It's a bit ridiculous when I'm earning my own fucking money and the parents still insist on nagging about how I spend it. It's also a bit ridiculous when I feel compelled to hide my purchases so that they'd not annoy me by trying to be helpful but only, ultimately, pissing me off. Sure, I spend my money on frivolous things like tennis outfits, but as I curtly told my mom just now, it makes me happy. I was moody in the morning, which is pretty much my standard mode of operation on Mondays to Fridays, but when I called up an Adidas branch in Orchard and snagged something that I wanted last week, it made me feel a lot better. At least there was something to look forward to at the end of the day.
In any case, the previous outfit - the Maria Sharapova one - was a birthday present to myself (to which Mag contributed!).
Actually, do I need a reason for buying things? I don't think so. It's my own money. Shit, the perils of still living at home despite the fact that I'm already 24 and growing older by the second.
I don't even want to talk about this. It's just pissing me off.
That reminds me: I still owe myself a box of Godiva truffles which I promised myself I'd buy when I get my first proper paycheck. I got that last Friday, am $4,000 richer, and can totally afford a box - except, don't really have the time, or more importantly, the energy, to go and buy one.
It's funny how you look forward to these trivial things when you're surviving on a paltry 2,000 pupillage pay and thinking of all the awesome things you'd eventually buy when you get your real salary. Because when you DO get your real salary, as much as you really want that box of Godiva truffles, the prospects of holding the sacred box of Godiva truffles in your hands suddenly seem less appealing. The fantasy is now real, and because it's real, it's no longer mystical. It's no longer something to which you can aspire. It has no timeline, no expiry date - even if you miss it this time, there's always the next month, and the next, and the next. No sense of urgency. No sense of real worth.
Money truly can't buy me happiness. No doubt I feel happy for a while when I bought my new tennis skirt, but it doesn't help me feel less bad about going to work tomorrow morning. It's not going to help me snap out of my default moodiness at work and generally have a more positive disposition about things. It's so transient, really; so meaningless.
Since I have the means though, I'm still going to buy my chocolates, no matter what.
Still, I wonder if one day I'd eventually like money more than I like my principles.
Needless to say, I hope to hell that it never, ever happens.
On another note, tennis on Sunday with the boyfriend was pretty great. One thing I like about playing tennis with him is that he throws everything at me (good thing he's predominantly a squash player) and we're out there, trying to outdo each other. I kind of hate losing to a squash player, but the instances of that happening have significantly reduced since the very first time we played, before we even got together. And it's cute that he reacts as badly as me when he dumps a ball into the net (primarily because he doesn't even play tennis).
Speaking of dumping balls into the net: I totally had a winning shot coming from my backhand when I hit some flat shots pretty deep into the court that forced a weak reply from him. I was standing guard at the net, continental grip, racquet ready for volley; but when I saw that the ball was going towards the backhand, I panicked a bit, and in that split second I decided to do a double-hander and smack it over the net.
I did that, except I smacked it into the net. ATROCIOUS! An egregious unforced error, that one was.
Well, the volleys clearly need work. And the overhead. Not that I have an overhead. Because I don't. I'm liking the forehand more and more though; it's the needed balance to the backhand. I get so tired when the ball keeps going to my backhand even though it was the shot that I first picked up. It's so tiring to keep turning to my non-dominant side, almost a bit counter-intuitive, that after about 3 or 4 shots in a row, I jut want to give up and die. And it also really annoys me when I miss my favourite shot: the super flat as hell backhand cross-court, meant to be a kill shot. It's incredibly annoying when the ball inadvertently gets smacked into the net.
Anyway, enough about tennis.
Actually, enough of this entry. I'm damn tired. I'm going to bed.
It's my 13 months with Wei Chuen tomorrow and he's gonna cheat on me with his books. Damn his double exam on Thursday. So sad.