Robin and Miky Picon. Photo : Bernard Testemale

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Never without good old notebook: Ela capturing moments her way (with the Christa cardigan) Photo : Timo Jarvinen

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Quiksilver Women’s Mahara Mc Kay in «20 Minuten» and «Rockstar Magazine»

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20 Minuten is Switzerland’s biggest daily paper, obtainable for free at public magazine racks all over the country. Thanks to its high print run (the journal generates over 1,5 million contacts a day), 20 Minuten’s lifestyle section influences Switzerland’s trend barometer from the front, and obviously loves our Swiss Quiksilver Woman Mahara Mc Kay, introducing her as our designated DJane in the issue of June 26th. More of Mahara’s delicious music taste is featured in the current issue of Swiss music magazine «Rockstar», showing Mahara’s record polka alongside with some of the beautiful styles of the Quiksilver Women’s fall collection.
Be Swiss bound and get your copy of Rockstar!
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20 Minuten // www.20min.ch/unterhaltung/people/story/23544134

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Mahara in La Luz dress and Beatnik Vest - Photo : gmcastelberg.ch / 20 Minuten

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Photo Mahara : gmcastelberg.ch / Rockstar Magazine

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Quiksilver Women’s Ela featured in Kinki Mag
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Kinki Mag was only launched in 2008, but is already the doubtless favourite of Switzerland’s fashionists that never fell for conventions and mainstream. Being the rebellious and progressive face of Swiss folks loving the unconventional lifestyle, Kinki Mag featured our Swiss MissEla in a photo series in April as well as introducing her as Quiksilver Women’s resident blogger within an interview in the current issue.
Be Swiss bound and get your copy of Kinki Mag!
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Kinki Magazine // www.kinkimag.com/magazines

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Ela wearing the Serengeti dress - Photo : Matthias Straub / Kinki Magazine

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Ela with the Marley tee - Photo : Matthias Straub / Kinki Magazine

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I am not a drama queen. I say this after having reflected long and intensively on my own psyche. I might be a drama court jester but since there is not even a term for this sort of low-ranked drama queen invented yet, I dare to say that little me generally doesn’t get numbered among the drama royal court at all. I usually master my emotions and I don’t loose control easily. Usually. Well, I’m not going to lie here. As I said, drama court jester. There are moments in which I tend to go out of my depth. I have a feeling it has something to do with a slight dysfunction of my suprarenal gland as the immensely predominance of make-me-whine-oestrogen on crying-is-for-babies-testosterone in my body is out of question in these certain moments. Call it natural for females, but as much as I love to be a woman, I could easily go without turning into a cranky crybaby whenever I get involved with an antagonist playing on the crying-is-for-babies-testosterone-team. In short, Ela turning into a drama court jester is not a daily life, but much more a love matter.

Smile like a baby! (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

The other day then, when my body’s production of oestrogen experienced another boom (due to the lack of sensitivity of some testosterone junkie of course), I decided to misuse one of my crying-is-for-babies-but-my-shoulder-is-always-here-for-you-testosterone-friends to dry my baby tears and get some advice of how to get over premature midlife crises. After having listened to my probably rather incomprehensible whining, this well-appreciated strong shoulder of a friend told me to get over myself and finally learn how to play hot and cold in love matters on a decent but best of all professional level. According to him, playing hot and cold was the warp and the woof when it came down to interpersonal relations between make-me-whine-oestrogen and crying-is-for-babies-testosterone. «You know love is sort of like playing hide-and-seek», he told me, «Not fun to hide when there is no one seeking, and not fun to seek when there is no one hiding. You need to keep the fun in the game by doing the exact opposite of what your counterpart is doing».

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In this very moment, this explanation was just what I needed: The simple thought of it kept me from bursting out crying again and this was obviously all my dear friend (running out of Kleenex at the time) was aiming for. A toast to him! Anyway, not that I wouldn’t appreciate my friends’ advices but thinking of it clear-headed now makes this whole hot and cold deal turn into a senseless leisure activity that in that very moment only had the function of a well-meant verbal tranquillizer. Seriously, how in this world could a man and a woman ever get together if they had to play cold as soon as the other one played hot and vice versa? Or then, how can they know when the time had come to stop the game? Right before they get too bored playing? Just like back in the day when hide-and-seek kept us up until all the possible hiding places were tested out and got too boring?
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Not only that I hoped to gain more from love than boredom, but also that I can’t understand why I should make something rather complicated such as love even more complicated, this whole hot and cold thing is not of my taste. My strong shoulder friend can do it his way, I for me rather abandon myself to my true emotions and cry like a baby now than waking up one day as an iceberg that does no longer feel like metamorphosing into a fireball. No games needed in my love life, and I will proof the world one day that love can make things work like that, too… one day!
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Ela (smiling like a baby now)
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Ela looking for new random friend... (photo: Timo Jarvinen)

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I cross random people’s life. Every day. Over and over again. Recently, I’ve been asking myself if all these alleged ‘random encounters’ would actually follow rules. Assuming that not only I, but also these random beings go after the same routines every day would consequently mean that I cross these people’s life every day at the same time at the same spot. This supposition on mind is how I went through my life as a commuter the last couple of days. And, lo and behold, yesterday I bumped into a person out of my circle of random acquaintances for the second time. It was on one of the escalators of Zurich’s central station. I was on the way up, he on the way down, and we shared a moment, just as when our paths crossed for the first time. I got so excited to have my hypothetical thought practically proven that I had to keep myself back from shouting out loud, jumping over the handrail in between the two escalators (that at the very moment felt like the only thing that could ever separate us), hug my new random friend effusively and never let go again.
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What eventually stopped me from overreacting was a whole range of yellow buckteeth. New random friend had realized that all my attention was on him and mistook this as a flirt attack on which he answered with the shiniest smile the world would have ever seen if only he had considered teeth bleaching or at least some braces sometime in his life before… For the very moment, this smile might have been good enough to distract me from his mid-forty hair loss and the blubber around his hip, but I was in shock. Not only because I had accidentally been phantom flirting with a guy that was four times my size, but also because I was able to prove that there were parallel lives to my life. Now what if this more or less random encounter with new random friend wasn’t the only time our lives would cross daily?
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I got caught in that thought and the yellow shiny buckteeth smile dogged me for the rest of the day. Away from the escalators to my home kiosk where I went to buy chewing gums just as every day, I suddenly was a 100 percent sure that this was new random friend’s home kiosk, too, and the change I had now received were the coins his sweaty podgy fingers had been paying with right before. Running from there to the tramway station in order to be one of those who would catch a seat, I ended up giving up my seat to someone else as all of a sudden I knew that this was exactly the seat new random friend had been sitting on just a couple of minutes ago.
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Random encounters or not random encounters, even thinking of it rationally keeps the possibility quite high that our lives cross well structured with random people’s lives over and over again. Yesterday at least, new random friend and I were the main characters in some sort of episodic film and he was even present when I bumped into my new favourite dress in a shop window while doing some after work shopping. It was love at first sight and I was convinced the dress was going to be mine really soon. What I didn’t expect to change my mind was the sudden thought (that came up on the way from the cloths rail to the changing room) of new random friend’s yet still more or less skinny 17-year-old daughter out of first marriage that had just tried on this dress before me, not fit in and consequently put back on the cloths rail wherefrom I had taken it. No way therefore, I could even try this dress on, much less make it mine…
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You might call me a hypochondriac victim of stalking, but not knowing how many other daughters on plus new random friend might possibly have, is killing me. Will I ever be able to shop dresses in public stores again?
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Thank God Quiksilver Women has now an e-store…
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Ela, probably hypochondriac
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