Here and now

Here and now

By Veronica Orozco @verozco

Translated by Juliana Achury (Craftisan Translations LLC) juliana.achury@gmail.com

A couple of days ago I got a beautiful email. It came from Laura, a new friend of mine who feels like life-long one. In it, she told me how brave she thought I was because of the decisions I had been taking lately; she also mentioned and that the song “Ir” (to go) by Marlango, attached to the email, reminded her of me.

As I enjoyed and felt proud of the song I had just been gifted I started to think: “Am I as brave as they are lately telling I am? And why brave?” I have always thought that the really brave are the ones facing super villains in epic battles, or those jumping from airplanes millions of feet up high, or the ones sleeping in haunted houses. People who fearlessly do amazing things and, to be sincere, my own reality can’t be more distant from than that.

But then, what it is that I do that makes me seem brave in the eyes of others? If none of my acts are supernatural or even complicated, but just the result of living the life I chose to live, why do I appear as brave? And then it hit me. Something really obvious that I had overlooked: when you listen to yourself and act accordingly to your feelings, everything you do looks less like an achievement and more like a natural act. I find no heroism in quitting my comfortable life for the sake of my happiness. But if I break down my actions into divorcing/quitting an unhappy job/ changing careers/and moving to another country, there I can see it all like a battle against ten super villains while jumping from an airplane inside a haunted house, even though the only thing I did was to start being the person I always wanted to be.

In the end, that’s the only courage we need, the one that makes us uncomfortable and pushes us to go in search of what we really want; the courage that forces us to stop delaying our happiness and shakes off the comfort out our lives. We live numb and in a lethargic state, forgetting that the only thing we really have is right now, and so we keep on looking outside the window, postponing the moment to be happy when the truth is that there is no “later”.

It shouldn’t be outstanding to see someone transform her life in the pursuit of happiness. It should be common. We spend our lives postponing the choices that will take us outside our comfort zone because that’s where we don’t have to make any efforts, taking solace in “I’ll try it tomorrow”. But you know what? There is no tomorrow. We have to be happy now so we can be happy forever.

Photo: http://nicoachury.tumblr.com/post/19780635510/tree
Get back on the saddle, kid!

Get back on the saddle, kid!

Imagen: http://andthatswhyyouresingle.com/
Imagen: http://andthatswhyyouresingle.com/

By Veronica Orozco @verozco

Translated by Juliana Achury (Craftisan Translations LLC) juliana.achury@gmail.com

Even if you don’t believe it, and if the resemblance is not striking at first, divorced and sick people have a lot of things in common. We equally raise condescending and pitiful looks when entering a room full of acquaintances. We both have to tell the whole story over and over again, more times than we’d like to, and we are also victims of homemade remedies suggested by people who love us and want to make us feel better. They’ll do anything to get us back on our feet. But it is right there where divorced and sick part ways: while homemade cures for sickness range from exotic plant-based concoctions to colorful threads tied to limbs, remedies for divorce take more than a quick sip of the concoction – do not breath while swallowing please – and much more than the will to get better: YOUR WILL TO GET BACK ON THE SADDLE.

In a city, with a family, and with friends like mine, it’s very complex to explain that I’m not as sad as they believe. That, on the contrary, it’s been good learning experience to go grocery shopping just for myself, and that I couldn’t care less about my Whatsapp inactivity. But since “there’s no better remedy than company” and “you shouldn’t age alone,” is almost magical how it seems everyone has a “catch” to introduce me to, their ace under the sleeve: “Remember Memo Correa, my friend from college? Well, he’s been single since 1997, when you met him, and, I don’t know, wouldn’t it be nice if you guys went out and reconnect” – says a long time friend after just one sip of gin at a bar. “Honey, remember Martica Martinez’s son, the one that was suspected to be mentally challenged when you guys were little? Well, it turns out he wasn’t slow after all, he lived in Canada, just came back and he reads your tweets. Wouldn’t it be great if the two of you go out?” – is what I hear after a lunch with my family on a Sunday. Because another thing about divorced people is that, besides carrying the single label again, we also belong to the reduced and not very exclusive sub-group of the second-hand market. So we have no business dating Class A men – never-married, young, successful, philanthropic, dog-loving, Jared Leto lookalikes – instead, and as a punishment for our failed marriage, we have to settle for Class B men – other divorcees, male spinsters, medicated wackos, oedipians, closeted gays, and assholes. And then there’s also the Class C single men, but don’t make me go there.

Each guy is worse than the last one and, like in it the most absurd chick flick ever, where Drew Barrymore plays you, a chain reaction of disasters start to happen. Like the time I agreed to meet my friend’s cousin because we were all going out as a groups and I was told he was good looking, had long hair and a beard. He, indeed, had long hair and a beard – but in a Juan Tamariz kinda’ way –http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juan_Tamariz– and he was a parapsychologist, so he, throughout the entirety of the evening, whispered in my ear that he could feel my dead grandma’s presence at the bar. Or that time when I went on a blind date with the new guy at my friend’s office, who conveniently told me he forgot his wallet at home when the bill came. He also wanted to come up to my place after dinner. The next day, when I went to pick up my friend at his office to get some lunch, everyone knew about our date. Nonetheless, the guy came and asked for a hug which he finished saying a “shhh… you drained me.” Not to forget about F.W., who came to me at a bar, asked me for my number and talk to me on the chat, sent me text messages, called and voice noted me non-stop. A month later was when he posted on Instagram a picture of his newly born son. His wife was also in it. Just a few small details he forgot to tell me. That’s why the 15th of February will always be remembered as “That’s-not-my-child birthday plus how-to-block people on Whatsapp.”

No one should be forced to get back on the saddle, to date when not ready. Because, as with a bad horseback riding accident, either you get injured or leave traumatized, but for sure not willing to get back on the horse right away. It’s much more likely to get a Twitter Direct Message from the person that will bring back to life your will to face that horse.

Yeeeeee haaaaaa!