There are two Peas at the moment.
There’s the one side of Peas, so flipping excited to escape. All the time. Always looking to fuck off somewhere.
In one month, I would’ve just landed in Amsterdam with The Dove.
In twelve hours, I would’ve just landed in Cape Town with C2 and N.
There’s the Peas who lives to escape to completely different geographical locations.
And gags for new experiences, literally feeling goosebumps when she checks out the (new!) Streetview in Amsterdam. It’s fucking rad.
Then there’s the Peas who is fairly happy and content with everything here at the moment, who loves her home and loves leaving stray bras hanging over the couch, opening a Diemersfontein Pinotage and absorbing herself in all the comforts of an incredible workplace, a kiff home and having a fucken good giggle with friends in her city of lieu.
There’s the Peas that hates her new Emo fringe, her muffin tops, her expensive shoe fetish, her bad judgement, her basic flaws.
Then there’s the Peas that sweeps back the bloody fringe with the aid of hairclips, goes on a lactose-gluten-free diet, loses weight, gets great skin, celebrates her shoes, and admits to her basic flaws with a ‘well we all have flaws right, none of us are Jesus?’ and knows she’s a good person.
There’s the Peas with incredibly bad taste in music, is impulsive and does stupid shit, forgets where her keys are, drinks too much wine before a big day, is too trusting, is too open, does hip hop moves in a corporate environment.
Should take her make-up off before hitting the pillow, is eccentric, should spend her disposable income on a house she actually owns instead of overseas travel.
Shouldn’t consider buying state-of-the-art Bauhaus plastic chairs for R2000 a pop, should be more organised, should go to the gym, should do pilates three times a week, not once, and the Peas that gets lonely sometimes.
But then there’s the Peas who thinks bad taste in music is always relative, (if the world is made up of 4 billion people, someone out there has also got to listen to ESP 2 on a stretched tape in the traffic. Somewhere, somehow. And also believe it’s all in good taste, if not the peak of excellent judgement.)
Always finds her keys eventually, enjoys a good wine for all its fruity fortitude (Diemersfontein Pinotage isn’t exactly box wine from Brakenfell).
Trusts because true fulfilment and being honest goes hand in hand, is open because that’s what she is, does hip hop because she can now and frankly, its good exercise.
Not taking her make-up off after a good night means it was a good night, embraces that she’s eccentric – with a father like hers doesn’t have a choice. Who reckons that overseas travel is paramount to owning a box in Sunninghill [is all I could afford on my own] and travel is better than owning that.
Considers buying cool Italian-imported plastic furniture because she a) can, and b) it blows Weylandt’s out of the water.
Is the epitome of Organised Chaos – which is still organised, and pilates once a week is better than none at all, and knows her next snog will definitely be fun.
There’s the Peas who feels bogged down by the societal expectations of life.
Then there’s the Peas who knows she’s so fucking lucky, because she’s done things that society never considered of her or expected of her, even if it doesn’t fit into ‘the norm.’
There’s the Peas who wants a fucken dog.
But is getting a cat instead, who is like a dog. Because her lifestyle and domicile dictate it.
There’s the Peas that is disappointed she cannot speak 6 languages fluently yet.
Then there’s the Peas who is consistently working on it. One step at a time.
There’s the Peas who wonders how her path in life has had a completely different outcome from what she ever expected. Who thinks about this ad infinitum over Pinotage in a bath full of bubbles and other tub-like detritus.
Then there’s the Peas who knows she’s done more than she ever imagined doing. The book was a pipedream, a goal she never thought would come to fruition, and working for one of the best companies in the world was at one point never even a consideration. And experiencing a few relationships in one 28-year old lifetime is in some way enriching.
There’s the Peas who thinks ‘Freak whatcha lookin’ at?’ when a random guy smiles at her somewhere.
Then there’s the Peas who smiles back and thinks, ‘Well he’s rather dishy innit.’
There’s the Peas who chastises her thighs.
And there’s the Peas who thinks ‘I like the way your thighs move, kid’ when she dances.
There’s the Peas who thinks, ‘if a brick falls from the sky, hits me on the head and I peg on impact,’ she would be happy with what she’s succeeded in so far. If it very suddenly all came to a comotic end.
And there’s the Peas that thinks ‘Fuck no. Fight through the brick coma, bitch. There’s so much that can still happen and be done.’
There’s the Peas who zones out to Heat magazine. There’s also the Peas that thinks about this stupid ‘life’ shit after too many glasses of the fermented grape.
There’s the Peas who is plenty excited to festivise with mates in Cape Town and do the honours of being a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding this weekend.
Then there’s the Peas who realises she’s been talking in the third person this whole time, and apologises profusely for it.