The Ice Age Crisis

Today, I decided that I would be a Disney star. Now, to those of you who have the abundant good fortune of knowing me personally it may be coming as a shock that I did not in fact opt for the princess category in the metaphorical Disney application form in my head. I agree, I do have a certain spryness to my step and a certain charm to myself that would advocate being the one declared fairest of them all by every (soon-to-be-broken) mystical mirror on the wall. However, I decided that although my talents – boundless as they are – would be very much suited to the role, another was in store for me.

Of course, I can practically hear your disgruntled exclamations from here! “Oh but Mamoon! The major character of a true Disney movie is always a princess! How could someone as astronomically perfect (Authors note: It is considered by some that the word perfect itself is ample adjective to describe flawlessness. I agree. However, when it comes to my doting audience, they understand that sometimes you can exceed mere flawlessness – although that is a phenomenon truly hard to find outside of a few very specific individuals that tread this land) as you are! It is a logical fallacy!”

Well, I wholeheartedly agree with you. However, you must keep in mind that there are indeed characters who were not princesses, and were of an (eventually) equally strong and manly demeanour as I bring to the table. Although I am by no means ashamed of my skill at hiding away in my tower by blaming it on my evil mother, (bless her soul; she keeps insisting that I leave my self-made tower, to which I very carefully point out that my tower is the only place that has my beloved computer) I did indeed want to spread out my wings to encompass a broader field of expertise.

And so, I tried my hand at the more animalistic side of Disney by picking up their most majestic, famous animal of them all: Bambi.

I would start my next paragraph again with the words ‘and so,’ but the fear of sounding repetitive has always struck a chord in my soul, quite possibly due to the fact that my terrifying monster of a teacher (who was also blatantly, outrageously, completely biased against males – a fact which she so flagrantly flaunted that I felt as if I understood the American oppression of women in the 1910’s) imprinting such trauma onto my dear little 14-year-old mind that I simply cannot repeat a paragraph opening. Well I can, just not without being mentally flung from the cosiness of my tower (library) back into the cold embrace of a school desk with a colossal (figuratively, not literally) figure looming above me waiting for me to stick my knuckles out while she brandishes her cane over my head.

Quite ominous, really. In fact, it got to the point where I was forced to integrate long tangents about various traumatic experiences in an effort to have multiple buffer paragraphs after which, I could of course continue with my story as if nothing had happened – using the exact same opener naturally.

And so, as all great method actors must, I set out to become one with my chosen character. The first step, you ask? Well, finding my Thumper of course. To those of you who have forgotten who exactly Thumper and (soon-to-be-mentioned) Faline are, Thumper is the plucky young rabbit sidekick who joins Bambi in his adventures while Faline is the ravishing (still not sure how Disney managed that. I’m half-sure that Disney is the sole reason why furry culture exists in the world) deer who Bambi falls in love with.

And so, I go and recruit my first Thumper candidate: an incredibly shy friend of mine named (changed for privacy reasons) Pancakes. Upon talking to Pancakes for a total of sixteen minutes, I ascertained that she was not in fact, my Thumper. Unfortunately, tiny as she was, she lacked a certain bravado that Thumper has.

Now that I had indeed rejected her as my Thumper, she decided to join me in my noble quest for becoming one with the furry-inspiring hero that was Bambi. The road was lengthy, her songs were terrible and her choices in books was (if possible) even worse. This doesn’t really have much of a place in the story (as with 80% of the content that will go down) but since I realise that she will probably read this, I’ll take my opportunities to take a jab at her for not reading what I recommended yet.

Finally, we find our way over to a greying, hospital-esque building from the depths of which three new, dead-eyed and harrowed, candidates exited and collapsed from exhaustion in my vehicle. A motley crew, but every great star needs his entourage – and my place in those names goes without saying. 

After much fighting over the auxiliary cable (throughout which I of course magnanimously kept assessing the personalities of the three remaining side-kicks, or henchmen if they prefer) I reached a conclusion that all three of these had the potential to be horrible (albeit passable, somewhat similar to what my Calculus grade would have been had the infamous Sir Shirhah Fan – again, renamed for anonymity – had not intervened) Thumpers. But there can only be one Thumper. And so the test began.

Now, those of you who have read my age old excerpt from my swimming experiences (shamelessly linked here to increase non-existent traffic on my blog), you may make the incredibly bold claim that I have been known to have illusions of grandeur. This is sheer poppycock. As any expert would tell you, I am a born natural in the subtle art of figure skating, I have been modelled by God using the same clay that was used to fashion the legends Oksana Baiul, Sarah Hughes, and Katerina Witt. Slightly more manly? Absolutely. Around two and a half feet taller? Exactly. A completely distorted centre of gravity? Perhaps. An entirely different ethnicity? Quite possibly!

But it was the same clay I tell you!

And so, as we found ourselves at the twenty foot long ice skating rink that has wormed its way into Islamabad I found a contract thrust into my hands. (Authors Note: Before we go on with that, did you notice my usage of ‘And so,’ to start a paragraph again? I bet you didn’t.) A contract which, might I add offended me beyond reasonable measure. However, I am naught but composed in the face of danger and in the face of such childish nonsense that stated that I realise the possibility of myself getting hurt in the process (ABSOLUTE rubbish I tell you. I am, as naturally expected, sent to earth only as an example to be emulated. I would talk about the second coming if not for the Blasphemy laws set in place in my country).

When I finally got done wrestling with the sheer incredulity of being presented with such a document, I hastily signed and wrestled my feet into two absolutely massive boots with what can only be called by any sane person a secret Nazi weapon that (unfortunately) was not perfected in time for their attempted invasion of Russia. Two massive razor sharp blades coming out of your boots is hardly inconspicuous but, when you get right to it, neither is a red, white and black swastika emblazoned on your black uniform against a sea of white snow. Hitler was a great speaker; less of a tactician.

This, my dear audience, is where I started to have a niggling suspicion that perhaps my boundless self-confidence may be a little … misplaced. A young lad; couldn’t have been more than fourteen, had just stood up on those very razor sharp blades and in the process of falling down had almost sliced his own jugular open. Had it not been for the nearby attendant (a hero in his own right), the swastika wouldn’t be the only thing coloured red that day. Slightly nervous, I stood up and lo and behold! I felt as at home as a cheetah lounging around wherever it is that cheetahs lounge.

Unfortunately, as I was soon to find out, cheetahs too can trip.

As I was also about to find out, ice (artificial or otherwise) is also a lot more slippery than the extra-friction surface existing outside of the rink. Well, as any great method actor, I was entirely prepared for this. I have seen the Bambi movie a total of eight times and let me tell you, I know exactly how it goes. There’s three minutes and seventeen seconds of fumbling around with Thumper while he falls over a few times on the ice before he displays his prowess as a natural born skating genius.

Thoroughly prepared for my soon-to-be-had bruises before achieving perfection in a rocky-style three minute and seventeen second montage, I walked onto the ice with all the elegance and grace of a newly born fawn (I was attempting to get into character of course). The road would be rough, painful and would leave many a mark on my flawless, chiselled body. A pity, but not even Leonardo got his Oscar without braving a few scrapes. This is where I remind my female audience not to worry too greatly, I’m still due for my shoot with Klein.

It wasn’t long before I realised that although I was having absolutely no trouble traversing the ice itself, this was mostly due to the fact that I was waddling around like a very pregnant new-born fawn. Apparently, gliding and walking with your knees facing inwards are two very different things. On the bright side, I had indeed, spotted which of my four dwarfs was in fact Thumper: Anhoe.

Anhoe, true to his Thumper role, was gliding around as if born and bred in the ice itself. Actually, that would explain why he’s fourteen years older than me and still sixteen years my junior in university. Not really, but I feel as if I should get that in there to somewhat mitigate the slight inferiority complex that I built over the course of the evening towards his slightly more talented skating skills. Seriously, the only thing left for him to do was a bloody backflip over my rotting corpse. Way to steal my thunder Anhoe, I can’t believe you do this after I let you into my entourage. Et tu brute?

Of course, so far, I hadn’t yet begun to feel the pinpricks of the dagger being held to my back by the man who I bestowed the grand title of Thumper himself. (Did I mention that I’m also about eight inches taller than him? Yeah. You remember that Anhoe.) And so, I found myself heeding his advice at every minute until the point came where I no longer did a split every time I moved forward more than a few centimetre without lifting my feet.

With such monumental progress made, and with continued whisperings from Thumper (at this point I feel as if it is more fitting to call him Wormtongue) I decided to do a full lap of the arena. Unfortunately, this may not have been the best of decisions. To any casual observer, it may have seemed an absolute marvel of the modern world how a beginner so quickly went from not knowing the difference between walking and gliding to spinning around so effortlessly in a state of nirvana-like flow. Well, I shall answer those very casual observers here and now.

The only reason my spins seemed effortless, was since I was making absolutely no effort in making them happen. Instead, my face was riddled with the concentration of doing the exact opposite and moving in a straight line! I always have had trouble going straight.

Suffice to say, this ended up in my body slowly crumpling to the side in an all but graceful manner. After what seemed to be an eternity of fumbling around, Thumper managed to get me up and whispered a few words of encouragement and advice and in doing so, twisted the knife further into my spine. Wormtongue I said? Well, I may be leaning more towards the Lannisters at this point.

With those very words, I found myself goaded into a friendly game of tag on the ice. Rapidly improving and still brimming with confidence at my ability to embrace the entire persona of Bambi, I immediately started visualizing chasing after the entirety of my entourage and catching them in mere seconds – at which of course, the (entirely empty) room would erupt in cheers and I would be showered in loose women asking me to sign various body parts. Unfortunately, I instead found myself on the floor in what must have been record (and soul) breaking time. At this point, I was able to pull myself up by hugging/humping the cushioned pillar in the middle of the rink. Still, I supposed that its fine if I take slightly longer than Bambi to get into the Bambi spirit. After all, he has two extra legs over me and a Thumper who isn’t continually sharpening his dagger whilst smiling at me.

Unfortunately, I was wrong. I was very, very wrong. On that day, I fell more times than I could count. This may seem like an exaggeration to you. I promise, no part of this (entirely factual) article is exaggeration, especially not this.

“But Mamoon, you’re so smart you can count to numbers that don’t even exist!”

Well yes, this is also true. However, from the natures of my falls and injuries, I have ascertained that I have a mild concussion that may have hindered my ability to count somewhat. An entirely temporary consequence, albeit one that I feel that I could make do without.

Ultimately, I came to a realization that perhaps there is a reason that I have been bestowed with the title of fairest of them all, and that perhaps I am not indeed fit to be Bambi. Some things just aren’t meant to be. And so it is with a heavy heart and a crying soul that I write about my accounts of betrayal, disappointment and being flawless enough to acknowledge a flaw: that my body would never truly bless the world of secret Nazi weapons, jugular cutting children, furries and Bambi’s forest.

Hey, I still think I win here. At least my mother didn't get shot by a hunter right? Right?