Thirtysix and counting

Lets start this post on a tangent. Namely, the husband. View the man from any angle and one word comes to mind. Beefy. Yup. The sort with a neck like a treetrunk, and shoulders so broad that they were meant to carry kids on them, and hands like hammers. It also helps that in bare feet (given my obsession with stilletoes and such devious instruments of torture and feminine subjugation) I barely reach his shoulders and need to stand on them toes to peck the man on his cheek or lips. And he needs to bend to reach me. I liked that. I donot like having a pocket Hercules on my arm, and despite his to die for smile, Tom Cruise never would have worked for me given his penchant for his women to be at least a foot taller than he is.

Now to come back to beefy husband, he has always been a sportsperson. National level water polo player and swimmer. Played in the 1982 Asiads. Used to discipline and regime and fitness is part of his daily routine. He takes on gym memberships and spends his time trying to out compete the instructors. He will push himself to the point of exhaustion, and in the good old days when I was zoned out enough to want togetherness during workouts as well, push me to deathpoint too. Yup, am not complaining. The indent of the waist back then was a hairpin bend. Today it is undulating landscape. But thats not the point. The point is that the man thrives on high energy workouts, and looks forward to visiting the gym with a salivation I think is unseemly in a man, except when confronted with Pamela Anderson and her ilk with minimum coverage.

I on the other hand, am a gentle soul. The husband has a better word for it. Lazy. Easy going. Lacksdaisical. I would dread getting into the gym at the crack of dawn and be confronted by rows on rows of perfect glamazons, lipstick, eyeliner and contact lenses in place, each around ten feet tall, and one foot wide, dressed in the latest latest in gym wear, with spandex control. Wasted on them of course, they had nothing to control. I would slink to a corner treadmill and walk the hour away while the husband rushed from one circuit to another, did his cardio, his weights, his upper body, lower body, and then finally came smirking, where I languorously shambled along watching the news on the television above.

Then he set an instructor on me, who’s sole task was to whip me through the entire routine everyday. Me, being me, I tried every wile I knew in the book from batting them non existent lashes to pleading sick and bad mood, and implied PMS to beg off doing the entire routine to no avail. Then, of course, ,me, being me, I sobbed in the changing room and stopped going to the gym. Yup, yup, I’m the loser. I know. But I am so not a gym person.

The husband of course, snorted in disgust and let me be, to periodically bob up from seeming disconcern to pass barbed comment about how some people just let themselves go to flab. Me, being me, would let such remarks pass like they should, like so much wind in the cranium space between them ears.

And I got back to walking. I am a walking person. It clears my head out. I walk, and walk and walk and walk, and can walk for hours without feeling the strain in the body or any muscle ripping itself up in protest. I love to feel the tingling in my legs after a delicious hour or so of gentle walking. I love the breeze in my face, and the sky open to me, rather than sniffing recycled sweat in the confines of gym space, and bearing cretins flexing their muscles admiring in front of the mirror, and making obscene grunting sounds as they lift weights less than my five year old.

Walking is my kind of exercise. It allows me to decide my speed. Quick or slow. It gives me me time, sometime I sorely miss in the course of the entire day, given that the child is hanging off my collar for most of the day and the husband is in my hair for the rest. And yes, we live in what is optimistically termed in popular parlance as Hindu Undivided Family, where everyone has the licence to get in my hair for the entire day.

Not that there is much of that hair left intact anyway. But, digressions apart, walking can be quite a spiritual experience I believe. After a point, your body stops commanding your limbs to move, and you feel you cant walk another step, and then you push yourself to take that next step when you think none existed and realise you have broken some mind body threshold, and now have vast unlimited reserves of energy and your legs are moving at their own rhythm of their own accord and your mind is now freefloating somewhere where only illegal stuff packed in leaves could take you after a few puffs.

I would walk for hours before I had the child, walk endless rounds of the huge gymkhana we lived near, pacing myself by the ants in the pathway, by the clouds in the sky above. And somehow, with life taking over, walking had taken a backseat with my daily routine. I discovered walking again recently, when my second round of being a gym rat flopped miserably with the husband threatening death and dismemberment should I not pare down the butt to levels that could get into a room without needing to siddle in sideways. The membership taken, the shoes bought, the clothes bought, the gym bag bought and two days enough to convince me that I would die claustrophobic in the changing room. Anxiety attacks are no good for losing weight. So I started walking again.

I walk every evening these day. For a couple of hours. While the kid is raising hell with the rest of his gang in the park. It is liberating in a way to walk without a destination in mind. I talk to my friends, puctuated by the occasional yell to the child to quit playing boxing boxing or to be a good boy and share and such playground essentials. I plan out my tomorrow. I mentally tick off my to do lists. I think on what I need to get done. I do a bit of movement meditation. I let go whatever negativity has happened during the day. I look at the setting sun and the rising moon and marvel at the universe and our place in it, and wonder about why I am here and what is my purpose in the scheme of things, apart from being the main contributor to the bottomlines of some brands. When I get back home I am serene. And energised. And refreshed. And ready to forgive the world anything.

I dont know if its doing any good to the waistline yet. But I do know its doing a lot of good to me. And in the long run, I guess, that matters the most.

Your stomach decides to run on its own when your body decides to make a dash for it?

Your toes need the prop of a stool if you need to do some routine maintenance work?

Your son puts his head on your stomach and says soft pillow.

Your husband never puts his head on your stomach anymore and instead asks, when do you plan on actually using the gym membership I shelled out good money on?

Your wardrobe has expanded from L to XL so insidiously that you didnt even realise the shift had happened, and the XL fat  family had settled in firmly, with their paintings on the wall of your abdominal cavity.

You realise you dont need to touch up your grey roots at the hairline anymore, rather you need to dunk your entire head in the dye bowl.

And wonder how can dye be put up your nostrils to dye nostril hair.

When your arms wave out to people on their own in complete synchronicity with your palms doing said waving action.

When you see hot hunk smiling at you in mall, only to realise he’s grinning because your zip on your jeans has given way under stress levels.

When you actually try on blouses from your wedding trousseau and sheesh at the matchstick arms you had back then.

When your best friends look you up and down when they meet you and then finally settle on, “Your hair is looking nice today.”

When you look in the mirror and see the smile that refuses to fade and the lines that girdle your neck and wonder whether you can muster up the courage to visit the plastic surgeon. Or should you grow old ungracefully.

You see a friend from college who is bloated and damaged from living beyond recognition, and she smiles and tells you you look just the same?

Given that the city had flooded itself into a right mess, and one was compelled to stay at home and stare at the walls for visual relief, when one tired of staring into slate grey clouds breaking into the balconies of all the rooms. Yes, yes, eat your hearts out, you rain deprived unworthies, I have rain coming right into my house in the form of misty foggy clouds. They roll straight in from the creek, silently, ominously and before I can say cheese, they’ve ruthlessly attacked the clothes on my clothesline, dried to a crisp and made them wrung out wet again.

So where was I? Yup, staring at the walls, the gaze shifted to the cupboard and the uncomfortable realisation that everytime I went near it, I approached with the light quick steps of one expecting to be attacked by creatures from within who are just waiting to spring out at one, and attack one. The piles have been growing systematically, and now, much like the humans stacked top to endless bottom in the mothership of the Matrix, the clothes too are piling up in infinite mounds of uniform colour and texture.

Therefore, I girded my loins, metaphorically speaking of course, and did a quick obeisance to wrathful cupboard gods and approached mine with trepidation. As I flung the door open, two pile loads cascaded down on the floor and the third missed falling in quick succession by virtue of my not so superquick reflexes. That actually made life easier. I picked up all the clothes from the floor and dumped them on the bed and wondered if a Harry Potterish wand might not be in order here to make the task at hand simpler.

But having flung the gauntlet at self to prove one was not as disorganised as the cupboard seemed to be living proof of, I did a mental recce of all the infinite how to reorganise your wardrobe articles I had done over the years, and sift out the pertinent points. So I did. Pertinent point number one seemed to be chuck out clothes you havent worn in over a year. But since that would entail half the stuff I have, given I am still hanging onto them desperately in the hope that this year the butt will whittle down enough to let me squeeze myself into them True religions bought when the fruit of the womb was a wish and prayer, or that wonderful red embossed Dolce & Gabbana tshirt  with strategic cutwork that once showed sleek flat collarbone and now shows saggy pinched skin, and deep indentations caused by heavy duty undersupport garments struggling hard to help unmentionable assets defy the irresistable call of gravity.

So I skipped step one. Naturally. But I did keep all the clothes I had not worn for a while to one side to decide which still had hope and which were the stuff to be given to grateful recepients. Stingy me, I ended up shoving them all back into the cupboard in a plastic bag with hope and prayers and earnest good intentions of whittling self down to their requisite proportions again.

The jeans were the next to come out. I live in jeans. I would wear jeans to a wedding if I could. I have some humunguous numbers of which I wear exactly three everyday. Reason? Do you even need to ask? They button up easily. They have 99 percent lycra which has been stretched to the point of no return. And I no longer care that I am sitting on the mucky grass with them, given that I have sat one gadzillion times on the mucky grass with them on. Much to the husband’s horror given that he shelled out the hard cash for them, and they didnt come cheap.

So I sorted them out too. Jeans that fit well. Read stuff that buttons up smoothly. Jeans that I need some effort to get into. Read jeans that I can do the snake dance and somehow manage to wriggle into. And the third category. Jeans that come to my thighs and stop there and go no further. No matter the wriggling, sucking in of cellulite, gentle patting of thigh fat into them legs. The third lot, I wrapped up again with much motivation and determination to get into even if I had to cut chunks of fat off them saddlebags with a paring knife, given that one pair in those was a Next skinny fit that I remembered from the distant past of being infused with the magical optical illusionary abilities to make me look ten feet tall.

The turn of the tops arrived. I threw the entire lot on the bed and stared at them in wonderment. I could clothe a small nation here, and not have anyone repeat an outfit. The husband snorted. If you wear one top a day, he said, I dont think you’ll repeat one for an entire year. Of course I developed selective deafness. So I sorted them out. According to colour and usage. And may I say unabashedly, brand. The streetchap maal to one side. The Zaras, H&Ms, Nexts, Promod, MNGs, etc to a safer side. The jersey and cotton and lycra casual wears went into one pile. The shirt dresses in another. The kurtis and ethnic types in a third. The slinky formal wear in the last. I stacked them and stood back, and looked in wonder at my good work. I had three piles of black. One pile of various shades of brown. One pile of white cottony summery ones. And the last pile was again, sequinned, embroidered and elaborate ones in shades of white and black and brown and green. Yup, the occasional red, pink, orange and blue stood out like sore thumbs, so I was perforce compelled to give them a pile of their own.

So go ahead. Call me boring the next time you see me in yet another version of black tshirt and blue jeans. In my defence I have two piles of these to wear out before I dare buy any other colours.

And I have yet to tackle the shoes, the bags and the sunglasses. But thats for another rainy day.

Discovered this picture of the two of us, before the child was even a zygote in the subconsciousness. When sleep was plenty and lust was a given. When worry lines, and grey hair, and superfluous weight and superfluous scraps had not yet crept between us.

When we had one car between us, and one loan. And two jobs that barely covered expenses from payday to payday. When we had no designer labels, and when we actually saved up to vacation at nearby hillresorts. When we rushed every morning to catch the 7.45 Borivili local and reached home deadbeat by eight or nine pm every night, and yet had time enough and more for each other.

When we could look at each other across the room and know exactly what the other was thinking, and when our conversations didnt revolve around the child or the business or the loans. When we could shut the bedroom door and shut the rest of the world out and not care. When we slept curled up against each other, and rued the fact that the morning came too soon. When we didnt battle our individual demons of anger and hurt and pain on our own, but shared it with each other.

When we were too busy in each other to let the world creep in and destroy us. When we were happy. I would trade everything we have today for a shot at those days again. Except of course, the child. That is the most precious gift you have given me, and I have given you.

We’ve come a long way baby. We need to go back and pick up what we dropped somewhere along the way.

And so this entire week passed in a haze of coughing like I was trying out for tuberculosis patient role in ancient Hindi Film which used to have storylines, one of those side characters who die dramatically much like the scene where a really scrawny Raza Murad passes out with a rotund and cherubically cheerful Rajesh Khanna singing a really philosophical song which passes over my head…anyway, you get my drift. The left eye ballooned out to obscene levels which then meant I couldnt put in them contact lenses, so all pretences at vanity went for a toss too. Given that with every hacking cough I was spitting up phlegm and, horror of horrors, fresh red blood, I could have even auditioned for a role in Dracula Returns. Yes, I was at my smashing best all last week.

Yes, yes, spent the past couple of days being poked and prodded and Xrayed and blood tested till there is absolutely no blood left in the body, but apparently I can now put the pen aside and let that will I was writing out, with great care for clause and sub clause, and the pondering over intensely over who should get my sole pair of kickass Choos, and who would get my favourite bags, my favourite gold bling Guess, my Fendi, and how I would be mean and nasty, and like the really stupid ad with the sidey characters, will everything to the maid. And then hover around like a fly on the wall during the will reading to note disappointed faces, given that none of them jeans will ever fit anyone I know given they’ve been altered and stretched beyond decent logical sizes. Never mind if they cost an arm and a leg. My book collection, the rest of my clothes, my watch and sunglasses collection. Dammit, I do have a lot to will away in non essentials. And of course, my minsicule collection of jewellery which I would rather give to charity.  Seriously, though, it was, in troth, a liberating experience, I recommend it to all and sundry. Write out your will. You will realise how you actually have nothing to really hold onto except perhaps your spouse and your children.

And of course, given my penchant for high drama, the very melodramatic questioning of the child as to whether one would be missed should one be not around, to which said fruit of the womb replied cheerfully, “No.” Which promptly shut me up from further melodrama, and got me right back to threatening an immediate nasty spanking should he continue to roll around the floor and not write out his alphabets as decreed mandatory thanks to reams of weekend homework.

But, the result of the gadzillion tests show that apparently all the horrific possibilities of life threatening diseases have been ruled out, and the husband has some more time before he can dance on my grave, and chase all the skirts he wants.  Nothing more serious than a minor blood vessel being ruptured in the windpipe due to racking cough, which accounted for raw painful throat, and lack of ability to ingest solids. Which of course, one circumvented beautifully by finding the sort of foods that are amenable to ingestion in mashed pureed state, never mind the calories. Therefore mashed potato with butter and pepper came back into favour. Pastries too. I was sick. I need the health benefits of added calories. And all the comfort food you can think off. Specially, the ones which require no chewing and just simple swallowing. Chicken soup. Yup, corn starch laden type.

I am not even getting me near any weighing scale till the cough disappears. A sick woman’s gotta nurse herself back to health.

…coughing like a wizened old lady. The eyeballs are bloodshot. The face is swollen and puffy. Yesterday at the mall playzone, little children stared at me in horror and parted way to allow me to pass.

The best part about it all? Cant get anything edible down this ravaged throat, so am on complete liquid diet. Yup. Thats my silver lining to this cloud. Hopefully, two to three kilos down by the end of it all. The trouble is, the first place the fat starts getting a move on is the face. Will probably do a Marlon Brando and stick in some jowls for face fat later, rather than look heroin chic.

Bring on the sympathy, am feeling hacking racking miserable!

Over the past couple of weeks my diet is getting increasingly simplified. If it looks edible, I will eat. This has reduced a lot of confusion in the household. Gerrout all them leftovers, the garbage bag is right at the dining table, fork and spoon in hand. And for all ye who visit bearing candy and chocolates for the critter, know that none of them will be reaching his stomach, thanks to worm infestation threats, and teeth which have become cavity zones. No, no, my good self will be doing the world a favour and downing entire bars before blink can happen. And you blinked. And missed it.

I have been on a comfort eating overdrive so bad, that in analogy terms I would be wrapped in a goosedown silk quilt and with a satin covered down pillow, sleeping on sating sheets in a sound proofed room, with no strange crows squawking around at midnight, or wierder people living in the flat above making thumping sounds on the floor that could possibly be furniture being moved at 2 am, or elephants mating. Seeing that elephants wouldnt be able to make it to the 16th floor without us being witnesses to them being hauled up by crane and pulley situation, I wonder what sort of people decide to redecorate at hours when saner people wish to sleep. Never mind. The comfort eating, read, ordering in pakoras, vadas, chocolates, even plain butter on bread is being occasioned of course, by the wonderful monsoon lashing the scenery. Something about dull grey skies before me that makes it mandatory to go on calorific overdrive. No excuses. Therefore the huffing and puffing when the jeans have to buttoned every morning, and the cursing of the washing machine and detergent for shrinking every pair I own to barbie doll proportions, and viewing self in the mirror with body and head at a  diagonal angle to ensure that the flab gets cut to proportion also helps make one feel better about self.

Another trick in the kitty is to never, never, never, ever look at yourself in changing room mirrors. You change, and see if the damn thing goes up your thighs and buttons up or goes down your shoulders and doesnt tear and hot foot it out of there. Ask a disinterested third party for their opinion on whether you should buy it. Changing room mirrors are spawned of a conspiracy between slimming centres and shopowners where them centres pay the stores a flat commission on every candidate who runs to them screaming from the trauma of having seen self reflected infinitely in insanely well lit mirrors which magnify every bump, every stretch of orange peel skin and every little spare tyre that refuses to get punctured.

A lot of comfort eating has also happened with the added stress of realisation that I cannot, anymore, hold off being firmly in aunty territory. It is so unfair, the husband greys all over and looks like a dapper version of Richard Gere. I grey all over and become old hag. Should probably keep the broomstick handy.

Having realised that the weight loss scheme is actually going nowhere, by this combined double whammy of rains, therefore no walks, and rains, therefore excessive junk food ingestion, and the fact that the area of the mattress where I normally sit and read my dose of celeb and fashion news, accompanied by them comfort foods is getting surely and firmly indented, I have decided to take action. I will now not snack on overdrive anymore. Which means, I will keep myself away from temptation. Which in turn means, I probably need to lock myself in the bathroom and firmly resist eating up the soaps.

Or maybe that would be a good idea, I would eat them soaps, get the stomach a wash out and then be totally off food forever and ever. The other day at lunch with friends noticed suddenly, in what I thought was my starting round that all had cleaned up their plates and kept cutlery in 12 oclock position. I shamelessly laboured on. Why waste good food! This conscience of course, will never strike me, should said food comprise karela and greens. Any one know of any hypnosis kind of therapy that will make the thought of eating fat laden sweet, deep fried and other such items of obesity absolutely repugnant, kindly do send link over.

And maybe, just maybe, I need to get busier. The more idle time one has, the more one eats. And thinks of what could be eaten next. Having no time to eat sounds marvellously puffed with self importance.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should make a promise to myself that I will only eat what I cook myself. I can guarantee will drop two dress sizes in a month. Maybe I will become so fabulously slim doing that that people will clamour for my secret and will do a book on it, and book tours and readings and such like and make lots of money. But, alas, even wild horses with Gucci saddles couldnt drag me to a table set with food cooked by moi, so that plan goes the way of all my good intentions.

Will just take the stairs once a day. That should do it, I guess. If I have any calves left after a week.

So it is officially on me. The fact that I am a big fat liar, and that the header on this blog needs desperately to be changed immediately to thirtysevenandcounting if I am an honest child and worthy of my mother’s trust and the values of honesty and fair play she inculcated in me, etc, etc.

Given that my first immediate fight or flee reaction to hitting 37 is to run to the registrars office and make fake birth certificates which lower me down ten years, I guess nothing the mother ever taught me has sunk in. 

 Why is it that 37 suddenly make me feel I need to take a scotchtape and put it along the hairline to pull the falling face up? 36 didnt feel all that bad, given that a lot of falling happened with the body, and most of it falling that no amount of wishful thinking or visits to plastic surgeons and such like could have put back in place.

It is a fear that an increasingly youth centric society is foisting on me, the fear that I am getting long in the teeth and curved in the spine. That the face is getting character lines which show more character than I would like it too. That the cobwebs beneath the eyes have become nice and latticed and crinkly. And no amount of soft patting on of undereye cream is doing anything to salvage the situation, except keep me from snoring five minutes more. Also the fact that any cream I buy has to, by virtue of necessity, have to say ANTI AGEING in big capital letters somewhere on the label. Which also means I end up not buying a lot of hair products because none of them have anything going for ageing hair. Come on, there is a niche market out there for us ageing hair types. I can just see the ads, bouncing, glowing youthful hair type walks past leching model type who taps said bouncing hair on shoulder. Bouncing hair turns around, and lech model type male gasps open mouthed, “Dadima??” and falls dramatically to the pavement, clutching left side of chest tom imply immediate coronary due to the shock caused by the realisation that he had been hitting on his grandmom. Of course, a life insurance and a low fat oil could also split costs of production and airtime on this commercial. Now there’s another thought, a couple of products join hands to have a lovely narrative that interests the viewers and bungs in two to three brands so we dont have to suffer onslaught on onslaught of mindless drivel ads that get repeated ad infinitum ad nauseum. Ah, I digress again.

To return to the point. I am now doing a rehaul of the role models in the mind’s cavern. Demi Moore? Sharon Stone? Monica Belluci? Madonna?

Yup, yup, throw in an Ashton Kutcher, and I’m game to be over 40. Never mind the latticed eyes.

So there was I, with similiar shopping fetish friend with me for company, at this new mall, at Oshiwara in Andheri. On the link road. Opposite Oshiwara Bus Depot. On a triangular shaped plot. To your right if you’re coming down from Malad and to your left if you’re coming down from Bandra. Yes, yes, thats how badly I want you to go there, you better take down the instructions to reach there in triplicate or safer still take a printout of this post.

I have been there before, with the child and the mother in law, which as anyone with a child and a mother in law will tell you is the worst possible combination to take shopping with you because you end up running around behind the child, if your child is the normal child sort who runs away unfettered when confronted with huge expanses of space, and is not the kind of child who will hold on to hand proferred to be held and your mother in law is the normal sort of mother in law who wants to search for sarees in ’sober’ colours in GAS and BHS.

Therefore, the first time round was nothing to write home about. Given that I spent all my time there running at warp speed around its triangular expanse, preventing the child from trying to climb down the escalator and such earth shattering escapades, I barely got a look see into the shops lined up beckoning seductively for my cash and my credit card.

This time it was different. For one, I had a companion who like me was as likely to rip my hair out if we both got fixated on a single top of which the last piece in size XL was available. That spiced up things a bit. And secondly, we actually got a chance to look into the shops and try and find such a blouse to fight over.

The brands there are to kill for. SOlivier, GAS, Sepia, TresMode, Bhs, Levis (Which is incidentally on 50 per cent sale, which had my eyes out on stalks but unfortunately, I refused to try in public situation without sympathetic and tolerant husband around to bear my endless saga of never finding the right fit, but get your butt there now if you want some), OYO for them kids, Adams Kids, Pumpkin Patch, also for them kids, Spykar for the teen segment, Provogue, Pantaloons (not much a fan of the two latter ones), Chemistry and many more. Names escape me at the moment. Obviously the memory is going the way of dotage and senility with far greater rapidity than I had envisaged when I recently bought myself a bright red shirt.

What I did love about this place the absolute and total best? The huge space, and the lack of crowd. Inorbit on a weekend is like battling to get into the second class compartment of a local train. And Infinity Mall is no better. The elbows get put to good use to propel yourself through the crowd. Here I could actually see the next tile on the floor before me while I walked. And the stores were so starved of customers that salesmen did cartwheels when we entered and played fetch like panting little puppies as per our whims and fancies. Unlike busier stores where salespeople have been known to snarl at one should one dare interrupt them from their nose cleaning sessions to enquire if they have a similar piece in sizes not meant for Barbie dolls. Read the sales staff at Sheetal in Inorbit. And sales staff at Remanika also in Inorbit. Or maybe one did not look either the weighed down with zari customer potentiate for the first, or the anorexic teeny bopper requisite for the second and therefore not worthy of their time and money.

Anyway, here at every store the red carpet was rolled out, with mandatory rose petals sprinkled with our every step, and such like stuff that could become a bad habit and spoil you for when you go regular shopping and need to push through crowds and plead with sales staff to deign to get you sizes you need.

And the crowds in this mall seemed the sort who were likely to say excuse me, if they needed to get past you. Unlike interesting episodes at Inorbit where have been shoved aside ruthlessly by mammoth plastic chappal clad dowagers intent on getting to the food court. And shoving me aside is not a task for the faint hearted, rest assured. Much muscle power and energy needs to be expended for said purpose.

Alas, not much shopping happened. Feasted our eyes on the delectables on display, and then sashayed our mammoth butts across the road to the CCC across the road and went mad over Promod and Zara at throwaway prices.

Much like how men have sex on the brain? Like how they think of getting it on with every person from the girl walking down the street to the Playmate on their screensaver. Every 0.52 seconds of their lives? Yes, while the man in your life is licking his lips at the thought of a threesome with you and your best friend (I kid you not, this is the most popular male fantasy around say the statistics), your brain is going on dopamine overdrive with every 50 per cent sale you pass.

Research statistics, and yes, I am a big one for research given that there is always some research to justify any point you want to make, point out to the fact that the same areas of the brain light up when men think of sex, and when women think of shopping.

Here goes:

So basically, I am a high sexual being, I would say. Given that I get withdrawal symptoms if I dont shop for at least one item of miniscule value per day, and have to run hands shaking, credit card held aloft, and shelves been ransacked in pillage manner that would put the Mongols to shame. And yes, the last part too, of huge handbags being pressed into service, to conceal spoils of shopping rampages when one slinks into the house, and hidden carefully in lingerie drawer that being the one sure place, the husband will never care to riffle through (says a lot about the current state of body shape, doesnt it, with extra control double support, tummy control and Nasa designed gravity defying, crane hoisting level of perfection innerwear that no one wants to get into), to be removed slowly and surreptiously and passed off as old item of clothing. Okay okay, I kid no one, but hell, I try. The man definitely notices when the clothes in the cupboard jump out and attack me everytime I dare open the door, and wonders how the pile of clothes never seem to shrink. And how the bags mate and produce offspring. And how the shoes are a tribute to the every growing population of India.

But what to do? Its such a thrill to hunt down the greatest bargains (I have a rule, I never shop at full price, it has to be discount stores or sales for me, small solace to my burgeoning guilty conscience), to sniff out a pair of shoes available at a throwaway rate to realise that they are fabulous mega brand that you could only dream of owning. Of buying a top at export surplus store because you really really liked the fabric, and take it home to realise, like a total tweet, you have picked up a MNG original for Rs 150.

Its the chase, the chase, like any man would agree, the thrill of the chase is what adds to the pleasure. Why else would I torture myself traipsing through industrial sheds, to find discount stores tucked away shyly in corners far from the public gaze.

The moral of the story: When you want your mans undivided attention, away from the F1, away from IPL, and away from Euro 2008, promise him action like he’s never had before. Its much easier for him. All he needs to do to get you in the mood is promise to take you shopping. Guaranteed to get you in the mood better than candles and soft music and champagne and chocolates. Keep that credit card handy girls, you owe it to spice up your love life.