By the Law of Attraction
One of the many podcasts I subscribe to recently revealed a surprising update. By the Law of Attraction, the podcaster had attracted a woman into his life, fallen in love with her, married her, had a child together, all archived in the last two years of podcasting. And now they're going through a divorce. Does that invalidate the law of attraction itself? Was my faith in the law shaken at the core? Not at all, and with more pontificating, it has reaffirmed my belief even further.
How we experience whatever it is that we have attracted into our lives is solely dependent on ourselves: once we've ordered the soup of the day, it's up to us to enjoy it, or not. The Law does not guarantee ever-lasting love, not even promise anything more than what we actively wish for. I learnt it the fun way.
One stormy evening stuck in a hotel in Taipei with typhoon number 17 (even typhoon signals are inflated and exaggerated over there), I had already exhausted options at the tiny hotel spa, and tried to find amusement online. Crouched in the corner surfing generously unsecured wireless signal, I started chatting to an Austrian based in Shanghai. He was charming enough, albeit laden with spelling mistakes, and we flirted pleasantly for some time. He grew ardent and impatient with the fact that I was not due back in Shanghai for another few weeks, and so proposed coming to Hong Kong to meet me the following weekend. He had begun with a flimsy idea of hitching the next flight out to Taipei from Shanghai, but even if I welcomed him with open arms, it was quite evident from the forecast that Taipei airport would not.
So we toyed with the idea of his impending visit. Where would he stay? Oh, the W just opened recently. Yes, and their spa should be ready soon too, said the spa junkie in me.
There's something about the awkward timing of treatments for couples at the spa that is so delicious and tantalising. Lying bare-skinned on massage tables, aware that your partner is relaxing to the therapist's warm, assuring touch, skin tingling, because you're experiencing the same yourself; sharing a vanilla bath in a design-savvy jacuzzi intended exactly for 1.5 which allows only room enough for one body on top of the other, for that (in)delicate duration of just thirty minutes, which they announce upon exit as if to challenge any aspirations of lewd conduct; leaving you alone again to rinse off with enough nozzles and shower heads for all kinds of dirty, but once again while the clock is ticking. Some rooms even have peekaboo panels on the unlockable doors.
I didn't relate quite as much wanton detail to Mr. Vienna, but in putting the possibility of a spa tryst to him, I began casting my desires for licentious aquatic fun to the Universe. Images of the W interior and other lascivious thoughts lolled in my head for the rest of the week, even after I had swiftly forgotten about the cyber conversation and the man himself.
Instead of romancing an Austrian the following Friday night back in Hong Kong, I was heading home with an inkling of a long night out ahead of me. A girlfriend got online to see whether I was out and about, a tad tired of the thus far inane evening she herself was having. Was I up for drinks? Sure, not usually my thing to come home after dinner and head out again, but tonight, I'm game. Where should we go? The cocktails at W are potent, shall we meet there? Bingo.
I felt charged by the 'coincidence' — a fallacy in my book — and put on a dress that I had not dared to wear since its purchase, along with new Blahniks. New shoes somehow always bring me luck, maybe that's why I can't stop buying them.
We had a fantastic girl-time at the bar at W. After four rounds of serious mixology and witnessing two individual guests consorting intimately then ascend together in the same elevator (I ran after them to check, like some giddy schoolgirl), we were inspired to continue our own Friday night.
By the time we were queuing for entry at the club, we were so giggly we didn't care about waiting, and were offered more shots besides. Once inside, it was evident that the Universe as well was having fun that night. The club was packed with men, dripping with testosterone. We were still picking our jaws off the floor when my girlfriend was promptly cornered by a somewhat acrobatic dancer. I strayed from her and meandered through the throng. I was appreciating the plethora of candy around me when I felt a gentle hand resting at my hip. It lingered, and before I had time to react, came the delectable brushing of the upper arm with the back of his index finger, followed by the confident stubble nuzzle at the nape of my neck. Brazen, sensuous and typically French: touch first, talk later.
Waz yawr name, sexee? I'm Jean-Charles. Of course you are, darling. More salacious moves and lychee martinis served with prurient banter in French later, JC went for the kill: I really want to take a bath with you. Jackpot.
A bouncer gave me two thumbs up as Frenchie led me out of the club, the same one that ushered me in just twenty minutes earlier. I couldn't help winking at the sky before snuggling into a cab with the boy. I had projected the W and some scrub-tub fun, and that was exactly what fell on my plate that evening. Immaterial that the players were unexpected, irrelevant that the screenplay was spontaneous and subtitled. I attracted, then I engaged. I could've stayed in. I could've declined to meet his bath tub.
But I didn't. And what an amazing tub it was.
How has the Law of Attraction worked for you?
How we experience whatever it is that we have attracted into our lives is solely dependent on ourselves: once we've ordered the soup of the day, it's up to us to enjoy it, or not. The Law does not guarantee ever-lasting love, not even promise anything more than what we actively wish for. I learnt it the fun way.
One stormy evening stuck in a hotel in Taipei with typhoon number 17 (even typhoon signals are inflated and exaggerated over there), I had already exhausted options at the tiny hotel spa, and tried to find amusement online. Crouched in the corner surfing generously unsecured wireless signal, I started chatting to an Austrian based in Shanghai. He was charming enough, albeit laden with spelling mistakes, and we flirted pleasantly for some time. He grew ardent and impatient with the fact that I was not due back in Shanghai for another few weeks, and so proposed coming to Hong Kong to meet me the following weekend. He had begun with a flimsy idea of hitching the next flight out to Taipei from Shanghai, but even if I welcomed him with open arms, it was quite evident from the forecast that Taipei airport would not.
So we toyed with the idea of his impending visit. Where would he stay? Oh, the W just opened recently. Yes, and their spa should be ready soon too, said the spa junkie in me.
There's something about the awkward timing of treatments for couples at the spa that is so delicious and tantalising. Lying bare-skinned on massage tables, aware that your partner is relaxing to the therapist's warm, assuring touch, skin tingling, because you're experiencing the same yourself; sharing a vanilla bath in a design-savvy jacuzzi intended exactly for 1.5 which allows only room enough for one body on top of the other, for that (in)delicate duration of just thirty minutes, which they announce upon exit as if to challenge any aspirations of lewd conduct; leaving you alone again to rinse off with enough nozzles and shower heads for all kinds of dirty, but once again while the clock is ticking. Some rooms even have peekaboo panels on the unlockable doors.
I didn't relate quite as much wanton detail to Mr. Vienna, but in putting the possibility of a spa tryst to him, I began casting my desires for licentious aquatic fun to the Universe. Images of the W interior and other lascivious thoughts lolled in my head for the rest of the week, even after I had swiftly forgotten about the cyber conversation and the man himself.
Instead of romancing an Austrian the following Friday night back in Hong Kong, I was heading home with an inkling of a long night out ahead of me. A girlfriend got online to see whether I was out and about, a tad tired of the thus far inane evening she herself was having. Was I up for drinks? Sure, not usually my thing to come home after dinner and head out again, but tonight, I'm game. Where should we go? The cocktails at W are potent, shall we meet there? Bingo.
I felt charged by the 'coincidence' — a fallacy in my book — and put on a dress that I had not dared to wear since its purchase, along with new Blahniks. New shoes somehow always bring me luck, maybe that's why I can't stop buying them.
We had a fantastic girl-time at the bar at W. After four rounds of serious mixology and witnessing two individual guests consorting intimately then ascend together in the same elevator (I ran after them to check, like some giddy schoolgirl), we were inspired to continue our own Friday night.
By the time we were queuing for entry at the club, we were so giggly we didn't care about waiting, and were offered more shots besides. Once inside, it was evident that the Universe as well was having fun that night. The club was packed with men, dripping with testosterone. We were still picking our jaws off the floor when my girlfriend was promptly cornered by a somewhat acrobatic dancer. I strayed from her and meandered through the throng. I was appreciating the plethora of candy around me when I felt a gentle hand resting at my hip. It lingered, and before I had time to react, came the delectable brushing of the upper arm with the back of his index finger, followed by the confident stubble nuzzle at the nape of my neck. Brazen, sensuous and typically French: touch first, talk later.
Waz yawr name, sexee? I'm Jean-Charles. Of course you are, darling. More salacious moves and lychee martinis served with prurient banter in French later, JC went for the kill: I really want to take a bath with you. Jackpot.
A bouncer gave me two thumbs up as Frenchie led me out of the club, the same one that ushered me in just twenty minutes earlier. I couldn't help winking at the sky before snuggling into a cab with the boy. I had projected the W and some scrub-tub fun, and that was exactly what fell on my plate that evening. Immaterial that the players were unexpected, irrelevant that the screenplay was spontaneous and subtitled. I attracted, then I engaged. I could've stayed in. I could've declined to meet his bath tub.
But I didn't. And what an amazing tub it was.
How has the Law of Attraction worked for you?