Blog of Paul Syng

It’s been half a decade. And I can’t seem to stop. I’m finally coming out and saying it. Ready? Naked ankles are my weakness. Folding my pant cuffs, revealing the hairy flesh underneath, is a habit I picked up from GQ. Shameless plug alert. I wrote for GQ. So when I say GQ was my bible you know, I have a biased opinion.

On any typical evening, I’d lay back in my brown bean bag, beer in hand, with an issue of GQ — scrutinising the flood of ads, semi-nude photography, drool over things I couldn’t afford and study the informative articles and giggle baloney banana over the cheeky columns.

I can trace back to the first time I folded my pant cuffs. I felt liberated, free and sexy. Like the time you pooped, for the first time, without your pants and underwear hanging around your ankles.

Right!

Sure, GQ had influenced my style and taste, but one can’t forgive the sultry Indian summers for partly being responsible — giving “wind in my hair” an entirely new meaning, eh?

To my fellow Canadians, the habit appears a little odd in – 30-degree temperature. I wouldn’t recommend it to the faint hearted.

“You keeping your ankles warm?”

Something I regularly hear from near and dear ones — who worry about my health and are a bit confused about my sexuality. You know who you are. I love you too.

Hey! I don’t see anybody rallying behind Sally. Sally who? She’s a basic bitch, sporting a skirt ten inches above the knees. Are we neighbouring in sexism territory, yet?

Moving along now. The fact of the matter is, I don’t mind the attention. Yeah, a whore for all the eyes. So what? I catch girls (even men, sheesh!) staring down my pants all the time.

Now I know what it’s like to have a revealing pair.

Perched on my living room couch, a tub of vanilla bean yoghurt in hand, I realised how much my mid-day snacking habits have changed. I’m turning thirty-something this year. Geez! Has it been that long?

There was a time, and I kid you not, when slices of bread, pan-fried in butter, and a cup of hot milk was my go-to evening snack. Just good old white bread.

None of the bloated “millennial loaf” bullshit — no traces of gluten-free, non-GMO or hints of digestive seeds, which make one shit as if they were an ice-cream dispenser, were found.

Devoid of the Whole Foods luxury, back in India, we had good old “real” local bakeries. There was one in the market down the street from our place.

The bakery was always warm, smelled of freshly baked bread (duh!), hot potato patties, ketchup, water on bricks, biscuits in a gazillion varieties, flour and the smelly kids who’d stop by after school, still in their uniforms, for the hot patties and bottle of Thums Up.

How much I loved Thums Up. Oh, boy.

At the hint my mother planning a visit I’d run out the main door and position myself at the gate and look busy (as if expecting a package from the bank). Who was I fooling with the mustard-stained wife-beater top, torn shorts and flip-flops?

Not mom.

On arriving at the bakery in question, I’d point at goods in the glass cases and turn to mom for approval. “Mum! Let’s take some cookies with the chocolate in the middle, please.”

The gentleman behind the counter, sporting handlebar moustaches, on getting a nod from mom, placed a dozen cookies in a brown paper bag and handed it over to me with a big smile on his face.

Proud of my little victory, I’d carry the bag of cookies home as if it were a trophy I’d won for scoring well in art class. Yep, art class. I’d always run up ahead of mom and sneak two biscuits in my shorts.

They had pockets!

Tell me you haven’t looked someone in the eye, noticed a single strand of hair poking out of their nose, and been a) sick to your stomach or b) made attempts to stare without getting caught or c) imagined not one but a hair flower. Nose hair extensions, anyone?

I don’t like to stick my nose in other people’s business but to let one’s hair down shouldn’t be taken literally. Sure, one could argue the merits of nose hair – they’re the first line of defence against bacteria and smelly farts.

By that token, the renegade strand dangling dangerously out of one’s nostrils echoes Tom Hanks (remember Apollo?) trying to save humanity from extinction.

It’s worse when the person in question appears well-groomed from afar and, BAM! You’re in for a rude shock once you lock square with them. Maintaining eye-contact at this point induces deep psychological, character and personality changing pain. Why do I suddenly feel the urge to clean my nose?

To be fair, in my mind’s eye, I see nostrils flaring, large volumes of air moving in and out of the nasal cavity (like Bullet trains from a tunnel) while a fruit fly is trying to escape the gravitational pull of the black holes. Yes, two of em.

Shaving your face? Doing your upper-lip? Scrutinizing the pores on your chin, post bath? Do humanity, or the likes of me, a favour and get a little tweezer action up them nostrils.

Give Tom Hank’s some respect, please.

In the nooks and crannies of a corporate workplace lurks awkward silence, small-talk (also the bane of my existence) and the half-ass smirk/smile one is subjected to while crossing paths in (carefully designed — very — narrow) corridors.

If you already haven’t pieced it together, the writer of this nugget works a corporate job. Nothing fancy about that, one would conclude. The struggle and temptation to make conversation ensue moments into your ride up the elevator.

Oh, look! There’s Timothy from accounting! You lock eyes, and just before you launch into a smile, he looks away. Sheesh, buddy! I thought we had a moment last week at the water cooler. I had to bear witness to your struggle of preparing an instant espresso, the whole 25 seconds of it.

Only inches away you spot the girl who farted in your cubicle while you had stepped away to meet Timothy in accounting — to confront him about his behaviour this morning. Your flatulence has gone a long way, madam.

And what about the over-friendly folk who can’t seem to take a hint — not sure when they’re going to bring up the Linkedin request they’ve sent you. Ah, no thank you. In this sea of pretence, one is expected to get their work done, on time.

Working from home, then?

When you’re a morning person like myself, you commence your evening descent by 9 pm. Here’s how I mastered the art of landing into bed, turbulence free.

Taking off, early, is all about planning your night before. Daily rituals, people. I’d be a terrible Batman if you know what I mean.

As one nears towards the end of the night, take your foot off the gas and let your engines cool. I begin by eating the last meal by 7 pm, leaving room for a cup of tea. Coffee helps me wake up while tea relaxes my nerves.

I flood the room with Spotify tunes, read an article (on an arbitrary topic) and fool around in Photoshop (never Sketch). Minutes later I feel calm. With time the routine manifests into an autopilot response.

I switch into uniform, comprising of loose clothes (or was it “lose”) and rinse my eyes with cold water. Your final boarding call entails a cup of tea, bedside and any last-minute phone check-in on social media.

Time to join your doppelganger at the sink, young man.

Back? Once you’ve taxied off the runway (navigated back from the kitchen where you went to drop off the mug), you arrive at your gate (the bed). With the lights and screens off you’ve arrived at your final destination.

Sweet dreams, captain.

I stepped up to the sink and there he was. The guy in the mirror. My doppelgänger. One wouldn’t describe their reflection as another being. Heck, I just did. Some might call this behaviour narcissistic. Let them.

And just like that I was able to write words and put a sentence together. Call this heroic or just an attempt to pat me on the back for starting to write for the millionth time.

Where were we? Right.

There I was, in the bathroom, holding my toothbrush in one hand and the faucet handle in the other. I turned the handle to hot and placed the bristles of my brush at the foot of the waterfall.

“You can soften the bristles if your gums feel sensitive,” my dentist added after finishing the seasonal cleaning job. Ah, the memory of being at the dentist. Don’t know why I get flashbacks every time I commence the process of brushing.

I lifted the brush and pressed my thumb against the bristles. Satisfied with the tenderness, I reached for the paste. This is no ordinary tube, honey. “DANT KANTI” is an ayurvedic paste I had flown in from the holy land — India.

Thanks, dad.

I squeezed out the magic formula onto my brush and paused to stare at it through my doppelganger’s eyes. Bit of a staring contest going on over here. I might as well be on a podium. Participation certificate, here we go.

The smell of this paste can only be compared to the likes of a trip to the Good Earth store at Khan Market. Oh, how much I love saying, “I told you so.”

A kick of dopamine (imagine SuperMario coin sound) later my pupils look dilated. Wow, seriously! Never imagined brushing was a sensual experience till I wrote about it.

I began with the right side of my mouth and slowly worked all the way around, applying a thin layer of paste across my teeth and gums. Building up a lather is nothing short of foreplay. The gentle art has taken me years of practice.

And now, repeat for the inside of your teeth. Don’t tell me you never tried this? Seriously? Get some tongue action in there. Careful not to trigger your gag reflex. Unless that’s your happy place (clears throat). Let the excess foam drip from your chin. Yeah! Just like that.

About thirty-five seconds later I stare back at my doppelganger with a big smile on my face. Satisfied with my work, I put the brush away. Only after rinsing it. I’m no animal, mister.

I prefer to rinse my mouth with warm water and gently dab my face with a towel (as if my chin was a breast full of milk). And it doesn’t end there. No — this isn’t amateur night.

I conclude my performance by flossing stubborn corners and rinsing off the debris with mouthwash. Carpe-fucking-diem baby! And, yes, I am single. Would you believe it even if I told you?

“Why am I not surprised?” I said unperturbed by Andrea’s confession. “Did you and Jean hookup on a web cam?”

“Ha! You’re so funny, Dr. Hon!”

Andrea appeared amused. But I’m sure it was the wine.

“How did the two of you meet? Jean propose…”—”…did he?” I pressed.

“Okay, but tell me about the porn episode.”

“It was around the time I had wrapped my contract with Vanity Fair. I got a call from some ‘Ex’ ‘Vivid’ guys from LA.”

Andrea was up in her seat, waving both arms up in the air, animating her words.

“They wanted a brunette for an episode depicting a broker and buyer.”

“Like a house listing scene?” I asked.

“But I wasn’t interested becoming a…”—”so I declined.”

I knew, all along, Jean had his friend Vinny, an income tax lawyer from Vancouver, make the call. Vinny and Jean work together with clients in Asia.

Andrea was street smart, well spoken and one of the better writers I knew. But not for Jean, a hard-nosed negotiator, who reads people to the bone. She was an easy target and the love of his life.

Hell, no one could beat those odds.

Here’s the catch. You never know what Jean is going to do next. He’s serious about his work. But, this is his way out.

And, as you heard our conversation, he hasn’t told Andrea the truth, yet.

“Look at the time, it’s quarter past midnight.” I say it sounding like her annoyed older brother, “Let’s wrap up for the night.”

“You can either take the guest room upstairs or I can call you an Uber.”

“No! But you haven’t finished your story yet,” Andrea cribbed, “It’s the long weekend.”