White hair, freckled hands

I’ve been thinking about my grandparents lately. About how they’re getting older and not a day younger. About how they’ve been living day-to-day together in that small house tucked along a small road in a small side of town, quiet and peaceful with their neighbours on the right with the ridiculous amounts of cats.

The neighbour on the left has moved away a long, long time ago and now it’s left mostly empty except for the few times it’s been rented off - A few weeks later, it’s empty again. I remember being very young and trying to jump up to see above the white wall dividing my grandparents’ house into that house, but failing. Now I am older and I walk past that wall and look into their compound I tried so hard to see so many years ago, and I am assaulted by the memories of my grandmother laughing as she rubbed my head because I knocked it on the metal box stuck on the wall while I tried to jump. I was wearing blue and I tried to be brave and not cry, but I remember the bump on my head and her laughter and her hands soothing away my pain.

I remember Chinese New Year many, many years ago when we had to wake up early in the morning to go to their house and wish them lunar blessings because my grandpa would be upset if we arrived too late. Now, he tells us to come a bit later, and not so early, please, because they are tired and need their sleep. (I am afraid that one day, they will sleep and never wake up.)

My grandpa, with his full head of wavy hair, now streaked with gray and white; his hands, dry and wrinkled, and speckled with dark brown sunspots, holds my face as he plants two wet kisses on my cheeks. He is getting much older now, and his mind runs away at times, moving faster backwards. He tells me tales of long past, of his adventures during the second world war, the hard times he and his friends went through. Of a tale involving a hill, an egg, and how they tried to boil it without water. Of how he met a beautiful lady (my grandma) and she would pick sweet potatoes from the ground and that was all they had to eat for weeks. And how when the war was over, he would go off to town with my grandma and they would attend parties, and ballroom dance throughout the night. He was the perfect gentleman (When I look through his old photo albums, he is surrounded by women, and he is smiling dashingly amidst them). He brought my grandma on a world tour. There is a picture of them together in Paris, tucked away in a dusty album. I sneezed and somehow my eyes were wet (perhaps it was the dust).

He recalls the past in clear detail, but at times, he forgets my name. He forgets my mothers name. But he still wears his marriage ring faithfully, everyday.

My grandma, with her head full of white curls, she does not talk much, not as much as my grandpa. But whenever my brother drops by, she cooks his favourite salted vegetables with fat pork. During family reunion dinners, she cooks the mixed vegetable and black bean dish, because it is my favourite. And when my sister stays over during the day because we are all not around, she cooks the chicken and potato soup which my sister loves. She does not say much, but she shows much. She is getting much older now, and her hand shakes, and she cannot do as much as she used to - but she still does as much as she can. Now she is in charge of the household necessities because my grandpa is getting forgetful and his mind runs away at times, and she has to shout a little louder for him to hear because he is getting deaf, and the curry powder and ginger biscuit business that they started together has to stop because their hands are a little shaky and memories a little blur.

She recalls the recipes in clear detail, but at times, her hands fail to follow. But she still wears her marriage ring faithfully, everyday.

For better or for worse, their vows remain on their fingers.

And now whenever my mum drops by their house, I follow. And when I leave, I wrap my arms around them and give them a kiss on the cheek. I think it surprises them, because I've never been one to show my affection that way, but somehow I'm learning that I don't quite mind.

Because I’ve been thinking about my grandparents lately.
About how they’re getting older,
and not a day younger,
and maybe one day I won’t be able to see them anymore.



(Maybe I’ll drop by their house and bring along a can of coke, because that’s what my grandma loves, and maybe I’ll stay around for a while and listen to my grandpas tales of long ago, because that’s all he can really remember nowadays.)

It turns out procrastination is not typically a function of laziness, apathy or work ethic as it is often regarded to be. It’s a neurotic self-defense behavior that develops to protect a person’s sense of self-worth.

You see, procrastinators tend to be people who have, for whatever reason, developed to perceive an unusually strong association between their performance and their value as a person. This makes failure or criticism disproportionately painful, which leads naturally to hesitancy when it comes to the prospect of doing anything that reflects their ability — which is pretty much everything.

But in real life, you can’t avoid doing things. We have to earn a living, do our taxes, have difficult conversations sometimes. Human life requires confronting uncertainty and risk, so pressure mounts. Procrastination gives a person a temporary hit of relief from this pressure of “having to do” things, which is a self-rewarding behavior. So it continues and becomes the normal way to respond to these pressures.

Particularly prone to serious procrastination problems are children who grew up with unusually high expectations placed on them. Their older siblings may have been high achievers, leaving big shoes to fill, or their parents may have had neurotic and inhuman expectations of their own, or else they exhibited exceptional talents early on, and thereafter “average” performances were met with concern and suspicion from parents and teachers.

David Cain, “Procrastination Is Not Laziness”

What do you think? I find this sort-of true. In a way, I can see where the author is coming from. That article/blogpost rather hits home though. "A procrastinator becomes disproportionately motivated by the pain of failure. So when you consider taking anything on, the promise of praise or benefit from doing something right are overshadowed by the (disproportionately greater) threat of getting something wrong. Growing up under such high expectations, people learn to associate imperfection or criticism with outright failure, and failure with personal inadequacy." Oh yeah, I be seein' myself in those few sentences right there...

Haha. Well, studying all these new things in a new environment with new incredibly smart people around me can be quite a kick in the backside. About how much I really don't know and how much God's grace & favour is needed in this ridiculously competitive world. I've got so much to learn.

On another hand, I got straight A's for my SPM results (4A+, 5A, 1A-) and I'm pretty happy with it. Although I'll be honest and say I was expecting a few more A+'s in the subjects that I got an A in, it's alright :) That's one part of my life done with. On to the next chapter!