Paper Planes

Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem

Assalam alaikum wr wb!

So I was invited to judge a Red Bull Paper Wings contest two days ago at a local university, by virtue of me being the only person available from our company.

I miss college. I miss the live music and the unbridled, almost destructive energy of being young.

I was just a teensy weensy bit over-dressed. Judging seemed a big deal to me and I didn't know how formal the environs would be, so I just dressed smart-casual like I usually do for work – or rather how my mother insists I dress.

I gotta get that woman out of my closet. For one thing, I need more colour in my wardrobe. For another, I need to look like I have a pulse.

So the contest was judged in three categories, the longest distance, the longest airtime and creativity. The last category was itself split into three – construction, design and flight performance, me being given flight performance. I assume that meant the amount it swooped, dipped and flurried.

The MC was a fake American i.e. an Arab dressed like Snoop Dogg with an American accent. But oh, I couldn't have cared if Princess Diana herself was MC'ing, because man, the guy with the measuring tape was super-hot. From the way he was running around, I reckon he was with Red Bull. He looked like Guillaume Canet, though a little more filled out. He had kind blue eyes, a square jaw covered with a scrubby beard and was dressed like one of the students, unlike me.

My fellow judges were a faculty member from the interior design program at the university and a bigwig from Saatchi and Saatchi. At least she acted like it. She was wearing jeans and a floppy white poplin shirt. Her hair artfully framed her face in a punk fringe and a little brash stud twinkled on her nose. She had the sort of effortless cool that both killed and cured, the sort that made me want to weep, not least because Gorgeous Guy stopped the proceedings so that he could come up and give her a hug. I wish someone would stop the show just to say hello to me. I don't think I've ever felt that important to anyone, for any reason at all.

Okay, well, maybe to my parents. But they're sort of getting annoying, as you can probably tell.

It was a great day watching them play with planes and hoot and clap for their buddies. At the end of the proceedings, this dude got up and beat-boxed at the behest of his friend. I got the feeling that he was really a shy guy, too shy to even show off his talent, but his friend really believed in him. And after the show, that guy's face was shining with pride – he hoisted this skinny little playa up onto his shoulders even. I've never seen anything like it, certainly not among friends.

For the last few weeks, I've been spending most of the day trying to ward off depression. It's gotten better since I've decided to make a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself. And this whole thing left me wondering where I've left my damn youth. I'm only 22, yet I'm squeezing myself into business suits, clomping across waxed floors, trying to impress people I have no respect for at all. I'm too young to compromise. I should take risks and live life while I still can. What am I going to tell my children? What am I going to tell God? That He gave me a gift, a passion, that I didn't use for the good of humanity? That I was too frightened of failure, even though the pen has lifted and the ink has dried?

I should make some friends. Yes, I don't really have any friends, outside of people I work with. That might be a serious contributor to my social anxiety.

Real flesh-and-blood people around me might cure rather than kill. That is my greatest fear – that I am one well-worded sentence away from suicide (that's John Mayer, by the way).

So how does one make friends? There are comedy classes mid-April. I could join those, find some like-minded people. A filmmaker here in Dubai asked if I wanted to help with production coordination – I don't really know what that is, but it's a way to break into the field and a way to practise my social skills.

I'm kind of scared now.

We were watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona yesterday and my brother said I was like one of those "tortured pseudo-intellectuals" that didn't like being employed. That really rubbed me the wrong way. I've made my choice and I quit my job. Everyone isn't cut out for a nine-to-five. Everyone is cut out for the banal plodding of gainful employment. I don't have any exotic unrealistic demands. I want somewhere that I contribute with my brain, my heart and my creativity. Not my legs, not my mouth. I'm not cut out to be a pack mule.

Why must I defend my decisions to this man every single time?

Where can I find people that will love and cherish me the way that guy did with his friend? That will hoist me onto their shoulders after a really great performance? That will stop a show just to say hello?

Am I being selfish? Of course, I would return the love. I'm just so sick of one-sided relationships – with my family, with my company, with my ex. I want someone to give me something as well.

Plus, I would kill for a decent conversation.

Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Sabina.