Why I’m so special

Yah hala ya hala!*

(Said in a high and flutey voice while seizing your hand and pumping it up and down with terrific force, Willy Wonka style).

I am all aflutter that someone is reading these words, other than me simply thinking them in my head.

So somehow you have found yourself at this blog, and for one reason or another, you want to know all about me.

Yay! I’m a narcissist at heart so let’s get right down to it.

I want to get married.

Ok, so we don’t know each that well yet. Let me tell you a little bit about myself.

I’m a twenty-something year old Egyptian Muslim woman. Unlike the rest of Cairo’s elite, who have wholeheartedly embraced some of the less pertinent aspects of Western culture, I eschew ‘that’ kind of lifestyle for the most part. I come from a big family with roots in Upper Egypt (read: grandmother got married as a kid, family is made up of Neanderthals etc) and I am quintessentially unlike anyone in it.

I am a really good girl. The whole virgin, never been kissed, not a lot of friends who are boys yada yada deal.

So good I still live with my parents, respect them, don’t go out without their permission, have my plans vetoed often etc.

So good I’m still following the path laid out for me: ballet, swimming, Qur’an and karate classes as a kid, chosen major at chosen university, semi-chosen job, and who knows? Probably semi-chosen husband.

So good it feels weird typing swear words which I rarely speak out loud.

Basically, a really good girl. Excuse me while I retch.

Once upon a time, people used to write down their private thoughts in a journal (weirdos, right? What’s the point of writing if no one can read it?) but now, in the self-centered world we live in, every blogger thinks that they are incredible and that everyone will fall over themselves to hear what they have to say. So, I am simply jumping on the bandwagon.

You see, I have reached that age. The age where almost all of my friends are married, half of them popping out babies left and right, and the rest at least in some kind of relationship.

Society dictates I should be a mother by now. At the very least, I should be married to a man, not to my job. Soon, I fear my friends will think of me as ‘that’ woman, you know, who wants to pounce and steal their husbands. So, I must get married. And um, healthy woman here with healthy urges!

But, unfortunately, I am fat. Too much gebana roomy sayha** sandwiches as a kid, and too much watching Cartoon Network on my badonkadonk.

So unless I resign myself to the spinster future my grandmother has already consigned me to, I need to get off said badonkadonk and lose all the weight.

Oh, I know this is bull and that women need to be empowered and be who they are and embrace themselves blah blah, but let’s be honest here. If I am to ‘catch’ the must be passably handsome, smart, religious, well-endowed man (ehem, in terms of money, of course!) etc, I need to be as much of a catch as I can, since, as we all know, it’s slim pickings out there and Egyptian women are vicious and territorial.

So, I’m going to keep a fat diary. Every day I’ll chronicle what I ate, how many reps I did, how I feel, and why men are such dicks.

Wait, don’t run away, I’m kidding! Sort of.

The long and short of it is, I’m sick and tired of being told I have a beautiful face, “law bas tekhesy shewaya!“*** I’ve rolled my eyes so many times one day I expect them to just not roll back.

And, as my mother and grandmother like to tell me, not only am I fat, but I’m also a hijabi**** (but, better to hide my Egyptian loofah-like hair, right?!) with no dress sense (read: not a label whore and I refuse to wear skintight and spray painted clothes/ disgusting carina tops under sleeveless shirts. What is with that trend, by the way?)

I have several undergraduate and graduate degrees (in the works) from pretentious universities, and I drive an even more pretentious car. I speak three languages (four if you count pig latin), I’ve lived in other countries, and I’ve traveled the world. I’m way smart and a ballbreaker, a feminist who snarls. The kind of woman who has most men crossing their legs, then running away from not only her big body—excluding the big boobies of course—but also her big brain.

Cherry on top: I’m really picky, of course! Though as I’ve had it drummed into me for the past several years, I have no right to turn down all the men who have “asked for my hand,” (and not my daddy’s millions) despite the fact that I ‘need’ to lose about 10kg (I’m heavy boned, walahy!)

To complete the cliché, I don’t actually hate men. Deep down, I’m waiting for my one true love to give himself a hernia lifting me up onto his white horse before we ride off into the desert. *****

Which is why I’m struggling so much with this weight thing. On one hand, I’m all like, “who cares?” but then there’s the other side of me that wants to be a mozza,****** as much as I hate the term and hate it when I hear it in the street.

And please, don’t insult my intelligence with the whole “you lose weight to feel good about yourself!” crap. Let’s be real here: I’m not going to give up my bagels and get up on the torture machine (read: treadmill) just because it’ll make me feel good. It’s so I can bag a man. And of course all in the hopes that becoming a mozza will make him notice the inner me.

So therein lies my schizophrenia. Bag a man?! WTF!? It goes against every fiber of my being to write that. So I’ll kid myself and say this is a social experiment (it’s not).

So why the need to broadcast everything to the world?

In all honesty, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. I know that this decision I’m semi-making is a monumental one: I am caving in to society’s dictates of how I must look, when I should get married, and how I should behave. So I must keep a record of my a) brilliance or b) stupidity.

I’m no writer, but as I said, I’m narcissistic so I’m sure you all want to read about my (inevitable) KFC splurges and my dreaded gym visits. You can empathize and comment to boost my ego.

But also, I’m going to write about Egypt. I know, I know, it’s so done, right? There are dozens of ‘real’ blogs out there, talking about ‘real’ issues, but frankly, I’m tired. I’m tired of reading about how this country is going to the dogs. I don’t promise to keep things all fun and bubbly here, but I do promise not to get all dark and Keanu Reeves like.

I have a love-hate relationship with my country, as do most of the people who live here. I abide by the rules of my religion as much as I can, which surprises some idiots considering how ‘educated’ and ‘open-minded’ I am. Bowing to the dictates of my culture, though, is a whole different ball game.

I don’t promise to proofread my entries, or be eloquent, witty or deep, but I promise to keep you entertained. If this sounds like bull to you, then please, as the sandmonkey would tell you: sod off.

One last thing: I am a fattractive woman. Word.

* That’s Welcome, to all you anglophones out there.
** Grilled cheese sandwiches.
*** “If only you lost a bit of weight!”
**** A woman who wears a veil that covers her hair.
***** Sarcasm. In case you didn’t catch it. These star things are getting on my nerves. WordPress needs footnotes.
****** Hot babe. A derogatory term.

I don’t know why you’d want to, but you can contact me directly at fattractive@yahoo.co.uk

Fattractive definition courtesy of Urban Dictionary
Blog Image header courtesy of Dezignus