Me, 2008, that's a doctoral 'hood'.

January 2012 marks my return to a place I prepared for academically but never mentally: teaching university students. I went from undergrad straight into graduate school and then on to finish a PhD. Along the way I lost sight of what I really wanted because of the grumpy academics that lined the walls of the English departments I studied in. Their officiousness (and multiple marriages) were not desirable qualities.

If I had been honest with my twentysomething self, I would have also known that my academic persona didn’t jell with the person I thought myself to be. I was in a small circle of friends who married immediately out of college and began the business of setting up their own households. I had no such prospects in sight: only scholarships for more degrees.

“I’m never going to use this degree,” I said. “I’m getting it because I’m young, not married, and I can do it now.”

None of this was false. Nor was it particularly helpful in building relationships with my advisory committee or the other graduate students who had publicly made scholarship their full time pursuit. The disconnect between how I spent my days and how I saw myself grew so large I left my PhD program immediately after finishing courses.

I went to work full time at a prestigious university, not as an instructor, but in Student Affairs. Now unless you’ve ever been depressed, scared of your roommate, or bored to tears, you don’t even think of student affairs. If you do, you think of it as a stepchild of the university: the place where less serious people go to stay affiliated to academic life. Depending on the institution, you may be a glorified babysitter.

Neither extreme was the case at the two places where I worked. The other professionals were thoughtful people, passionate about their work. But one thing bugged me: it seemed like the best part of their lives had passed them by.  They were always talking about students as if they were their hopes for the lives they never lived — the brilliance they hadn’t developed.

I did what I had by now perfected: I went sideways into a career change. From student affairs professional to publishing-know-it-all, I spent hours at the desk working for others. All the while the books, articles, chapters I was writing in my free time (nights, weekends, summers) were piling up. Publications kept piling up: publications I considered my hobby.

Five years went by. And when I decided that I was done working for others, a week after I quit my job, an offer came. At a university. This time on the teaching side.

Here I am: Five years later, many lessons learned, sure. But back where I started, those years I kept emailing drafts to a committee on the other side of the world validating my credentials to initiate others into how to read and write critically.

What have you been running from? What aspect of yourself are you hiding because it will set you apart from those around you?

Don’t take five years to let it burst forth. Turn now, today, to face it. And then see how you can support it.

My only regret is that the energy I put into keeping up the pretense that this isn’t what I wanted, I could have put into getting better at writing even earlier.

Image via Solitice Retouch

After saying I needed another account like I need exposure to Ecoli, I signed up for Pinterest. Call it peer pressure, or my mind’s need to indulge in the very visual after hours of wrestling with words, I’ve been pinning my heart away. My boards (the groupings of images I select) reflect my interests or intended projects: a Yum-o! list of recipes I’d love to try for my well deserving family, a Family Wedding collage of ideas for an upcoming celebration, and a Writing Projects smatter of snapshots of dresses,and  faces (including Robert Downy Jr.) who remind me of my characters. Getting slightly into it, I created a few more: one for research about Laos for an upcoming novel, another with Books Worth Reading in my heaps of free time, and Word! (Sayings I Love) for those times I need to dwell on the positive.

Revealing my Type-A personality, there’s this other board, Random, where I capture things that are interesting but don’t fit any of the others. “Random” for things that don’t On this board, I put a fairly innocuous image but one that stood out to me nonetheless (left).

I was respondent number three after two other women who commented on how much looking at photo itself made their feet hurt. I pulled together the sum of my feminine experiences and threw in a drop of my feminist inclinations: “So bad for you! Modern foot binding anyone?”

Someone said “this makes me dizzy,” which made me laugh, because if you have ever worn shoes like this, it is difficult to balance while walking. Then a male then commented: “Yes but we all know that in the flesh they probably look awesome.” Six people later, one woman said exactly what I was thinking: “Only the man comments that they look good, figures:).”

The deluge of comments that followed was astonishing; I almost left Pinterest because of the volume of notifications that flooded my inbox. Not because everyone took issue with the male, or agreed that his sentiment was why millions of us wore such high heels calling it fashion. There were many, many women who agreed, some who even defended him, that it wasn’t just men’s fault that we wear things regularly that are chipping away at the bones of our hips, legs, and knees.

And not to be left out of the debate, he felt emboldened enough to comment again: I am sorry you think it’s all men’s fault. I guess I must say I don’t really agree. Pintrest is conservatively 80 percent women posters and I would venture to guess that in the women’s fashion section 90 percent of the posters are women… Lots and lots of :3 posts on shoes that seem pretty tall… But yep it’s all because men like them. Ok. My whole gender is screwing up yours. I apologize for the collective. He deserves an award for exhibiting that special ability men have to turn around something that they are implicated in and blame it on women’s complicity.

Which of course we are. As someone else pointed out even later in the chain: “Statistically, for office jobs, a majority of interviewers prefer women in heels to women in flats. (Same for women with make up vs no make up). First World Problem eh?”

As a professional woman living in the Arabian Gulf, I do wear heels, though many around me wouldn’t consider them as heels because they are under the five inch height at which many female nationals use for their everyday wear.  That’s not to say everyone wears them, but Qatari women who don’t wear heels are often thought of different or not interested in fashion. A friend of mine was even told by her boss to wear heels to the office, so entrenched in his mind was the connection between Qatari women and high heels. She carried on in her loafers.

Since the days of working at the national university, where you have to trek between buildings in the hot sun, my everyday wares are more like one or two inches; I draw the line at three (I do have a pair of the size in this photograph, but I last only about ten minutes standing up). I’m in flats as I write this because today I have no one to impress and I want to get where I’m going quickly. But when I dress up? Heels, without a doubt. And I’m short, so in most cases when you see me at home, you’re surprised at my real height.

Even though I know from experience you can’t do any kind of heavy labor, or even walk long distances or stand for long hours in heels (nor squeeze pregnant feet into them), they’re the first thing I dig out if I have an important meeting. So is it okay to pick and choose when we use these prescriptions of beauty?

Can we, as some of the other posters said, wear them because they make us feel sexy, good, dressed up, without participating in the other ideas that restrict women’s movement?

Can we ever escape the cult of beauty? Or is beauty, as someone said on this ever increasing chain, inextricably linked to pain?

In Part One, we talked about the transient nature of expat life as one of the barriers to establishing ties between communities.

The revolving door makes not only relationships difficult but institutional knowledge or momentum to develop.

Marjorie wrote her own response to Part One which explains that making friends with locals in any country can be challenging. All of this let’s me know that is in fact a topic a lot of people have thought about themselves (and are interested in discussing).

Most of my childhood, adolescence and twenties, I lived in the no-man’s land as an island buffeted by two cultures – American and South Asian. Those years developed the bi-cultural traits shared by all third culture kids: I hear both sides, I understand both sides, I feel the emotion of both sides. I defended dating, a non-medical career path, prom, all things American, to my parents.

Meanwhile I tearfully declined invitations to the movies, football games, or sleepovers via my Indian father’s rules. Us, Indians. Them, Americans at home. Us, kids (Americans). Them, parents (Indians) at school.  I was never fully in one group or the other. Turns out this was perfect training for living in Qatar where I’ve seen and heard the “us” and “them” labels function unchallenged in most cases. That is, except for when I’m present.

Never the Two Shall Meet

Qataries and Expats: Two groups of people living in the same country and yet finding few places to meet, literally or figuratively.  In the vast, intervening space rolls harmful myths with grains of truth, that grows unchecked in each community without the response from the other side. Occurring for years between the two groups, this mistrust is now the inheritance of anyone living in Doha in either community.

I posed the questions from the teleclass via Twitter because I wanted to test the temperature and see if things had changed.

• What do expats think of Qataries?
• What’s it like to be a professional woman in Qatar?

28 DM (direct messages) later with someone I don’t know in real life (only virtually) and who was passionate about the answers to question one, I heard echoes of conversations I’ve had over the years with many close friends, expat and Qatari.

The irony of the prevailing us/them struck me as we tapped out 140 character responses back and forth. A Friday morning and if her Twitter handle hadn’t had “Qatari” in it, I could have been listening to an expat complaining from the sticking points we were exchanging.

The Sticking Point

Let’s be clear: this is not a post about the pros or cons of Qatarization. Rather, it is a discussion about myths on both sides. And you can’t talk about misunderstanding between us without talking about the elephant in the room. Money.

BOTH expats and Qataries think the other is overcompensated. There are two sides to this coin but they share the same theme: a perceived sense of injustice at what the other receives.

• The expat is semi-qualified and overpaid.
• The Qatari is under qualified and overpaid.

“What we think about expats, well they get paid more than us, triple, even though we studied abroad and we are in the same level.”

Many expats regard Qatar or other overseas posts as a kind of second chance pasture before retirement, or a place to send problem employees. This is the minority, others of us came for the adventure; but if the few are in prominent positions (as is often the case) then the damage they do is enormous.

I also countered with the truth from my experience at 3 different institutions in Qatar: “Most of the Qataries I know get paid much more than expats or equal.”

My correspondent seemed surprised by this, since her sister wasn’t in this category and had difficulty getting a job after graduating from an overseas university.

In addition to high pay, expat packages are much more than what they’d have at home.

“I have lived in the UK for 20 years they don’t get the luxury they are getting here be real right.”

She had a point: How many times have visitors come, exclaiming you’d never get that much space London, DC, elsewhere?

On the flip side, the tea-drinking, newspaper reading, Bluetooth talking local seems to be whom expats think is the representative of Qatarization. And if you haven’t worked with someone who doesn’t put in a full day, this idea of the “lazy native” goes unchallenged. What many don’t know is that this specter annoys, embarrasses, angers the hard working, high achieving nationals. This generation, their compatriots staging the Arab spring around the Middle East, are launching their own counter culture for their society.

BOTH Qataries and Expats think the other is well off. Depending on the person this may or may not be the case. What many people may not know, and many in the local community don’t discuss, is that not all Qataries are spendthrifts who adore luxury brands.

“You don’t know the Qataries what they go through, people think we are rich, but we are not. We live in two rooms in our mother-in-law’s house and that’s torture by itself.”

In a status conscious culture, to not have the latest and greatest is not an option. In the expat community, the next exotic travel experience is the equivalent of a Porche.

There are so many other things to talk about in this vein. But we will reserve those for Part Three. In the meantime, I welcome thoughts that will take this discussion in a new vein rather than more of the same. What surprising things have you learned about “the other”?

Having typed high school essays on a typewriter (yes, it’s true), I remember life before email, iPhones, iPads, and those lovely blinking Blackberrys that stay on tables in people’s hands during meals. During most of my working life, email has been a necessary way to get more done during the course of a business day.
But lately, I’m growing to resent the time I spend looking at that black box that is the computer screen. The more I look at it, the less life I have outside of it. The scary thing is that your life atrophies while you are typing away at the black keys and you hardly notice. Suddenly when you get up from the desk, there are no people around you, no one to call, or to meet up with. You’ve shut your machine off and your entire world.

I know lots of people are ranting about this overly technological age and how we never have weekends anymore or holidays away from the office because of all our devices.

But it’s true.

I would rather spin my words into a manuscript (as I’m trying to eek out 15,000 more words on a deadline) or into a person’s ear than in those tiny Outlook envelopes that get sent around the company. Having worked at a multinational for a year and a half, I’m no longer going to evaluate my day by the number of messages left in any of my inbox(es).

Any suggestions on new measuring sticks for a productive day?

Not to be confused with the often quoted ‘clash of civilizations’ between the East and West, lately I’ve observed an equally significant disconnect between assumed expectations and the ensuing chaos when those around us behave otherwise. The physic disruption this kind of gap has caused in my own life over the past ten months is related to the way other people’s nonsensical choices contradict the symbolic order of my life as I’d like to live it. And the result has been irritation, rage, frustration: the desire to not stand and fight but to flee.

And I’m noticing the effect it has on others….

Little things, for example, such as the position of a desk in an office, to big things, such as who has access to what information and when, color how we feel about ourselves and our place in the order of the institutions we belong to.

Young people in Qatar are being educated in a different professional value system from those of their managers. Instead of basing respect on title or age, they are taught in their educational settings to give credit to those who contribute to the overall mission. They are encouraged to be treated with the same consideration as the higher members of the company, in accordance with a system that is more egalitarian than hierarchical.

This sometimes in direct conflict with a system that rewards age and also gives people with titles lots of privileges.
As someone who entered the workforce at the age of 20 in a professional capacity, I fought hard to distinguish my work persona from my student persona (it didn’t help that I stayed to work at my undergraduate institution after graduation).  And perhaps this is why I see the potential in so many of the younger people around me – despite the fact that I am now a 32 year old manager. I know that people like to have tasks that are meaningful rather than clerical and to feel a part of the greater purpose of an organization rather than just ordering paper clips.

Of course I’m a perfectionist and expect that things that are requested get done – as soon as possible or with an explanation as to why otherwise. Nothing irritates me like staff meetings where planning ahead or warnings fall on deaf ears (or students who have to have things repeated to them). But I am a relational leader and I’ve noticed that while others may not choose this particular style, it’s worth too much to me to give up just to strike fear into the hearts of others.

If only more managers knew how to cultivate the young people around them so that they would bring to work a sense of pleasure rather than duty or obligation. I have been trying to let go of tension and worry in general in preparation for the last two months of pregnancy.

I swing between feeling that this is such an ordinary experience, because women around the world do it all the time and wanting to treasure it and nurture the child at the same time. Generally I just collapse into a nap on the days that I can to get away from it all: work, home, the baby growing inside me. And generally, I feel more energized when I wake up, like I can hold on for another ten hours or so.

A friend was visiting and gave me a copy of the Shambhala Sun, a magazine that includes thoughts on “Buddhism, culture, meditation, and life.” The theme for the March issue was Mindful Living. Given all that is happening in my personal and professional life to get ready for this baby and the longest break from work I’ve ever had, it couldn’t have been better timed.

The entire issue was related to how to just be still. Be still and focus on the now. On simple things like your breath or even the sense of what you are about at the present moment. Life isn’t the past or the future – it’s the now, one of the contributors said.

And that’s the profound truth I’m taking into this next phase of my life as a mother and also a professional. I am trying to chip away at that idealist core in me that is always reaching for excellence and what could be possible – the logical order of the world as it should be – and accepting what it is. Flaws and all. Hopefully this is an important lesson the young people around me will also be able to put into their repertoire.

Are there valuable lessons you were taught or are being taught in the workplace or life?

This is what I call the Qatarization policy in effect in Doha. The root is the fact that the nationals, “qataris” those born to Qatari fathers (not mothers who have married non-Qataris) are eligible for citizenship, and they are vastly outnumbered in their own country. 

Of a population reaching 1.5 million, Qataris comprise about 250,000. The rest are people who have made their homes in Qatar for work such as Western or Asian workers, or for stabilty from conflict zones in the region, such as Palestinians, Iraqis, or the Sudanese. I’ve written about the tensions of Qataris feeling overwhelmed previously. See: “Ever Been Called Out in Print” which are reactions when this issue came to my own doorstep. http://mohanalakshmi.livejournal.com/1828.html

A few ruminations on this mult-ilayered and complex issue:

The ‘quota’ system is talked about in all the newspapers, radio, and on the minds of everyone in any industry in the country. How to get Qataris trained and into all aspects of the job force is a national issue and one of some debate. Since the oil boom, the average family income is roughly $60K, and most families far above this through private investments or enterprise.

Therefore a large segement of the population does not need to work for the sake of a salary. This means they have ruled out several roles that they do not want to play in organizations or as professionals, including: administrative assistants, or entry level jobs, as well as nearly all jobs that require high contact hours or have low status such as teaching or nursing.

How do you motivate a population that does not need to work?

Related question: how do you motivate students who are not reaching for the dangling carrot of a plumb job after graduation?

In this wealthy and insular society, it is about 5% of the population who are forward thinking, hard working, and setting the example for others of serving their country for the sake of honor and national pride.

It’s a delicate balance between all those who are here, or have been here for generations, but are never from here – a stark contrast to my own naturalization into American citizenship – and those to whom this country is given.

Working with students is particularly hard because the ‘international’ population, as I’ve come to call them (non-Qatari) are often the most engaged and ready to avail of any opportunity. Yet, making calls to my stand out Qatari students to motivate their peers is daily habit and likely the only way things will change.

Whether anyone likes to admit it or not, change of this kind is a long, steady process.

And as long as the Qataris are paying the bills, they will reserve their seats on the bus, whether any among them uses them or not.

Sometime when I was sixteen, or twenty, or somewhere in there – those years are all so hazy – I made a “Do Before Turning Thirty” list for myself. It included things such as: finish Ph.D., get an agent, travel to Israel. My rationale for this? I’ve no idea. I think it was the result of my mental musings; no order of importance, no particular reason, just a summation of the things I wanted to do, sort of like what you want to get the next time you are at the grocery store. Different from shopping for a particular meal or event, but similar to being on the lookout for a spectacular dress, because, well, you just can’t have too many of those, can you?

            This September I came a year closer to my deadline and I was nervous. I was close to crossing off a few of the must do; I’ve been a doctoral candidate for a few years now and keep sending revision to my dissertation committee. Also, written in invisible ink, I’ve found the person who will support me throughout my life, whether they are goals for thirty, forty, or one hundred. Why was I secretive about putting “get married” on the list? A combination of despair (no one is out there), defiance (if no one is out there, I’d rather be dead than disappointed looking for him), and disapproval (there is no one because I’m a special case). Lucky for me: none of these were true. And even luckier, he did want to help me get to my “Thirty” list. Which is why when we went on safari earlier this month, check. Another one down.

            There are still three to go (again no particular order):

1.      Visit Israel and the Palestinian Territories

2.      Finish my Ph.D.

3.      Publish a novel

Yes, it’s going to be a busy year!

Do you have goals, reader? 
If not, I encourage you start dreaming and set some. To employ a cheesy (but nonetheless truthful true cliché) – if you aim for nothing, that’s what you’ll get.

If you have some (either age related or otherwise): share?

What’s it like to be talked about publicly? Not sure how any of Hollywood feels about being on the cover of US Weekly, but I got a small taste of public circulation this week, when I found out that I was named as one of the ‘foreigners’ working at a national Arab university in a letter to the editor written by an irate former employee to an Arabic daily.

            The sum of her grievances?

Why are non-Qataris allowed to work at Qatar University?

            This question brings the issue of “qatarization” – the process of turning over jobs currently occupied by foreigners to qualified Qataris – straight to my doorstep. Qatarization is the new buzz word for the country, another facet of a community outnumbered by the people living within its borders. Why are there so many non-citizens doing the cooking, driving, selling, cleaning, teaching? Rampant wealth is one reason; the medium income in Qatar is $60,000 according to one report. Take a reasonably wealthy population, mix in a region of workers desperate for income (South Asians) and you have a state where labor is racially defined to extreme class and socio-economic definitions.  If you are Indian, Pakistan, Sri Lankan, or Bangladeshi, you are likely a construction worker, maid, driver, cook, or errand person. If you are American, British, Australian, or Canadian, you are likely an engineer, teacher, or involved in the oil industry.

            Here I am, a Western educated South Asian, in the middle of this vortex; I am at the same time both Western (accent, dress, degrees) and Asian (skin color, place of birth, family). I violate two registers – I’m a South Asian woman performing outside the roles assigned to me – and I’m a Western working outside the American universities in Education City. I am a category unto myself. How did I get here?

            Because of a third segment of society, the segment which ignores the obvious limits of the question posed in the Al Ray letter, the segment which recognizes merit will be essential to the process of readying this society for a time when the oil funds will dry up and people will have to roll up their sleeves.

            If you are an educated Qatari, someone with a Ph.D. from abroad, you are likely a president or vice-president of a major national organization, someone who has seen the benefit of experience and expertise, regardless of nationality, and cultivates relationships regardless of class or ethnic issues.

            But these broad minded leaders are the exception while a pervasive polarized view of labor is why the letter writer feels justified in questioning the number of non-Qataris working at a Qatar institution. She has no frame of reference for an open industry, where people are hired based on their merit, instead of their nationality or ethnicity. The letter details complaints against specific employees by name, who besides me include Syrians and Egyptians who dare fulfill job functions which include representing the university abroad even though they are not natives of Qatar.

            How can a non-Qatari represent Qatar or an institution named Qatar University?

The writer asks, unaware that her hostile attitude puts unnecessary barriers between those who choose to live in Qatar and those who identify with the reform project begun in 2000 at the university.

            Her questions echo the impasse between Qataris and ‘guest workers’: most ex-pats will tell you Qataris don’t enjoy working and haven’t earned the titles many of them hold. Qataris will tell you foreigners get the best salaries and live in accommodations much nicer than what they ever had at home.

            There is distrust, befuddlement, and anger, on both sides; compounded by the fact most ex-pats don’t know any Qataris, much less work with any, and vice versa. The polarization of this society mimics the segregated society of the United States – except this is socially and economically reinforced – in addition to racially defined.

            Most people in my office find the newspaper letter amusing. They say not to pay it any mind and that most people know that I am here to help, to work in cooperation towards a better university.

            The letter deflates some of my elation at having finally crossed the imaginary line at work into friendliness and cordiality with everyone on my floor. The first year I spent largely in silence; like the monkey at the computer trying to come up with Shakespeare as women in abayas titter past my doorway. Now people come to my office to greet me, linger in the doorway, look at photos of my recent vacation, and ask me questions about my husband, my wedding, my family. They share secrets with me about breaking fast while on their periods (anyone menstruating is exempt from religious observances) and where to get the best deals on fabric. I’m glad for their friendship and for the projects underway, which I oversee, which will, ultimately make this a better place to be a student.

            However, the Al Sharq letter reminds me that there are mixed opinions about my presence here; and a clear example that there is still a lot of work to do on reducing the gap between the various populations living in this very small country.

likes chocolate doughnut munchkins from Dunkin’ Doughnuts! This is why there are none left for me when I get there. I wonder who it could be – the overweight, impatient teenager, his cheeks showing stretch marks - with his petulant “Give me that one”? Or the rude mother who lets her children deliberate for fifteen minutes on their choice of ice cream, only to come up with, “vanilla”? Or the polite man who steps aside when I walk into the shop and lets me order before him?

The doughnut workers don’t want to be overly friendly in a society where men and women do not mix; particularly in public. But they are mystified by my pursuit of this one and only flavor, in the face of all the pink, and white, and yes, chocolate glaze. They look away on the days when the tray is empty and I bit down onto my lip to avoid flying into a rage. 

Why can’t they order more? 
Who is the *#@ who takes them all? 
Do I want to the distinction of being a regular in a doughnut shop? Calling is the only alternative – am I that dismayed by their absence – to avoid driving over and being disappointed.

On days when someone else beats me to it, I get back into the car and try to breathe all the way home. But when I’m home, nothing subsitutes for the soft goodness of the munchkin. 

My daily trips got me through the rough transition of my second year in this city, when suddenly nothing seemed interesting or worthwhile. The warmth and delight of biting into one after a day of being beaten into the ground by the system packed pounds onto my waist and just under my chin. I didn’t realize this was the price of comfort; the slow disapperance of my body’s angular parts into the growing folds of flesh. Goodbye chin, see you later collarbone.

Then, suddenly, as if I’ve crossed an imaginary, unseen line, life is better. The system starts bending. I am making headway. Every day is not a battle for self-respect and dignity; no longer am I holding together by a frayed thread. The emotional distance traveled in one day is no a struggle for a modicum of control but rather up, up, up.  All of this without drugs and without chocolate.

I don’t notice but my visits to the doughnut shop grow infrequent. 
My clothes fit better. 
I feel happier.

I am six pounds lighter. 

Okay – five – because I still like to eat them, every now and then, just for fun. Instead of ten in my bag, there are only three or four. It’s easy to get the taste without taking as many bites. It’s silly to head all the way to the store, because now I’ve moved and it isn’t directly infront of me any more on the way home, come into the crowded tiny parking lot, where impatient drivers of SUVs jostle for petrol, car washes, the ATM machine and sugar.

On the rare afternoon I make the trip, I push one into my mouth while reaching for another, I reflect on those melancholy days when the world was conspiring against me, just to find my tipping point. 
I didn’t tip.

Is my one handed U turn back onto the main road, away from the doughnut shop, onto the main artery, back to my house, proof that I am free from the pull of alternating pink and purple sign: Dunkin’ Doughnuts, Baskin Robbins?

Even though I’m not coming as regularly; someone else still is. Someone else in this neighborhood loves the munchkins as much as I do, because no matter day or night, afternoon or morning, the tray where those delights cluster can still be empty: it’s 50/50. 

Someone else loves them. 
Is she as sad as I was? 

Someone else buys all of them at once, so there are none left for me.
I’ve stopped doing this, now that I no longer eat all of them within the first two days of bringing home the wax paper bag. They even go a bit stale in the middle when I’ve forgotten about them during nights out or under the influence of my own happy meter. The urge for chocolate never appears, so I no longer forage in the kitchen.

Someone else in the neighborhood knows what it is to need a chocolate doughnut. 
Is he now as happy as I am?