Some days are for people watching

While there are many things wrong with this house--the screen door leading to the patio often swings open of its own accord (especially on typhoon days), the bars in front of the study room window are not unlike those found in jail cells, and the kitchen is so narrow there is barely enough space for groceries, much less for any brandishing of pots and pans--there is one thing that may make up for everything else. Along one side of our living room runs a wall-length window complete with sliding glass frames and cream-colored curtains, a window that overlooks the sunbleached roofs and rice fields behind our apartment. On days that are too hot or too perfect to be spent doing anything else, it's nice to lounge on the couch and watch old ladies in wide-brimmed straw hats, laying out radishes to dry, or people puttering down the winding road in motorcycles that could probably be outstripped by those snails lay salmon pink eggs in the fields.

Do I feel guilty, sitting in an air-conditioned room sipping guava juice (or whatever my mom happens to make that morning), looking down on these people going about their daily business and being productive in the sweltering air of Taiwan? Somewhat. But there is something so soothing about peeking into someone else's life, about being able to observe another individual going about their daily business as though you cannot be touched by such things such as time, survival, or heat. To be able to look on as others carry on the business of living, to leave your own private struggles behind and become, if only for a moment, an observer, above such trivial concerns, unmoved by such petty patterns. Even if it is all only pretend.

I wonder if someone else spends their times gazing on my life. Looking on as I agonize over last minute papers and emails I have put off for too long, watching as I talk to my rabbit or leave my nail clippings on the coffee table when I think no one is there to see, observing my clueless attempts to start a blog or to find some definite direction in life. I wonder what this person would be thinking as they watched my days unfold like some low-budget soap opera. Would they wonder, "What was she thinking when she decided to eat that sandwich that had been sitting in refrigerator for a week?" Would they sigh with exasperation, or smile their knowing smiles? Or would they simply switch to another channel, to another more eventful, more stimulating story?

I often don't notice the unremarkable, even repetitive quality of my life unless it is in retrospect. I am (all too easily, according to my mom), satisfied with the ordinary, everyday flow of things. If we had carrot-flavored oatmeal for breakfast every morning, I would probably come to like it, and maybe even eventually relish in the repetition of a daily ritual. I actually don't mind wearing a uniform, or the fact that my world essentially consists of a single street. It rarely occurs to me to be discontent or to reach further. My Biology teacher once wrote in my yearbook that he "hoped to see me on the cover of Time magazine someday," but I probably won't ever appear on the cover of any publication unless it is for something mind-numbingly mundane. Like for brushing my tongue consistently each night before I go to bed. Is it because I'm lazy? Because I lack initiative? Because I fear change, and so cling to the familiar instead? Because I'm too narrow-minded, and can't possibly conceive of doing things any other way? I get the feeling that I will never head a large corporation, become a "pearl of price," or win a Nobel Prize.

I don't know if this attitude is a sort of graceful acceptance or self-defeating resignation. After all, aren't people supposed to reach for the impossible (and then wince in pained surprise when they fall on their behinds)? But, then again, I have my own small triumphs to celebrate. Another favorable rating on Teen Ink, another completed blog post. And most of the time, this is enough.