Trine Blogs: Back on the horse

I always find it difficult to get back on the (blog) horse after I’ve fallen off it. It’s like when you’ve committed yourself to, say, doing yoga every morning, or cutting down on your intake of processed sugar and other foods, or whatever else you might like to do that you think will improve your life. Then the horse throws you off and you end up not blogging for a month, or going on a crazy chocolate and donut binge, or you decide that those 20 minutes you usually spend on yoga every morning are more fit for snoozing or staring into the ceiling, trying to remember what possessed you to get up at 7:30 in the morning anyway.

There’ve been so many things I wanted to talk about the past couple of weeks. Mostly how I got exceptionally drunk at my boyfriend’s 25th birthday and made ludicrous bets about Denmark’s performance at this summer’s European Championship in football; forgot which people actually attended the party*; and didn’t notice most people left after I’d paid the toilet a friendly visit for a little too long. The next day we went to get my suitcase (this was a few days before grandma’s funeral, which might explain why my alcohol intake was a bit out of sorts), and on the way back from Tilburg I again got the urge to visit some friendly bushes on the side of the road. Only these bushes were at a Shell gas station. And while I was hurling whatever bile was left in my sorry stomach into a soggy hedge, my boyfriend decided to be practical for once and fill up the tank, leaving my sorry butt exposed to the cars coming off the highway for the same purpose (filling the tank, not hurling in the hedge. I assume). When he backed the car back to where I lay and handed me a tissue, he said the store clerk had asked if I was a Muslim, and if so, I was facing the wrong direction.

Because we all know the preferred spot for doing your daily prayer as a Muslim is in the hedge of a Shell gas station off the highway. Obviously.

And I’d all but forgotten the sweet, ear-piercing sound of the toddler next door. Upon my return to Tilburg, I was greeted by a cacophony of tantrums, most likely directed at the father whose sole purpose in life seems to play with his kid and make fun of it when it gets upset (yes, the walls are that thin, and yes, I judge). At least the kid’s squeaky toy has disappeared (who gives their kids squeaky toys anyway? They’re not dogs) but the 7 a.m. squeaks have been replaced by 7 a.m. angry squealing, in the way only hysterical 2-year-olds can fashion.

But honestly, it’s good to be back in Tilburg, despite noisy neighbours, embarrassing parties and all the academia shite that is making my brain slowly dribble out of my ears. I missed my little room, with its lovely view – all the trees are blooming now, and my (quiet) neighbours have lovely bushes and small trees with flowers on them. I even got an orchid for my room, in the spirit of spring. They are nice things to look at when you’re stuck inside, staring forlornly at the empty Word page.

It’s back on the horse for me, in every way – and now I’ll stop with the horse thing. No use blogging a dead horse anyway.

(Sorry, last one, I promise.)

* Trine’s Tips: make a note of which guests attend the party, especially if you don’t know them very well. This will save you a lot of embarrassment later when you meet your boyfriend’s mates (again) and open with the question, “Oh, I don’t believe we’ve met?” – which is followed by “Yes, we met at the party a couple of weeks ago. We talked several times. You said you liked my shirt.” And if you do actually remember them later, they’ll never believe you when you tell them.

Trine Larsen (23) from Denmark studies Management of Cultural Diversity at Tilburg University and blogs for Univers.

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