Analogikal

I initially wanted to write about being a cosplayer. Then, inevitably, I came across the Gen-Z slang term LARPing (live-action role-playing).

“In modern internet and social media slang, larping (or being a larper) means pretending to be someone you are not, faking a lifestyle, or acting like an expert or fan without genuine knowledge or experience.”

It is an advanced form of pretence, or a more informed version of impostor syndrome for the self-aware. I am adopting the second version for the sake of my sanity, and to protect my self-perception that I am self-aware.

I was in Singapore last week, a city I have been to countless times. I usually stumble across a familiar neighbourhood a few times every bus ride: that one bar in Katong where we had a drink and watched a Liverpool game, the running track along the canal in Geylang, the large Ikea in Alexandra. I never feel lost there, or like an alien. I keep returning for the friends I call home, and for the reset my nervous system gets in a place where everything has a place and there’s a place for everything, provided you follow all the rules.

I am pretty smug on my usual run at East Coast Park. The last time I was here, I was in the middle of a major meltdown. This time I have better shoes, and I am LARPing as a runner. I have the colourful socks, the physique and the passable pace to look like someone on their Zone-2 run. Little does anyone know that, for someone with my cardio, it is really a Zone-4 all-out effort. I huff and puff past runners who are far more adept and far more natural at this than I am. But there I am, totally belonging in a place, among people with whom I share very little.

Why do we like cosplay? Not in the kinky kinda way. I mean wearing a mask and a cape and pretending to be someone larger than life. It gives us an escape. Something that makes us feel like we belong. For a brief while, we are the hero we have always wanted to be. Without the burden of a dead uncle, or dead parents and a fear of bats. That’s the beauty of cosplaying or LARPing. We get to be a version of someone we admire without having to live through their struggles.

So here I am, LARPing as an expat in Singapore. Acting as if I earn in SGD and hence drink $8 cold brews every morning after a run. I keep joking that the government should hand me a PR, because I know the bus routes that well and love a good chicken rice more than most Singaporeans. I would be absolutely crushed by the rent and the rising cost of living here. Since I don’t have to live that reality, I can indulge for a week and return to being who I am: a freelancer with a few consulting gigs in India.

The barista mistakes me for an Aussie, because I won’t stop saying “no worries” after every sentence. When I went to Australia ten years ago, I loved how carefree, fit and easy-going everyone seemed. I added “no worries” to my vocabulary. I also added “c*nt” to my vocabulary. I only use one regularly. I pass for an Aussie in Singapore: tall, confident, kinda fit and athletic. In reality, there is still a scrawny brown teenager within, and he has to take four breaths before I can place my coffee order.

This interaction gets me thinking about what else I am LARPing as. And if I am LARPing most of the time, who am I really?

I am walking through Joo Chiat when I stumble into a shop full of retro carry gear and all things analog. I didn’t really stumble. A friend told me about it. Right now, I am LARPing as someone who stumbles into things. I find a rust-coloured cap that will become part of my identity for a while. I am LARPing as a free-spirited creative type. Really, I am just a guy with a routine and a rust-coloured cap.

I spend most of my time with my friend’s kids, an eleven-month-old and an eight-year-old. I am LARPing as a loving uncle, someone with endless energy for whatever the children seem to enjoy. I make sounds and faces nonstop. I wouldn’t want children of my own. I joke that watching my niece back home grow up has let me live out my paternal instincts. It’s hardly true. I love the affection and the adoration without having to deal with the school fees, the lost sleep and the dread of being responsible for a human life. In reality, I am just scared of doing to a child what I believe I lived through. So I role-play as the father, the uncle and the cousin I wish I had.

My G-chat chimes. One of my favourite colleagues messages to say they are burnt out and thinking about moving on from the role. I LARP as an understanding manager, someone who encourages them to pursue their own journey and reassures them that I will refer them if they need it. I am just scared of being the reason for their burnout. I realise I am emotional about them leaving because I enjoy working with them, and because I believe I have let down someone who put their career in my hands. I stare at the screen, trying to type the right thing. Behind the chat window, there’s an email about a client’s upcoming campaign. I ask the stakeholders questions. I am LARPing as someone who knows what’s up. When people around me look confused, I pretend to know what to say and what not to say. I offer a character that regulates their nervous system. They think I have night vision because I am the one driving the car in the dark. I am just feelings with guesses.

It’s been a long day. After a while, I go back and check my ex’s Instagram. I am LARPing as someone keeping tabs on her so I can feel like I have won. In reality, I am just wondering whether she misses me as much as I have missed her. A certain part of me still plays the role of making sure she is okay. She has written about our breakup. Soft words wrapped around a thinly veiled resentment that I didn’t choose her. I pretend to be the guy who is unfazed. Twelve months ago, I played and replayed every possibility that didn’t work out, a million times over. I go back to LARPing as someone who has their emotions sorted. When I take off the costume to go to sleep, I am sad and lonely for the 42 seconds between taping my mouth and falling asleep.

The next morning, I go back to LARPing as a runner. I am covered in sweat in less than fifteen minutes. My running bib weighs a ton. I take it off. I am running shirtless in the open for the first time in my life. I am LARPing as an expat with a fit physique. Inside, I am constantly reminded of the parts that jiggle and the parts that hang over the tight waistband of my performance briefs. I stop for my orange cold brew. The cute barista remembers me from yesterday and asks if I have just moved here. I tell her, “Yeah, something like that.” I am LARPing as someone who does small talk. The café sells its own T-shirts, so I ask to try one on. She picks out the M and hands it over. “This is right for a fit person like you.” I can feel my height increase by two inches as I straighten my spine and puff up my chest. I walk home with a cramp in my calf and my lungs barely keeping up. But the orange cold brew is delicious.

I add money to my forex card. The balance in my India account is probably enough for two cab rides in the Uber Go non-AC category. I clear my pending emails and messages, taking the tone of someone who can keep track of every thread across the fifteen hundred teams I am working with. There’s a potential sexual harassment complaint, a handful of avoidable resignations, and founders who don’t trust each other. I pretend to be someone who doesn’t say “I told you so”, “Let it be” or “If you don’t trust them, why work with them?” But once I shut the laptop, I am sick and tired of dealing with people and their wide array of unpredictable emotions. I go back to being someone who looks forward to his next therapy session.

I am on the flight back. Airplane mode is on. The phone is a time capsule: old messages, photos and memories. I open my favourites folder and scroll through my niece’s photos, from the 8 kg dumpling she once was to the four feet and 46 kg of absolute unhinged chaos she is now. I am LARPing as an emotional uncle. I pick up The Bear where I left off and bawl my eyes out a few times. I am LARPing as someone who doesn’t care about being emotional in public. The kinda person who would have a mural in their house that says Cry like a man. I open the photos app again. There’s a video of my niece sitting on my shoulders while I lean to one side. She is giggling, looking at my ears, and then she breathes a deep sigh, tired of being happy. I was LARPing as someone who cares deeply about her and her happiness. There’s another from three weeks ago: she runs down the stairs, jumps on a bosu ball and gives me a high five. I go back to what I have always known. There is one person in my life for whom I would jump in front of an onrushing truck.

Till next time.