Jottings Part IV: From a supermarket

There are plenty of trolleys to go around. Or is this particular one your super duper triple special extra lucky trolley with the magical ability of wheeling you to the best bargains in store?

The aisle is meant for free passage of shoppers trying to stock up their trolleys with required groceries and non essentials like namkeen and chocolates. Not, I would like to inform you, as the chosen meeting ground for you and your long lost friend from the neighbourhood to have an extended gossip session with your two trolleys firmly blocking any chance of movement.

When I say ‘Excuse me,” politely and firmly, it means move your ass and your trolley now, I need to pass, not turn around haughtily, look at me up and down and continue to bend on your arthritic haunches checking the bottom most shelf for comparitives on pricing of varieties of garbage bags.

Do not smirk at the amount of chocolates and other such sweet stuff in my trolley as you past. You might be reed thin, and your trolley might be bursting with probiotic yoghurt and organic produce, but I am the one going to die happy and sated with the contentment of having indulged that sweet tooth to my heart’s content.

The couple that shopped walking together in spoon fashion with their trolley in front of them, and with stick insect male version of man nuzzling stick insect female version of woman’s neck, please spare us the horror. Find yourself a deserted beach or a room.

Did you really truly and completely take the time, effort and energy to coordinate your eyeshadow, nailpolish, bag, clothes, sunglasses and shoes, just to come grocery shopping. And is that mascara I see on your eyes. Oh, you’re a television actress? Maybe you ran away straight from the shoot.

Oh you cutie cute newly weds shopping together for the first time I think for your monthly provisions, donot start your married life haggling over brands. Surf is as good as Ariel, and doesnt matter if your mother used Surf. Or shop separately, with two shopping lists.

Do you really need so much toilet paper. So much?

Dont look over the contents of my trolley as the girl scans them. Its rude. Am I asking for your age and your salary?

Yes, yes, I need to compare prices. I need to crawl all over the shelves, do you mind waiting a second while I pick what I need without breathing down my neck.

The happy hippo family that shopped together the other day and caused unmentionable aisle congestion. Do let me know when you plan going shopping next, with date and time and grocery list. I will make sure I pick another day or another aisle.

And as for the wuss who whumped me hard in the back of my knees with his trolley and continued yelling into his Blue tooth without even a flicker of an apology, you’re lucky. You got saved by the fact that I had a child to chase through aisles. Or you would have been skinned and your pelt hung to dry in the frozen meats section.

So fess up!

If given an unlimited budget, and no questions asked, and only yourself to spend on, and only a single purchase, what would you buy?

This is part of fantasise into reality therapy being conducted gratis on this blog by socially concerned aunty who wants to spread good vibes and cheer and such like, and will probably end up getting socked on the head with lead weighted boxing gloves worn by irate peoples who are suddenly confronted with the wide disparity between them dreams and dratted reality.

Anyway, go ahead. Think hard and tell me.

Girl talk…

So there we were, a group of four moms, togged up in our best smart casuals sitting at a newly revamped Chinese restaurant, a stone’s throw away from my home, doing what four moms sitting together do the best. Discuss anything but the children. Oh yes, they managed to creep in occasionally into the conversation, but by and large I am proud to say, we managed to keep them firmly out of the topics under discussion.

Much calorific fare was ingested, with me justifying my endless round trips to the buffet counter returning with plate laden to horrific proportions to the fact that I hadnt had breakfast. By default. It was a crazy sort of morning.  I ran into the office to realise I had three deadlines sitting on my head and one threatening to strangle me now. I am that organised about my work. I believe in working on an article on deadline day itself. And get down to actually working on said piece due for submission an hour before the panic phone calls begin. And I kid myself I work best under pressure. And am so lazy and laidback otherwise, without deadlines work would grow roots under my feet. Or whatever. You get my meaning, right.

This of course, means that whoever is the unlucky person who is assigned my piece to edit does a lot of hair tearing out and hand wringing and such dramatic gestures. I hope none of them pieces have ever compelled anyone to hand in their resignation, though I did come pretty close to handing mine in a couple of times when I was on the other side of the editing desk and editing an Entertainment section in a Sunday supplement for which the writers were journalists with more knowledge of the sexual shennanigans of them stars rather than any serious knowledge of cinema that they brought to the table.

So what is my typical day? The alarm rings. I hit snooze. It rings again. I hit snooze and snooze some more. The husband who is wide awake and anxious for his cup of tea yells at me to get a move on it, do I plan on lolling there all day. And not very seductive too, the intonation, I might add. I run into the bathroom, apply toothpaste to them cavities and wince with the pain and the procrastination of visiting neglected and rueful dentist type. Run into the kitchen, get the tea made for the household. With sugar for some. Without sugar for others. With sugar and loads of ginger for me. Without sugar and with loads of ginger for some others. By which time I confuse myself totally about what goes into which cup and end up tasting all the cups to ascertain their ingredients before handing them out to their rightful recepients. When I PMS, I add sugar and ginger to all the damn cups and bang the tray on the dining table with a sullen gaze that once bitten family members know better to argue with.

Then comes the getting ready busy. Getting breakfast ready, getting the brat’s tiffin box packed. Luckily, the cook is generally here by then and I can leave that onerous task to her, flitting in occasionally to supervise the proceedings with an eagle eye of complete ignorance and absolute panic. The child is awakened, depending on mood and PMSing situation, either with tickles, hugs and kisses or deep, growly, threatening barks. Milk ingestion, bathing, dressing, etc happens. People generally tip toe out of my way at this point, I have been known to run over innocent bystanders like a vague and disoriented maid who was unfortunate enough to stand undecided as to which room she should attack first with the broom when I was in full panic spate, with the clock clonking on eight am.

We, mother and child, bid our adieus to the household, which breathes a perceptible sigh of relief which I hear as I slam the door shut behind me. The child dwaddles. In that infernal way that pre schoolers can dwaddle when one of the lifts deigns to come up and open gratitiously for us. “Not this lift. I want to go in that lift.” A short sharp bark rectifies the recalcitrance and any lift is deemed good enough to get away from Virago Mom.

Drop the child at school where a peck on each cheek and a pat on the head, and a dash to the car later, I move onto the office. Where I have my said two hours to dash out whatever work needs dashing out. And then dash off back again to pick up child from school. Take him to his tuition classes. Take him home. feed him, etc. Yup. Couldnt be more exciting. Even bungee jumping couldnt give one such a rush. Sometimes, gasp, gasp, I even go out for lunch.

Which is where this post started out. So there were we, four moms, trying hard to pretend we were young and free and unencumbered with the invisible chains of needing to get back home before afternoon nap wake up time, and evening class routine drop time, and such wonderful wonderful activities designed by the powers that be to convince us that we were indispensable and keep us blind to the fact that, come on, face reality, these four year olds we birthed, had a social calendar and life more hectic than we were ever going to have in the near future at least.

Ever notice how women who meet unencumbered without children for an extended period of time talk about a)shopping. b) shopping. c)shopping. We stuck to the script. Apart from of course, occasionally meandering into the realms of fitness and dietary tips and the occasional lapses into, actually, really, discussing our work (yes, of us four, three actually earned our keep through various activities that did not include anything we could get arrested for, including freelancing, working as consultants, and more freelancing. Thankfully, we were once upon a time in professions that take kindly to freelancing that allowed us to keep our professional hats on to cover our moments of temporary insanity. As anyone who has given birth to will confess to.

There are somethings you need to do exclusively with your girl friends. Not girlfriends. Girl friends. As in your gang of girls. Shopping together. Lunching together. Watching Sex and the City, the movie, together. Sitting round a table on a rainy day and downing high calorie foods comes high on this list. As does talking to each other at least twice a day to check on each other’s mental health and whether any crimes of anger have been committed. Or rushing over with sympathy and offers of help when the other is in crisis of any sort.

In the good old days, we used to have best friends. We dont have best friends anymore. We have multifarious friends, each to suit a certain fragment of our lives and our personalities. But I am okay with that. I would rather have many friends I can call onto rather than no friends at all. But vacancy open. Am looking high and low for a new best friend. All my best friends through school and college have been dissipated through time, distance and life. I have new friends now. But I long for that comfort of the old friend who has seen you through thick and thin, who knows your history and accepts you despite it. Despite knowing that you once wore stonewashed jeans with an offshoulder sweater in the heat of the Mumbai summer. And that you were so uncool, that you were the perfect before shot in them makeovers magazines keep having all the time. Nothing much changes in life does it. Except living, which sucks you into a routine of neglect of old friends.

So are you still in touch with your childhood friends? Come on, shame me. And prod me into trying to get back in touch with those who matter again.

Grey, grey, like my mood

Disclaimer: Am not fishing. Am not. Am not. Am genuinely terrified of going grey so soon.

 

For reasons that I will not get into here, and bore your reading eyes out of their sockets, I had a right nasty scare last week. And this week, I find the entire hairline has changed colour from raven black to antique grey. No make that white. Cheeky white. Aged white. I could tie on a bandana and pretend I’m the rockingest thing to hit the planet since the asteroid that wiped off the dinosaurs.
I could go grey completely and unfazedly and pray to the good lord on bended knee to give me the confidence to carry off the look with the panache it deserves.
Or I can continue to dip my head in the dye bowl every fortnight and hope I don’t end up looking like a dye head with the scalp all black and a sure giveaway of borrowed youth snatched from the jaws of ruthless Father Time.
Having weighed all said options, bandana is not an option given one is knocking on the sturdy sensible and practical doors of middle age right now, and should actually getting military strength support hosiery along with practical shoes with sturdy soles and fling out them flimsy stilletoes I teeter along precariously in. Going grey is even so much not of an option, given that on a good sunny day, my skin looks grey and overcast without any added help from powder compact and foundation and wouldn’t want to go all monochromatic and undramatic, and no Anna Wintour is not my icon, and even she’s gone brown these days, so there. Nafisa Ali has the fabulous skin and the fabulous presence to carry of the look. Should I let the head become a grey helmet, I could just paint the nails black and the lips blue and find myself a coffin to lie in during the day.
Therefore the dye bowl and brush have now become my best friend and ally in these trying times. Having said that though, my tryst with them is limited to occasions. Occasions that are few and far between. Read, I am lazy about touch ups. I hate slicking on the stuff onto my hair. I cannot see too well without them spectacles and end up missing prime strands of in your face grey which then wave cheekily at me once I have washed off said dye and conditioned said hair. Needless to say my highlights have gone for a complete toss into the dye bowl. I rather liked myself with platinum highlights. Looked as fake as Pamela Andersen with her double Ds. And as in your face. I like being in your face. As anyone who’s seen my latest bag will testify. No sane person goes around with a gold bag in public. Rather no person with wallflower written on her forehead goes around with above mentioned bag or leopard print bag for that matter. Never mind that the bags often get more attention than I do. Yup, attention seeking bags rather do their work for the rest of me.

But dunking hair in dye bowl doesn’t for good highlighting allow. Maybe I should do a Patricia Greene and dunk the entire head in some horrifically blazing colour like red or green. Would also need to make provisions for a home on rent considering the husband would fling me out on a limb the moment I did any such drastic alterations to appearance, being of traditional beliefs and conservative in nature. This is a man who fell to the floor in shock and pained disbelief the day I got my hair ironed out for a party saying I looked like something the cat didn’t drag in for a change, and it didn’t suit me a bit, could I mess it up again please. You know? I’m scary when I’m neat. You know, the scene where the Joker spit slicks his hair back when he closes in on Maggie Glynnehaal in The Dark Knight. Yup. You like him better hair a mess, he’s scarier when he’s neatened a bit. Yup. That sort of thing. The child has been known to stare at me skeptically when the hair is slicked back and oiled and plaited down. And inch away in fear.

But I digress. As usual. To summarise in a long winding line that doesn’t get anywhere to the point, I have decided to slap on the dye till my dying breath. If the hands and feet are still functioning and can do said slapping on myself without the assistance of helpers and kind relatives called into the ranks of those enlisted to part said hair and check for truant white ones hidden deep in the recesses only to pop up and grin at one during inopportune moments like staring at self in changing room mirrors where as it is, every damn extra bulge of fat gets magnified into cube proportions and cellulite ripples as one bends to extricate oneself from whatever one had tried to get into. Until the deathbed or until the hair stays on the head. Perhaps I should do a Persis Khambatta and be free of this added stress.

Therefore, earnest plea. Anyone with home remedies to delay greying kindly to let me know. Will be handmaiden till dying days, etc, etc. Wouldnt do for people to ask the child if thats his grandmother accompanying him.

Hope you had a good weekend too.

Part one: Saturday

We watched a movie. Like we always do. It is a given task to be achieved on a Saturday evening, given that we are generally bored of watching each others faces by Saturday evening, and we’d rather watch the screen. There we were watching The Dark Knight. Now I am a total slobbering, unabashed, teenage level devotee type fan of superhero movies, and some more than others, but while I have never really loved the Batman series, preferring other variants to this one, Spidey and friends, Hulk, etc, this one, I am pleased to say, blew me away. Yes, yes, yes, in my heart I am an idealist, and believe in the powers of people to fly with batwings slapped onto their backs and speak in deep gravelly voices thanks to tight throat constriction of said hood and mask.

A fine ensemble of characters, with faultless actors. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman and Aaron Eckhardt are so smooth you have to hand it to these men for having finetuned their craft to a skill. And Heath Ledger blew me off my seat. No, not the good guy, the bad guy. The Joker. Guess I have a thing for Bad boys. Married one and now he’s a bad boy, in a good boy costume, itching to rip the cover off and go trawling in the dark.

Anyway, throughout the movie I could only feel an aching sense of loss. I havent seen Brokeback Mountain or any other Heath Ledger movie, and I kicked myself on the shins metaphorically for my idiocity. To think that this brilliant actor would never act again. Had died. Of a drug overdose. Was reportedly disturbed after his portrayal of the Joker in The Dark Knight, that this was his last role. If yes, this was a fitting finale to a brilliant actor who didnt deserve to die so young. He was fabulous. If you do one thing this week go watch him as the Joker.

Go see it. It deserves every damn star it got.

Part two: Sunday

Back again at Inorbit. What to do? Close friends had brought their five year old kiddo and close friend of brat over, and brat squealed and squealed to be taken to meet up, and the husband wanted to meet up his old college friend (kiddo’s father) and kiddo’s mom being a close pal of mine, it was a meeting in heaven. The kids were fobbed off on their respective fathers and we ran into the shops, all of which bore the magic word in their show windows. SALE SALE SALE. An alcoholic to a wine shop? Am proud to say I am on the road to sobriety.

Strange things happened in Marks and Spencers. Some tops in size 10 fitted me. Others in size 12. And One fabulous one I would have sold my soul for in Size 14. Didnt buy. Size 14 was heartbreaking to admit to. Would rather stick to maternity wear. Did my body expand and contract magically in the changing room?

The dear friend fought off rabid shoppers and we cornered trial rooms for her to try out tops from AND, and the most beautiful thing happened as we staggered towards payment counter with more tops than she needed in hand. The credit card swipe machine lines went down from network congestion. Think, the entire mall on sale, one gadzillion manic shoppers swiping in overbuy heaven. Something had to give. Rationality prevailed as did cold cash. So only one was bought and paid for.

But, AND, Benetton, Remanika, Catwalk, all the kiddy wear shops, Provogue, Levis, SS (with brands like CK, FCUK, Tommy Hilfiger, etc) are all on sale. Inorbit is worth a trip right now. Some shops are even opening at 7.30 am to cope with the hordes rushing in. Makes me wonder. What person would get up, get dressed and come shopping at the crack of dawn. Definitely not me. That makes me so not a shopaholic, I guess.

I am being good though. I am not buying. I am only visually feasting my eyes on the goodies on display. Like the bhog before the poor gods who can only inhale the aromas and be content.

But really, I dont need anything. Come to think of it. Do we ever? But then need and want are two different things completely. And I want want want those leopard print stilletoes from Catwalk. So much for good intentions.

We then meandered to a Chinese restaurant nearby for dinner, where the food was good, the ambience was good, and the fishtanks were great to keep the kids occupied. And they ruined it all by bringing in a live band singing onto prerecorded tracks with fake accents and drowning out all pretence at conversation. In our defence we didnt know they had introduced this special feature for Sunday night dinner, and had eaten there once before when there was calm and quiet and just pleasant piped music in the background to animated dinner conversation.

The kids boxed themselves silly and scared the worms out of the fish by tapping the glass, and found more recruits in the restaurant for mischief making until they’d rounded up a respectable gang and could actually play some games in groups on the small platform area next to where the very bad singer continued gamely to absolute lack of interest. My friend and I took turns to station ourselves and ensure no damage was done either to the venue or the other kids. And that the game stayed restricted there. Needless to say we werent relieved from our posts as sentries by any of the other mothers eating peacefully while we watched their kids.

Suffice to say I have a very hoarse throat today. But a good weekend. After a very very long time. Am not complaining.

Of pests and other co-walkers

Given that I squeeze out precious walking time from the intervals between running behind a child prone to climbing over walls (the park in our building is over the car park and therefore technically on the first floor), acting out Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan movies and deciding to swing lying with his head half off the swing, I am manic about the little time I actually get to actually, gasp, walk.

But there seems to be a species of women populating the park and the walking track who have come up with an interesting gambit and conspiracy to ensure that I dont manage to get any walking done. For one they assume that if you are walking alone it is their god given right to put you out of your solitude and fall in step with you. Without invitation. I am now terrified of even cracking a smile while I march on, lest it be misconstrued as an invitation for company. I have also learnt to stare vacantly at the tiled pathway in front of me and avoid all unnecessary eye contact. It kills me. Really. As anyone who knows me will aver, I am really really a people person.

These are women who are all twice my width so it would actually be nice to walk with them and be the thin one in comparison. You know, the old rule, go out with girls uglier than you are, so you are the pretty one, kind of thing. Never managed to do that too, all them friends are six feet tall, model thin, glamazons, so I get stuck with the funny one tag, everytime. Anyway, back to the park. Woman A, in striped collared tee obviously filched from the hubby and loose track pants which she could do a belly dance in should she want to, such brilliant flare and fall. Walks fast enough to keep pace with yours truly but insists on carrying on a droning conversation about what she’s cooked for breakfast lunch dinner, snacks and such like. Does not take the hint when I say sanguinely that I hate cooking and tries to enthuse me about getting into the kitchen. I then have to say rude things about how if I ate my own cooking I wouldnt need to lose any weight and she laughs and continues right on sharing her tips about how to get the idli batter to rise perfectly. I mention I buy mine ready made from Dmart and she perceptibly blanches and sidles away from me like I’ve a real bad communicable disease.

Woman B is recently down from a stint abroad. Her husband is still abroad. She has a home abroad. She misses her husband. I sympathise. I will even direct her to a shop where she could buy requisite aid that runs on batteries and makes a woman complete and bring some joy to her life. But the drip drip drip of her woes goes far beyond that. Her neighbours are mean. Someone stands looking into her balcony. The people above pour water on her drying clothes. Someone slashed her son’s bike seat with a blade. The telephone department guy who came to instal her telephone asked for a bribe. So? Thats his birthright, I told her. Welcome back to India. And keep the notes handy.The watchmen stare at her funnily. Frankly, after a couple of rounds of the park, so did I. I did the inching away here.

Woman C is nice, and chirpy, and has a son the brat’s age and would be the perfect companion but she is given to standing and gossiping with every stranger on the path. While I must need lumber on cracking the paved tiles. So she’s out.

Woman D will talk about her health problems. She started with her onset of arthritis and managed to reach upto Diabetes until I cottoned on, and vamoosed at a speed higher than what she could keep up with. Call me mean, but I would have been dead by the time she reached Z. Is there any illness at Z?

Finally, I discover that the phone can be a lifesaver and forbid anyone from falling in step with me. I message incessantly and make the most boring walk companion. And thankfully, am left in peace to do my rounds on my own. Guess I wont win any popularity contests here.

Of makeovers and make up

For someone who drools unbecomingly when she turns to the beauty pages of any fashion magazine, my sense of make up is zilch. Yes, yes, despite the fact that the stash in the three drawers of my dressing table could suffice to do up the entire gaggle of models at a Fashion week, my sense of application is at best, geriatric, my tendency to experiment gone with my youth and wrinkle free skin, and my perfect face post make up is the stuff good memories are made off. Add to this the fact that I am really really blind as a bat without them lenses, and with the lenses in, close range application is at best hit and miss, you get the general drift of why make up is not my best skill. I like to think I make up in other departments, but the spouse might butt in here and disillusion me, so shall keep silent.

Anyway, in college days of fresh glowing skin and the insouciance to apply everything including colours from my water colour set onto my face and carry it off with panache, a lot of experimentation with colours happened. The most daring being painting my nails white and then living through a week of the right hand stained yellow with haldi. Yes, them chapattis need to be eaten by hand, right.

But yes, I was the sort of girl who never embodied fresh and natural. And putting my face on became de rigeur before I stepped out. Even had a friend who bitchily asked me if my then boyfriend and now husband had ever seen me without lipstick. Of course, I replied, the lipstick barely lasts ten minutes into us meeting up. Think that shut her up good.

But I digress, the point of this post being how addicted I am to make up and how absolutely hopeless at application. Inspired by a recent conversation with a peppy 19 year old who reminds me somewhat of how idealistic and happy I used to be before life happened.

I seized any opportunity that came my way to have them experts do the face. I figured I needed tips to get my act right. The first opportunity came during my stint with a news channel. I read the evening news, the 9 pm business slot. And was really bad big time. Give me a break, I was barely 21 at the time. The grizzled bear who applied the make up made me uniformly pink, and then slapped on some pink eyeshadow to match and gave me maroon lips. I should have been the hostess for business on The Sunset Boulevarde show, add some corset and wig, and a mini skirt.

I also remember needing to wash off the make up with a brillo pad before I dared step out of the studio to get home. These were ancient days when no home drops were made, you got home on your own steam, and I didnt want to confuse lustful folks into wondering whether I was open to business.

That channel packed up. And so did my short stint at anchoring. Got back to press. And meandered into soft features. The Saturday Times needed a willing victim for a make over by Mickey Contractor and guess who was selected for the job, yours truly, who landed at the venue shaking better than a St Vitus’s Dance patient. The man was damn good at his work, and he explained patiently what he was doing to my face. And he worked long and hard. And did wonderful things like contouring and shading and such like which I promptly forgot all about once the photographs were clicked and I emerged blinking dazedly in the bright light of day and a husband whose shocked expression was to die for.  Yup, I thought I rocked. But he walked into a chemist and got a pack of wet wipes to clean the muck from my face, so much for glamour.

Yes, I forget the wedding. The make up was finally done by the assistants of the beauty expert I’d hired and paid good money for, because she chose to have her baby the day before my wedding. Sort of set the tone for the rest of the marriage too. The bride of Frankenstein. The wedding photographs revealed the true extent of the horror. The child in recent times has been heard to ask of the wedding photograph laminated and kept lovingly on the mantelpiece, “Mamma, why you put white crayon on your face?” I rest my case.

Sometime later, another guinea pig was needed for another makeover to be done by Cory Walia who was then with Lakme, and yours truly was pushed to volunteer. Guess no one else wanted to make a right out fool of themselves and I was already one, and had nothing to lose. To Cory’s credit, he is a wonderful make up person, he finds individual features to compliment and makes you feel truly beautiful, which makes you feel beautiful once the make up is done. I emerged so swollen headed from that session that I needed my mother and her trite comments to bring me down to earth, which she did successfully the next she saw me. On an aside, why is a daughter never ever looking good enough for a mother to appreciate her? I guess, had I been a beauty queen, the mother would have told me I had my tiara on crooked, and why was I sitting with my back rounded, and didnt I brush my teeth before coming to the stage. Coming back to Cory, he gave me a look that withstood harsh daylight, was light and fresh and worked. I didnt look made up, I just looked fresher and different. The trick, he said, was concealer and the right shade of powder compact. Tips from the man, dont use a colour lighter than your skin tone, you’ll look like Krishna of the mythological serials. Since had been that route for the wedding, was in no hurry to go there again. And use sunblock. Carry an umbrella or wear a hat. Stay out of the sun. I follow that religiously, even to the point of paranoia. I slather on sunblock on a cloudy day.

The last time I ever got done up professionally was when Lippi Lal, then of Chambor, did me up for a demo. She gave me a party look, which looked glamourous and slinky feline and was all purples and lilacs, a colour route I had never been down before. It looked good, but the husband was all sceptical. Its too much and too in your face, he says. You look better a little toned down. Hmmppph. Me thinks it was just insecurity given that strange men were staring at me wonderingly.

The most recent episode at professional make up was during a recent television appearance. Barely there eyeliner, with slight highlighter on the eyes, natural blush on the apples of the cheeks and a hint of pinkish gloss. And I was done. And it actually worked. Have never dared try it again, makes me insecure to be so bare…

My everyday routine is Lacto Calamine (yes, yes, I am that ancient, but it is a habit I cant get rid of), a powder compact on top of said Calamine to blot the oil oozing out of every pore, a liquid liner on the upper eyelid, and if I am in party mode, some gold liner or shadow too, an indeterminate pink or nude lipstick or lipgloss and I am done. On a rushed day, no eyeliner, but deep lipstick to make up for the lack of drama on the eyes. Standard look. No surprises. No mascara. No blush. No bronzer. No highlighter. I have them all, piled in my dressing table, acting as breeding grounds for bacteria and fungus.  I think I have found my look and am sticking to it. Unless someone shows me a better look or some miracle product that works for me. Any recommendations? Any miracle product you girls swear by? Any colour you think I must buy now or live to regret for the rest of my life? Any application tricks that an old horse could try to hold the years off?

Whats your make up routine like?

Random notes on a Monday morning

Wide legs are in, wide legs are in. Yes, all ye with milk bottle ankles rejoice, wide legs are in. Which also means the La Guitterra amongst us all can look like chunks of flesh from head to toe with no features of redemption absolutely.

Which also brings me to the pressing question of what one can do with the shelves of skinny fits and boot cuts one has lining the cupboard?

Visiting the new Oberoi Mall in Goregaon East over the weekend one realised that everything in the shops is meant for a different sensibility. A sensibility that is comfortable with armholes that a lung could fall out of, if untethered and a neck line that probably reaches the navel by conservative estimates. Layering is what these have to be worn with, the nice and helpful sales assistants tell me, but layered in Mumbai would make me a sweat stink bomb so am not even going that route. Give me my loose cotton shirts and tunics, and cotton tees anyday. In the singular. I am the sort who agonised even on the wearing of a slip under skirts, therefore layering is totally unthinkable. Anyway, should I layer up, will probably need an army of assistants to clear space for me to proceed in a crowded public place situation.

That apart, this is the mall I now plan to take my tent and sleeping bag to in the near future given that it has such an orgy of brands that I love–Guess, Tommy Hilfiger, Replay, edc, Next, The Body Shop, Esprit, Esbeda, Sheetal, Sepia, Ritu Kumar, Debenhams, People and some more with a Central and a Lifestyle thrown in for added choice. If you visit and see a fat lady running around at top speed with more bags than her weight cubed, and a frazzled look, do say hello.

I am pleased to note jeans that hitherto stayed stubbornly at my thighs have now proceeded up them hips and condescended to be buttoned up. Pre pregnancy jeans. Non lycra jeans. Am getting ambitious and hunting through the mother’s stash to see if any from my college days have survived. That will bring the helium balloon head to a burst.

Actually spent the evening yesterday running behind the child on the cycle given that cars coming into the compound dont seem to have the good sense to slow themselves. Best cardio I have ever done in a long long long while.

Jottings Part III: From a movie theatre

This is a line. For the tickets. Not a food line. Not an aid distribution line. Now do you mind getting off my back and parking your feet on the floor? And not peering over my shoulder to check which seats I am choosing would really be appreciated.

Its the national anthem, for chrissakes, can we see some spine in that asparagus you call a back. And can you refrain from sipping your Pepsi till it is through. I wish a gas bubble goes up your nose.

Yes, you’ve paid good money for the seat you’re in, but I can get some part of the arm rest too. Or would you rather take the chair home with you.

You, yes, you, with the very very very urgent conversation on machinery and orders to be delivered, and general pandemonium, do you mind taking your discussion to a part of the film called The Interval and The End.

My dear little kiddos. Yup young lust is truly wonderful and oblivious to all, but do notice that a four year old is staring at you gawp mouthed and cut out the groping.

Fellow hassled mother. Yes, my child and your child are striking up an acquaintance on the stairs between the aisles. Let them be. We’re not contagious.  Unless you are.

Ye of the wildly ear piercing ringtone that you mercifully shushed into silence everytime it peeped up at an interval of ten minutes. Have ye heard of the simple expedient process of putting your phone on silent mode?

And whoever it was in the seat behind me chomping on popcorn like a supersonic fighter jet know that your teeth will erode through the ill wishes of every unfortunate soul who has had the misfortune to have you eating in hearing distance.

Mr Anonymous Cougher. My sincere best wishes for a speedy recovery and many bottles of Bricarex or Benadryl. Perhaps twould have been best had you downed the entire bottle before stepping into the theatre.

Ye who trod on my toes with needless enjoyment, may your stilletoes break off as you step on the escalator on your way down.

Miss Caustic Commentator, if I want a review, I will read the newspapers. (Not that we have any informed reviewing these days, with the bad puns getting even worse by the day and the language deteriorating into obvious camp) Would you mind zipping it till I can make up my mind as to whether I like it or not.

And whistles and clapping. Ye folk of such enthusiasm. I half expected to see ye flinging coins and notes at the screen.

Bad Gas attack man: Thank the darkness. Thank the darkness. Or would have personally bound you to a chair set in a grazing pasture of overfed cows.

And yes, that is my child. I take full responsibility for his actions. I will even apologise if he causes you discomfort. But now by pouting and turning around constantly with a face sourer than a tub of yoghurt gone bad will make me want to pour my Pepsi down your neck. Ice cubes and all. And blame it on the child.

The gaggle of girls giggling everytime the gangly hero came on screen. You were adorable. Until one of you screamed ‘Nice butt’ at the hapless, decently covered newbie hero.

Finally, for the strange man who leaned forward till he was breathing hot and heavy ominously on my head, my husband is twice your height and weight. And has been known to beat people with fidgety fingers to bloody pulp. You were damn lucky he was engrossed in the movie. Or the deviated septum would have been on me.

Confessions of a serial walker

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.