Here Goes Nuthin'.....

Okay, even the title of this post is negative, which is not the way I want to launch my first venture into the Nairobi cultural scene.

Tonight, I'm attending the launch of the Kwani Litfest, whatever the hell that is, at the Royal Media House, off Dennis Pritt Road, wherever the hell THAT is. At 7 PM, there will be a panel about how foreign correspondents have shaped the literary image of Africa. Thinking strategically, I concluded there may be quite a few expat journos in attendance, and it could be a way to meet interesting single men. I guess.

I don't know, I'm feeling kind of ambivalent about it today. Actually, I've been feeling that way a lot lately. Not about work, mind you...the challenge is way too big for that. It's just that in my personal life....or lack thereof......I've been decidedly, determinedly, and indubitably disaffected.

I just don't care. No, let me take that back. In one sense, I DO care--a great deal. We're all adults here, so I really don't have to spell it out for you.....it would be nice to get sweaty for reasons other than severe hormonal imbalance every now and again. I mean, REALLY nice. I could tell you how long it's been since that happened, but I'm not trying to write Greek tragedy here.

Here's the deal. When it comes to actually summoning the mental energy, initiative, and effort it requires to venture out, present an attractive, appealing commodity, and then initiate the interpersonal two-step required to spark a potential "connection," hell, I'd rather have some gelato. I swear to God, you put a tall, dark, handsome, muscular young Kenyan besides a bowl of Italian Kiss gelato from the Sweet Temptations shop in the Sarit Centre Mall, and I would choose the gelato without blinking or thinking.

I fear this must be a pretty strong indication that my libido has completely shriveled, just like my reproductive organs have by now. I haven't had a visit from Aunt Flo in almost 3 months, and my hot flashes and mood swings have been absolutely punishing. I mean, every single day I'm sitting in the middle of the newsroom fanning myself, literally dripping with sweat, during what Kenyans call their "winter." My internal thermostat is completely broken, and any type of activity, even the burning of calories from a meal, creates a wave of thermo-nuclear agony that leaves me beyond miserable. Each night, the minute the door shuts behind me at the Lizard Apartments, I immediately start peeling off clothing and head straight to one of two standing fans in the apartment. I turn that sucker up as high as it'll go and pretend I'm not posessed by some evil spirit bent on causing me to spontaneously combust.

With all my heart, I wish that last paragraph was a literary exaggeration. But it's not. I have reached the point where I'm PRAYING for infertility, BEGGING God or Buddha or whoever's in charge to just shut my reproductive shit down so I can get on with my life. I don't CARE if no man under the age of 60 ever winks at me again, or if this means I am completely relinquishing the power to create life and officially embracing my lot as a "Dried Up Old Maid."

Please, for the love of all that's holy, would my freakin' Follicle Stimulating Hormones just dry up and leave me the hell alone?????? Can I please just enter menopause and be done with it?

It is in that spirit that I embark upon my inaugural journey into the Nairobi cultural scene tonight. (Just imagine the hordes of enamored swains I will attract with that kind of energy swirling around me.) However, there is about a half a gallon of gelato waiting for me in my freezer, just in case I get so pissed off sitting in rush hour traffic that I snap at the driver to just screw it and take me home, dammit.

Sigh. I'll let you know what happens.....