Of being a size 14 and other happy thoughts…

The weekend that just passed had me moping into my socks with the kind of hangdog expression that usually has the husband go to his stock and pour me a patiala. And command brusquely, Drink. Occasioned by, this hangdog expression, you might want to ask, and rightly so, since I am so dancing on the ceiling to tell you the cause. A shopping spree. Yup. This being the season of cheer and 50 per cent sales, the husband decided he needed new formal shirts, the son decided he could always do with more of everything, and the wife accompanied to do the occasional sideways swipe at the store shelves for whatever she could lay her hands on.

So there we were. Husband walking jauntily into Debenhams at the Oberoi Mall, with the kind of swing in his step that comes from knowing that he can choose the colours and styles he wants and not need to try out anything in them dratted trial rooms fitted with inquisition level search lights designed to focus on cellulite to bring out orange peel texture to eye piercing detail. He is a regular size. And he has no cellulite. And he’s in pretty perfect shape too, give or take an inch. But lets not tell him that okay, there’s always room for improvement.

The brat did his shoulder swinging rapster gait to perfection, he just needed the waist of his jeans round his ankles and ten kilos of gold chains to bring the look to life. And with the supreme confidence that comes from knowing that no matter what he wears it will need a belt to stay up.

I slunk in with the embarassed shame of not knowing what my current waist size has ballooned to. Yup yup. I have not bought self jeans, trousers or pants for the past couple of years and the warp speed expansion of waist has led to unsightly muffin top that I’ve been camouflaging with great care under empire line tops and kidding no one.  The sales girl came upto and smiled, the menacing, predatory kind of smile of one who knows she is a minus one size and should be given a restraining order of five feet diameter between self and yours truly to keep odious opposite lessons being administered to little children in the vicinity. Look, look, beta, that is fat and that is thin. That is opposites. You understood that now.

I shrunk in fear as she advanced baring her fangs towards me. “What size are you looking for, madam?” She asked pleasantly enough. But I got her subtext. “You whale. We dont have anything to fit you. Go find yourself a circus tent.” And she smiled without her eyes crinkling, and I swear I saw her incisors gleaming.

“Whatever will fit me,” I mumbled apologetically, hovering near shelves that had mouthwatering signs that said 50 percent off. Half price. And such like. I serious contemplated picking up an entire rack and running home to do the trials at home rather than subject myself to the ignominy of the trial room situation all over again.

“I think,” she smiled again, without crinkling her eyes, and said with a saccharinity that belied her obvious enjoyment of my discomfort. “You would be a size 14.” I shrank further into my XL kurti and wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole. And then I thought of the very curvy Venus as visualised by a Renaissance master and had an instant flashback of the very corpulent personage, and straightened my spine. “Yes,” I said. “Size 14,” with as much insouciance as I could muster without giving away, with even a quaver that I would once, slip in comfortably into a size 10 with room to spare. And then I took them size 14 jeans into the changing room. And yes, I had room to spare. So a size 12 was called for with arched eyebrow and a I told you so expression that was so lost on Ms Sinister. Which fitted perfectly. But the teeshirts didnt . I needed a size 14. In teeshirts and tops. Therefore I am like one of those imbalanced Victorian women I guess. But I’m not complaining. Anymore like me, whose sizes dont match?

And then, this morning, the newspapers gave me added cheer. In bold Times New Roman font size 32, a headline declared, “Size 14 women are the happiest with life.”

I thought about it seriously for a moment. Which is as long as I can think seriously on any topic apart from shopping and food. And Richard Gere. But I digress. And found to my surprise that I mighty agreed with it. Yup, I think I’m doing okay for myself on the happiness quota. Should I slather on black marks onto the screen.

The article says, and I quote, “A new poll has found that size 14 women are the happiest with their life and their looks. According to the study, girls who wear the dress size rated their general happiness higher than any other with a quarter saying they were extremely happy. More than 43 per cent of size 14 women also said they were as happy as they could be with their career while almost a third say they couldnt be more content with their love life.”

And the next in the line for happiness?

Size 12s, Sizes 8, 16 and 10.

And to quote the spokesperson, for Special K which conducted the poll, “Its great to discover that being a size zero wouldnt necessarily bring you happiness. Size 14 women are much more comfortable with their shape and have a happier outlook.”

Yup, we’re big and comfortable with being so. Cant be fun being a size zero, and measuring out every morsel that goes into your mouth. I guess, I know now, why despite being married to David Beckham and having a Hermes Birkin in every colour of the rainbow, Victoria Beckham constantly looks like she has a bad smell under her nose. Guess who should think of coming to my size?

Forgive me forgive me….

For neglecting this blog, for posting few and far between and that too posts which are hurriedly cobbled together within a five minute span that unfortunately, does show, no matter how I might kid myself that I do wondrously entertaining stuff that could put me right up there in the league with the Gods I worship at my bookshelf altar, namely Dave Barry, Jerome K Jerome and the Supreme Diety of them all, P G Wodehouse.

Having got that apology aside,  I trust you will still indulge me and stop by occasionally and not stomp off in a virtual huff when you discover this fat woman has not given her fingers a workout today on the thirtysixandcounting blog. These fingers have been rather busy on another blog. The indiahelps blog. So please forgive me. And visit it. And know why I am not in such a cheery frame of mind. It does get a trifle tough to discuss shopping and IT bags when you realise that Rs 1500, what I would normally spend on one lunch out with a friend, can buy an entire family rations to last them a month.

Which brings me to the raison d’etre for this post. Yup, I got meself a halo so huge that if it began whirring, I could probably do a solo flight across the Indian Ocean all by myself, without the added hassle of having to find an aircraft and a trained pilot and such like. The wedding anniversary comes up in a bit, and husband was fluffed with the joy of having managed to endure the obstacle course that comes with being married to yours truly and decided it was worth throwing some largesse around. Hell, he must have read my last whiney post and decided to play Santa. So, I was whisked off to the rarified confines of the suburban five star shopping arcade plus with the kind of brands that causes me to have sharp intakes of breath whenever confronted with the visuals of their products, hung on stick thin, smokey eyed models in print ads meant to make me crawl under my blanket and nibble on more chocolates and their wrappers.  Gucci. Bottega Veneta. Jimmy Choo. Aigner. Ferragamo. And of these, three brands were on a 50 per cent sale. We walked in. Look around, says the man. Pick whatever you want.

Yup. Dent in the floor caused by impact of fat woman falling in a fast faint, was to be added to the bill of purchases, saved only by thought of crushing the offspring who was holding onto hand and therefore in extreme risk of being flattened to paper dimensions if trapped under falling self.

Really. Truly. You swear on me and the child and all thats holy. I asked. Repeatedly. The man beamed like a jolly Santa high on grass. I looked around frenetically. Stared longingly at the intertwined Gs dotting the canvas facades in a black weave or a beige and brown print. And the green and red ribbon down the front. And realised that these bags were truly, sincerely, and absolutely not worth the price even on 50 per cent discount. They were all ugly. I held them in my hands and didnt feel even a frisson of the desire to possess and definitely not at 25k where my mind was racing on fast forward to think of the wondrous many Esbedas I could haul away in a box car for that amount. The Bottega Venetas were nice too. But for that price, Calonge is better. Better made and with a similar concept. Forgive me fashion lords, this may be blasphemy and I know I will be cast out with the heretics on this declaration, but it is the pure and simple truth. I just did not like a single bag up there on display.

The smart, impeccably made up salesperson stared at me in disdain as I went from shelf to shelf, trying hard to find a bag that called to me, that I would have to be torn from on my death bed, that I would bother wrapping in muslin and storing in a cupboard when not in use rather than flinging it onto the heap of disused bags in the box under the bed.

And yes, so we left. With the husband shaking his head in disgust. And me firm that I was not spending a penny on such dull as ditchwater bags that didnt make any statement except double Gs interlocked in a pattern that danced in front of my myopic eyes, till I wanted to stare at a blank wall for relief. Yup. Am so not a Gucci girl.

Last I heard, I was still adjusting the halo. And trying to con the man into sponsoring a lasik surgery for them eyes. Would be nice to wake up and not have to flap around furiously for them spectacles and rather just stretch out languidly and be elegant and poised on awaking. Like them Hollywood heroines. Yup. Which would also mean hair impeccably set by elves while I sleep and no eyeliner remnants coagulated in the corners of my eyes, and no monster breath. Ah well. A girl can hope, cant she. Not flapping around in blind batlike manner hunting for them spectacles could be a start.

Hey Santa, you listening?

Been a long time since I got something from you, but then its been a long time since I figured out that fat old jolly men in red suits dont fly to tropical non chimneyed flats and drop off gifts. Been a long time since I had me a dad to play Santa. Yup, its me. I stopped believing. Now I know, that you do exist. You have given me all I ever could ask and more and not even waited for that tardy thank you that took so long coming.

But being the unabashedly greedy type of personality that undoubtedly God patented after he created me, I want to send in my list right now. Am I little late? I guess so, but I am taking a chance. Here’s my list:

I want no more tears. I have wept myself dry this past month and I cant squeeze another drop out of my eyes at the risk of dehydration.

I want to be able to set things right by those who have lost their loves ones in the meaningless violence that raged through our city the three days in November. Three horrific days that for me shook me to the core and made me realise that it would take really nothing but a madman and a gun and some RDX to render my child an orphan.

And while you’re at it, and believe you me I have been a very very good girl this year. I’ve started working out. I dont bunk except the occasional mornings when the eyes refuse to unglue. I try to run away from sweets and fried stuff. I have not, gasp, bought any new clothes for what seems to be over a year now. Or many years. Or maybe my current crop of clothes are so outdated, I could donate them to the wardrobe department of a period film.

Some new clothes would be great. Clothes that fit me without me having to run into trial rooms and agonise over new lumps of cellulite that have magically appeared on muffin tops and saddlebags that are nowhere are glamourous as Dior.

Specifically, a bunch of new tops and trousers would be welcome. Notice. I donot say teeshirts and jeans. Its time to grow up now I think.

And yes, I will say thank you this time. And keep the balcony extra wide open to let you get in easy. You know where I live dont you, Santa?

And yes, the kid would like a Hulk. Of the Incredible variety. I will not mention the kind of Hulk I would like. This being a family rated blog and all that.

Have yourself a great Christmas folks and peace and joy to all…..

From the savior of my thwarted shopping hopes…

The beloved net a porter newsletter. Here are new objects of lust that will need to satisfy my penchant for some new jazz in the old, tired, threadbare, patched up wardrobe. (Indulge me!)

Aint it fabulous. A white tank and a white cropped skinny on this non skinny. With wedge heels and a nice crisp canvas bag. And am so set to cruise on Mediterranean waters. No harm in blotting out the open creek yards away from my balcony is there?

And this super comfortable, super sassy pair of Kors Wedgeheels in cork and orange.

Please, allow a shopping deprived girl a little day dreaming.

Tis the season to make merry…

The Gucci sale is on. The FCUK sale is on. Damn. My neighbourhood salwar suit ‘designer’ store has a sale on. Just emptied out my wallet the other day, and heard the last few coins fall down with a unworthy thud on the mattress and realised I shall have to keep myself calm and collected and poised and refrain from running around shrieking in sheer despair and counting out the small change from the brat’s piggy bank.

Yes, brokedom is not nice.  I realised it the other day at the mall when I actually thought long and hard about whether I really really really needed another pair of shoes, and then decided to wear out the ones I already have raising a stink in my wardrobe and emerged feeling so virtuous and halo burdened that I had to down two Disprins in quick succession to dispel the headache brought on by carrying around the weight of such exemplary virtuous behavior. And the instance recently, when the spouse and I were at a perfume store, whereelse, but at Inorbit, buying a gift for a friend, when the spouse magnamiously says pick up any that you like, and I moue in deference stating prosaically that I had more than enough cluttering up precious washbasin platform shelf at home. In days of yore, platform space would have been phtooeyed before it ever got mentioned. Carpenters would have been brought in to put in glass shelves to accommodate burgeoning collections of which some unfortunates would never see the light of usage, being placed, strategically so high, that one’s hand would never reach even if one stood on one’s toes and it doesnt really befit a grown woman to clamber onto the basin shelf inorderto douse oneself with perfume.  Suffice to say, the spouse raised one telling surprised brow and left it at that.

As we left the mall, he asked me very quietly if I was feeling well.

I guess if he hadnt the horror of PDA he might have even brought himself to raise a hand to check my brow. But.

But when I open the newspapers and see Sale advertisements playing the role of the devil, switching tail, beckoning talons and all, rather in the manner of ye old David Whitbread in green shiny outfit and nice little horns on his bald head, it is all I can do to stop myself from saying, the credit card bill can take care of itself, right now I really do need another handbag with them interlocked Gs, even if I have to sell my soul in equated monthly instalments for the pleasure of carrying around my tissues, contact lens case and housekeys in it.

And can I truly say I have enough clothes? Wouldnt I be instantly blacklisted from the society of insecure femmes, seeing that I suddenly switch to the other side of them women who could go out wearing a rag that has gathered mould in their cupboards for years on end, and look content nonetheless.  How would I justify the frantic chaos of the morning where teeshirts and tops are thrown on the bed in quick succession and then discarded in a heap (which awaits one to fold and keep back in upon one’s return mind you, no minions doing that for moi),  finally settling on the ubiquitious one colour fits all occasions never fails recipe of black tshirt or white shirt over blue denims.  How can I have even a sliver of vacant cupboard space on display? Blasphemy.

But yes. I will now make do with what I have. Even if it means I actually get down to wearing all that sits in the cupboard, wan and neglected, even those one keeps euphemistically in the hope that one would, someday, when pigs fly, fit right back into them, without the seams splitting with a dramatic tearing sound. I will finish all my perfumes before sauntering off and encountering scary perfume salesmen thrusting white strips up my nose, and blocking my exit routes from the store. I will empty out my stash of one gadzillion lipsticks before getting me a pick me up with a new one.

And them shoes and bags? Maybe, I will limit myself to a replacement when one wears out. Maybe I can rope in the mater to wear out a bag I dont particularly care for out. Maybe I can wear out shoes I dont really care for by walking around in them in the house. Maybe I can break my own rules.

But, I will try to be good. And not spend more than I need. Because, as we all know. The word enough and me dont really have even a passing aquaintanceship when it comes to shoes and bags and perfumes and lipsticks and sunglasses. 

Jewellery? That I leave for you to resist.

And so…

….I did an entire long needlessly funny post about how I am sifting through my winter woollies with longing, and how the damn mercury refuses to go south from the mid thirties it is stuck at. And how one is seriously contemplating sweat gland under the armpit removal, and some mode to remove said sweat glands from neck and face as well.
And how one has, in one’s mind coordinated sweaters and pullovers with camisoles and shoes. And how one is eyeing one’s sole pair of ankle high booties with a lust that one normally reserved for Danish pastries and Hrithik Roshan. Both equally delectable and equally unapproachable. But, of course, I digress. And I need to tell you I forgot to save draft. Which means that we had a power fluctuation and the entire post, went poof. Just like that. Into the ethers. I did a little Rumpelstiltskin hop and jump and stomp kind of a dance around the computer but it still wouldnt cooperate. I could threaten to ask the computer to hand over its firstborn, but I dont think it would.

The point of the entire previous, unlucky post? Basically, how I love the winter. Having lived all my life in a city that has summer in which one sweats and monsoon in which one sweats some and shivers some, and then back again to summer where one doesnt sweat as much, I love the winter. I love the thought of being bundled up in woollies with foggy breath coming like eerie little gusts from one’s mouth as one speaks, and the sky dark and overcast above. God knows, I would give anything for a day when the sun decides its had enough of searing holes into my retina, and takes the day off.

I know there are those of you in climes where you would be inclined to disagree, having just slipped for the umpteenth time on the sheet of ice on your driveways and who need to spend a couple of hours every morning before you can dig yourselves out of your own home when it snows through the night and would happily trade places with me, to which I say, phtoeey. I like it because I dont live there. I know only the nice mild cold of coordinated sweaters and tees, the all enveloping warmth of a nice woollen trench coat is beyond me.

So, indulge me while I pull out my handknitted sweaters and pullovers, and mourn the lack of any cold except the airconditioning the justify the wearing of them, and bear with me while I whine about the heat that is coming out through my eyes and ears and nose in little puffs of steam while I dream about wearing chunky knit cardigans and my all time favourite look  of all times, solid coloured turtlenecks with denims and very high boots. And dont hyuck hyuck at me, when I imagine that is the ultimate in coolth in the places with the colder climates.

Damn. If you see me wandering around in the blazing Mumbai heat with a turtleneck, I trust you to keep your mouth zipped on whether I’ve managed to melt any lard within.

Wish I could…

…wear this for a change

Dare I ditch my denims?

So I get up at 5.15 am…

…this morning, using the blanket to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Resisting the urge to crawl right back in and continue to shake the sky scraper with my snores. But the tyres on stomach sniggered and cocked a rude finger at me, and got my goat. And plus the husband raised himself on his elbow and stared at me disapprovingly as I snuggled back into the covers. I could feel his eye drill holes into my well hidden lard and shamed into action, I lifted my creaking bones, carefully off the bed, trying hard to avoid any audible creaks. Middle age is cruel. Bones you never know you had creak when you move. And no lubricating oil is not the chocolate sauce over a hot fudge brownie.

The park was dark. Strange shadows thrown up by the dim light. A strange shadow loomed out of the blackness, I yelped and started back for the stairs to the lobby. Only to hear a respondent yelp of joy, with the resident pup bounding behind me, delighted to find another soul up as early as him, and to his doggy brain, as set to play fetch.

I shooed him off as gently as I could, namely with a tickle and a shout. And he bounded off in search of more fun people than a grouchy aunty with sleep deprivation and PMS haze.  And waited for the rest of the group to troop in for the yoga class.

It was a magical moment. And it was magical to be alone in the predawn with just the faint hint of light staining the horizon. Only the mosquitoes werent paying attention to the magic of the moment and were paying attention to the magic of my blood. Much swatting and swearing later, the rest of the group dragged themselves in and the ultra perky and ultra alert sharp as nails yoga instructor made us twist our bodies into pretzels that proved to me that I was made of wood. A fact the husband long suspected in our youth whenever he tried to dance with me, a fact confirmed now, two decades down the line.

But when I was through with the class, and running back home to get the morning organised I realised there was no pain. No stretched muscles hampering movement. I could lumber along peacably. I actually felt bright and alert and sparkly and was happily wishing every six am grouch a chirpy goodmorning as I passed them.

And yes, the waistline has a slight indent again. Slight. Microscopic even. But it is definitely there. And the silhouette is not like a ship at full sail. Am delighted. Have worn a tight tee to work in acknowledgement of my delight. This after two weeks of yoga and stopping rice and needless carbs.

How has your experience been with yoga?

And so I went to a parlour.

I normally am the sort who sashays in twice a year to get facials done, and the rhino hide peeled off to revealed some modicum of skin underneath, and some highlights put in and voila, the rest of the year goes in a haze of home maintenance, but the other day I realised that the eyebrows could do with a professional hand to straighten them from the uneven caterpillars they’d become, lending a perma surprised look to my face, which I had begun to use to my advantage by looking at strange people on the roads, turning them into blathering confused masses of flesh, leaving the unlawful task they had in mind behind running off in haste. Including those spitting on the road. Or planning to. Not that it was a sight that one would look at with any great interest. Anyway.

I digress. And now I return. To the local parlour where I wandered in to have the girl do my eyebrows. She started her task methodically enough and then paused in her tracks and stared hard. And then got out a ruler. I kid you not. A ruler. The kind the kid has in his pencil box and runs around whacking all and sundry with. And put the damn thing on my forehead and took some mental notes. And I swear I could hear the cogs and wheeels in her brain whirring on overdrive. She then took an eyebrow pencil and made some marks and stood back and stared. And invited me to view her handiwork. I had managed, on my own, with absolutely no outside help, managed to singlehandedly (wow, what an achievement) to thin down one eyebrow at least oneforth of a centimeter as compared with the second eyebrow and the arch was nice and sharp in one and sleekly rounded in the other.

Is that why the spouse recently asked me if I was pulling a Lalita Pawar?

Moral of the story: I will now get my brows to the parlour or let them run riot.

And so early morning yoga begins…

On crisp green lawns. At 5.45 am. Four women of varying shapes gathered and spread out their yoga mats and looked expectantly at the font of wisdom. A couple let out involuntary yawns. The yoga teacher was calm and composed and used to dealing with yawns and creaky morning joints. There was, unfortunately, no can of oil handy to oil them creaking tin plates. I had done some ten minutes of walking so them joints werent about to embarass me I thought. But I was wrong. Ten minutes of some knee bending, and I could have given a junked car a run for its rust.

Yup, sporadic walking was doing nothing for them spare tyres which were inviting family and friends to join the gathering, therefore this extra initiative. I was also tired of patting my thighs centimetre by centimetre into my jeans.

Breathe in, breathe out. Inhale exhale. Hum the Aum. Feel it coming from within you. Five minutes of Aum chanting and I was ready to lie down on my mat and doze off to sleep. But the knowledge that I had an image to protect kept me going. Specially the fact that from the corner of my eye, I could see the curious husband who had pretend grunted when I left, telling him I was off for yoga class, standing in our bedroom balcony watching us, eyes peeled, all ready to give me a blow by blow critique of where I was going wrong.

So I struggled and creaked and squeaked, and felt muscles I never knew I had give way and hand in their resignation letters with immediate effect. And emerged from the session, strangely enough, raring to go. And not all sweaty and exhausted and ready to collapse like them gym sessions had left me in the days of yore when I would go to gyms and work out.

And the best part about the morning. Yoga instructor asks us all what our reasons are for joining up. She asks two in the group, “You are here for weight reduction?” If looks could kill, she would have been swinging from a tree. And then comes my turn, I quail and wilt under her benevolent gaze. “So,” she beams, “you are here for general fitness?”

If I could, I would have bounded up from lotus position and smothered her with joyous hugs, but I remained the picture of dignified calm. “Yes,” I replied. “Am here for general fitness.”

I did the victory dance in the elevator back home.