..thanks to the non-chill of the climate which has landed me and the spawn of the womb with throats that are raw red and inflammed, and feeling sandpapered down to individual cellular level. The spawn is also all hot and feverish which means, given his propensity to febrile seizures, that he doesnt stay out of my sight for a single second, which is making calls of nature difficult to attend to if the other responsible adult, aka the spouse, is not in the vicinity.

Will be back in a few days. With a voice hopefully. Right now, I’m so hoarse, I see the spouse wince when I attempt to communicate. Maybe my voice is now sandpaper to his ears.

Written by Regina Brett, 90 years old, of the Plain Dealer, Cleveland, Ohio
“To celebrate growing older, I once wrote the 45 lessons life taught
me. It is the most-requested column I’ve ever written.”
My odometer rolled over to 90 in August, so here is the column once more:
1. Life isn’t fair, but it’s still good.
2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.
3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.
4. Your job won’t take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and
parents will. Stay in touch.
5. Pay off your credit cards every month.
6. You don’t have to win every argument.. Agree to disagree.
7. Cry with someone. It’s more healing than crying alone.
8. Its OK to get angry with God. He can take it.
9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck.
10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.
11. Make peace with your past so it won’t screw up the present.
12. Its OK to let your children see you cry.
13. Don’t compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey
is all about.
14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn’t be in it.
15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. But don’t worry; God never
blinks.
16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind & soothes the soul
17. Get rid of anything that isn’t useful, beautiful or joyful.
18. Whatever doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger.
19. It’s never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up
to you and no one else.
20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don’t take no for an
answer.
21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don’t
save it for a special occasion. Today is special.
22. Over prepare, then go with the flow..
23. Be eccentric now. Don’t wait for old age to wear purple.
24. The most important sex organ is the brain.
25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you.
26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words ‘In five years, will
this matter?’
27. Always choose life.
28. Forgive everyone everything.
29. What other people think of you is none of your business.
30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time.
31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.
32. Don’t take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
33. Believe in miracles.
34. God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or
didn’t do.
35. Don’t audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.
36. Growing old beats the alternative – dying young.
37. Your children get only one childhood.
38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.
39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.
40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d
grab ours back.
41. Envy is a waste of time.. You already have all you need.
42. The best is yet to come.
43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.
44. Listen, yield and share hugs and knowledge with abandon.
45. Life isn’t tied with a bow, but it’s still a gift.”

And I’d like to add some of my own, from a 38 year old:

1]Get up, dress up, show up.

2] Never say no to work. No matter how boring it may seem, or how underpaid, or below your capabilities.

3] Respect your elders and listen when they talk. You’ll get to be an elder soon enough.

4] Your children are your chance at a second childhood. Enjoy them.

5] Eat whatever you like. But eat in moderation and make sure you work it off.

6] Always use sunscreen and a hat or an umbrella.

7] Take care of yourself (Especially for us women), no one else will.

8] Put your husband first. He came before the child and he will be with you after the child leaves the nest.

9]Dont talk with your mouth full.

10]If you cant say anything good about anyone, shut up.

11] Everyday, in every way, reaffirm to yourself that you are a wonderful person.

12] Try and help people. You never know when you will need some help yourself.

13] Cut out toxic people. Life is too short.

14] A relationship needs to be give and take. If you feel yours is all give and no take, its high time you got out of it.

15]Your body is a temple. Eat well. Sleep well. Exercise regularly.

16]Do one thing everyday that you look forward to.

17] A routine is very important for discipline, no matter how boring it may seem.

18] The world does not revolve around you.

19] Dont lie. No matter what.

20] Be gentle. Be polite. Be courteous. Be gracious. And when required, be a bitch.

I love ice cream. I really do. I mean there are days when I can sell my soul for a tub of ice cream. And there have been days when only getting through a tub of ice cream has pulled me through depression so severe that I havent even put my lipstick on. I have sacrificed diets, slim fit dresses, and the ability to run in a public situation for the love of icecream.

And naturally, given that I love icecream, it is but natural that when I heard that Haagen Daz was coming into India I would hyperventilate with joy. That I would count my pennies and put them into the piggy bank in anticipation of ODing on icecream in flavours so sinful that only sex could be better. And then I read this.

I suggest you pause and read it too before you go any further. And you come back once you’re done.  I read that the Mumbai outlet is here. I dont think I’m going there soon.  If someone, with an Indian passport, is around Tirupati Apartments, and carrying their passport with them at the moment they decide they would like to have an icecream, I would really like to know what the policy is at the Mumbai store.

Why are we even letting this company do business in India? What does this mean for us as a nation? That we are not worthy enough of tasting Haagen Daz? That we dont appreciate good icecream? Or that we cant afford it? Or perhaps, that we are not worthy of entering their pristine hallowed premises?

An apology would be good. Better would be running them out of India.

Edited to add: Apparently the policy has now been dropped and the store is open to all Indians. I am still not going there. I belong to the Groucho Marx school of thought.

Strangely enough, I have never, ever, in the course of my entire 38 years on this planet, ever bought myself perfume. I would like to think I have generous friends and relatives rather than dwell on the obvious, which would be unbearable BO, which has them fleeing for their sanity unless I am perfumed to olfactory knock out levels.

I refuse to dwell on these thoughts. Yes, I do live in Mumbai. Mumbai on an average day is like sitting in the midst of a steam room, with all your clothes on, plus the sun shining down on you. Your pores get a great workout if you live in this city. If you step out without deodorant sprayed on your goodself, I must walk upto you and pump your hand in admiration of your bravery. It is also a practical decision. It is one which will have crowds in local trains part for you like the Red Sea, without any hand of God to do the needful, just your very own sebaceous glands working on freeflow which will do the trick. It will have people let you travel alone in lifts. It will have cubicle co-workers spend more time outside said cubicle giving you the time and space you need to ideate. I can actually think of many benefits of ditching the deo. Along with the unwelcome side effects of having no romantic life to speak of. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to employ this insidious tactic when you want to bail on a relationship. Maybe they could package and market bad BO spray to be worn when you go on that “I think we need some space’ date. It would save a lot of bad blood, with the opposite party just totally relieved to get out of your presence, and actually counting their blessings. I think I have a winning business idea here…I might just make it to be a millionaire before I kick the bucket.

Seriously though, to get back onto the track I have digressed from, the perfume stash, I realised is at an all time low. I have at current counting, one Escada (gifted by the man on an anniversary/birthday/goodmood day, I forget which of the above), one Nina (gifted by dear friend P on a birthday, last year), one Chanel No 5 (gifted by the Aunt from abroad on my wedding, 14 years ago, and never used because it doesnt have a spray format but needs you to apply and therefore, I end up spilling it on bathroom counter, and therefore avoided using, I think the perfume must have disintegrated into individual components sitting in the drawer for so long, anyone knows if perfume ages like wine?), one Fifth Avenue (Gifted by friend), one Versus something in a nice purple bottle with some fancy gold chain (Gifted again by the spouse), one Tresor (Gifted by the spouse), one Gucci (gifted by I forget who), and all of the above, except for the Chanel No 5 are down to their last drops.

It would be nice, I thought, to actually choose a perfume for myself, seeing as I have never ever had the opportunity to go out there and do so.  Therefore I decided to take myself perfume shopping. I did not know what awaited me. I presumed this would be a simple task of smelling said testers, deciding which smell fitted into the budget I’d set myself, paying for said bottle and walking out of the store. Obviously, my inexperience at perfume buying made me naive. Had I known what was to befall me, I would have restrained myself and dropped broad hints to the man, seeing as the wedding anniversary is around the corner, and he is a man who judges a flower by its fragrance. And never stints on keeping the perfume stocked up on my shelves. But this was a crisis. More a crisis of confidence and the need to buy, which does not have any rationale behind it, therefore undeniable. Thus it was that I found myself in the perfume section at Shoppers Stop at Inorbit. For a moment, I thought there was a Wanted notice stuck all around the mall with my teethbaring mugshot, plus an obscene reward announce for whoever manages to capture me first and deliver me to mall security seeing the speed at which the sales folk descended on me. They circled me at first, like vultures to carrion. And then pounced, spraying little strips of white paper with bottles of whatever perfume they were hawking, and proceeded to wave said strips under my nose, in a continuous overdrive until my nose hair shrivelled up and died in protest. Then they caught the back of my head and dunked me face down into a jar of coffee beans that woke me up from olfactory overload induced somnabulism, and then proceeded to wave more strips of white paper under my nose. I ended the trip running staggering out of the store with not one perfume bought. It actually felt like one of those C grade horror flicks, where you get stuck on a deserted highway with no petrol and wander into a deserted house, with voila, zombies, emerging from every nook and cranny, chasing you until you manage to escape their evil clawing grasp. That was me fleeing from the perfume sales persons, all reaching out to me, with insidious white strips in their hands …guarantee to convert me into a perfume zombie the moment it touched my bare skin…..

I am so waiting for my next gift. I have a soft corner for Fendi. In case the spouse reads this.

The bride is supposed to outshine the guests. You have had your shot at being a bride many many years ago. Have the grace to leave a few of your necklaces behind in the locker. Cant have the guests pull on sunglasses being so dazzled by the walking mountain of gold.

The stage is not the best place to start reminiscing about the time you dandled the now groom on your knee. The bride is not interested. She is hot, uncomfortable and tired. The groom is waiting for it all to get over so he can get straight down to suhaag raat activities. The rest of the guests in line are growing beards and roots waiting for you to get off.

The owner of the three year old who insists on being on stage and posing for photographs regardless of being wanted in the frame, kindly take possession of said three year old. The bridal couple might not appreciate the cuteness of your child, not when he’s in every second photograph in their album.

I know you are hungry, and the line at the buffet is long, but please refrain from elbowing me in the small of my back to get me to hurry up. I seriously cant do anything about the pace of the folk in front of me serving themselves, especially when they are making detailed enquiries about the ingredients and the recipe of every item on offer, and then engage in lengthy debate with each other on whether said item is worth ingesting.

You, yes, you with the plate that reminds me of Hanuman bearing the mountain, you do know you can go back for seconds dont you. Dont mind if I watch you pack away all that is on your plate. It is a performing art. You deserve an audience and much applause and handshaking when you’re done. After you’ve washed your hands, of course.

Why are you wearing a dupatta? And why is it draped so delicately around you? Why are you wearing embroidery on your clothes? Why are you fidgeting incessantly with said dupatta in a manner I hitherto only associated skittish teenaged girls with? Is that a hint of gloss on your lips? Lord help us, where have the men gone?

When you meet me after years, do not comment about my appearance unless it is to say something positive. A simple you are so happy to see me would suffice. Comments about nonexistent hair, expanded waist and such like will not endear you to me. I might be tempted to stab you with the fruit fork and drag your remains under the draped buffet tables. You know.

Yes, this is my child pulling at my clothing, trying to wriggle out of the conversation. Only acceptable comments about him are on the lines of “Oh how cute he is!” With the exclamation mark.  Not, repeat, not statements on the lines of “How do you manage him?” and horrified gasps accompanied by inching away to safer zones where spills from icecreams being ingested by child onto your silks are not possible.

You in the corner, I’m counting the number of icecreams you’ve taken. I really am. Cross my heart. I’m praying for your voice box.

So says Wikipedia.

Blend of recession and fashionista.

1. A person who can dress stylishly on a tight budget.

The budget currently is not tight. It is non existent. It is the kind of mythic creature that Albus Dumbledore had in Fawkes, which burnt to cinders and reincarted itself. Mine is at burnt out stage. I am waiting for the reincarnation.

The challenge is tremendous. And I am the kind of person who needs to be coordinated even if it means getting dug out of the grave and being reburied with shoes that match. Metaphorically speaking of course. In reality I would rather be dumped into an electric furnace and be reduced to ashes in a few minutes. But the imagery of my spirit moving around in the afterlife, miserable because I’m consigned to eternity with shoes that dont go with my outfit is so appropriate that I’m compelled to hang onto it. I am currently on austerity drive so austere that I window shop from 50 ft distance from show windows like some stalker with a restraining order forbidding her from entering the vicinity of store windows for fear she will attack the mannequin with a pen knife from sheer frustration and not being able to cart off said outfit to the cash counter.  I have kept my credit card in the ice compartment of the refrigerator to ensure such ‘I must have that now” moments dont occur. Ever.

Frugal fashion. Being fashionable on a budget. Searching for bargains. It rather feels like I’m back in college again, walking down the length and breadth of Fashion Street in the blazing sun with my painstakingly saved up precious few rupees in my hand, agonising over every purchase and ending up making completely inappropriate ones that I end up taking the scissors to. I must confess though, that I’ve always, despite my public image of being a spendthrift, been a bit of a tightwad when it comes to purchases that are an indulgence. That department has always been the husband’s and I’m doing the chicken dance now with the ‘nyah nyah nyah nyah’ at him, seeing how broke we’ve managed to get ourselves. But this is not about the fillings being pulled out and weighed to be sold. They dont even do silver fillings anymore. And teeth have no resale value. What’s a girl going to do in trying days like this when everything is on 50 and 60 per cent sale, but she cant even justify buying stuff even on sale? For two reasons. One, being the overflowing wardrobes which contain many clothes still absolutely virgin. The second being the sad state of the bank account which doesnt leave even chewing gum money to help us curb hunger pangs after payments for essentials are made. Anyone know anyplace where chewing gum is available on discount?

Seriously though, I have metaphorically tightened my belt. No more impulse buying. I have developed the will power equivalent to an iron band which allows me to drive through Lokhandwala market and not make a quick stop to run shrieking into a store with 70 percent sale emblazoned on its windows. Or the kind which are definitely engineered towards you emptying out your handbag on the cashier’s counter, with the “Store Closing Sale. Everything must go!” stuck all on the glass windows, ensuring that the everything that does go is your sanity when you actually buy shoes that are too small in your excitement thinking you can diet your feet down to fit into them. I’m actually taking pride in cutting corners. Its a tough call for me. I’m feeling the kind of virtuousness that I have never experienced before. Well, maybe in my childhood. I had a rough one. I’m so not going back there.

Here’s what I’m doing:

Concentrating on making my body as perfect as I can through portion control, a healthy diet and exercise. Paying attention to my skin and hair. This is not, repeat not, the buying of sell your soul level of La Prairie cosmetics and such like that will make the skin glow and the hair bounce, but simple, cost effective home remedies done consistently. Oiling the hair. Henna. Besan malai haldi on the face.Staying out of the sun. Using a sunblock regularly. Creaming the hands and feet before sleeping. I use the drug store variety brands (not my make up. I am particular about my lipstick and eyeliner, thats all I use, apart from a compact). Except for my face wash and scrub (Neutrogena), the rest of my skin care is very basic. Johnson’s Baby Cream for the face. Vaseline for the feet. Vaseline Body lotion for the body. But done consistently and regularly, it does make a difference. The skin glows. The hair bounces. You feel good. You know you are looking good. If your hair, skin and body are in their best shape possible, anything you wear will look good. I’m not at optimum hair, skin and body levels yet, but I’m getting there. And I’m clutching onto that to see me through till I can afford to go shopping again. Also, this is my way of pampering myself. I think I deserve it.

Re-creating my clothes. Dig out clothes you had packed away. You can still get some use out of them. Crop pants that are out of style to a mid calf length and pair them with tunics and kurtis. A nice embroidered chiffon dupatta can become a long tunic with simple stitching down the sides, and space left for the armholes. Cut out a neck, and hem it. Wear with a cami inside and jeans. Will rock any party. Wore one to a party the other day, and was swamped with compliments, and I’m hoping none of them were the sniggering “Gawd WHAT is she wearing!” kind… A nice huge printed scarf can be converted into a scarf top in the same way. I have a couple of Satya Paul scarves I never use which are going under the knife soon.

Keep your accessories good. Dont stint on spending on bags and shoes. You dont need too many, but a couple of good quality bags and shoes are worth the investment and the ’should I, shouldnt I’ agony, and the plucking out of the eyelashes while you decide. Good shoes and bags and classic jewellery are musts. Dont, for the love of fashion, wear an ensemble that is totally rasta. Have one saving element that is a good brand, maybe shoes, or a bag or a pair of trousers. A good quality handbag is always an investment. Dont opt for funky if you have a choice between funky and classic. Funky dates, classic stays.

Stay manicured and pedicured. You will feel better about whatever you wear when your hands and feet are perfect. You dont need to visit a salon, just take time out and DIY. Keep your eyebrows in shape and your body exfoliated. Half the battle to looking good is won when there is no superflous hair on your body. I must pay attention to this dictat though. I slide on this one quite often until the doctors start examining my teeth for unusual growth of incisors, given that the rest of me has morphed into a wolfwoman.

Throw out everything in your wardrobe that is obviously frayed, faded or stained.Push clothes that are slightly faded to home use. And visit good export surplus stores for tshirts and tops and dresses. Always choose colours that will go with anything you own. Keep the staples in basic colours, and build the rest of your wardrobe around them. You need a black trouser, a deep blue trouser, a pair of dark denims, a pair of light denims, a straight skirt in a navy/ beige. Build your top/tshirt collection around this. Buy these on sale. Always. Know your size and the style you want before the sale starts so you can get in on the first day and get what you want quick.  Invest in good trousers and skirts as the base of your wardrobe and build around it. My motto is, if it is not on sale, I dont buy it. I will window shop, tongue leaving trails of drool in mall aisles, for months, waiting for the store to go on sale, and then swoop down on what I had my eyes on, and feel completely vindicated for all those months of wait. Which also brings me to my moot point, pick up the classics on sale. The formal trousers. The office/formal bag. The classic denims. They will give you years of use.  Educate yourself about what looks good on you and what is in vogue and combine the two. Know your body and dress appropriately. Body fits do not go with muffin tops. And hipsters are really really meant for them with no tummy. If you wear ethnic wear often, dont be afraid to mix and match, pick up interesting dupattas from handicraft exhibitions and pair them with self coloured kurtis and churidars. Always buy kurtis and churidars in basic colours to ensure they can be rotated. Dont buy expensive, but buy interesting. Prints, textures, cuts.

Invest in a good haircut. I havent. To be honest. My haircut is long overdue. My kind of hair looks the same cut or uncut. But a good haircut immediately ups your look. Check out training colleges looking for volunteers for demos in your neighbourhood if you arent averse to experimenting with your look. Learn to trim your bangs yourself, to save on trips to the salon. If you colour/highlight your hair, find out if your regular hairstylist from the salon will do you a home visit. You can buy your own colour, and this will work out much cheaper than getting it done at a salon.

Buy accessories that can multitask. A scarf that can be used as a belt. A hair ornament that can be a brooch. If you are into accessories that is. My personal look is very non accessories. I wear the same damn jewellery every single day and couldnt be bothered to change. Keeps me sane. I am also not a person who wears funky jewellery. That much less of a hassle on an everyday basis.

Have swap parties. Have friends get together at a common place, bring along stuff that is brand new but never worn or barely worn, and exchange stuff.

Finally, be creative. Use old upholstery in interesting weaves to create carpet bags from the local bagwallah. Cut up torn chiffon dupattas to make stoles. Make interesting kurtis from old silk sarees. Recycle everything you have.  And have fun.

Here’s a list of places I like to shop at (And no, they’re not giving me free clothes for writing this):

Hum India Fab Pvt Ltd, Plaza 61, Next Tp Cheap Luck, Opposite St Joseph School, Bandra(W), Hill Road, Mumbai, Maharashtra 400060

Choosy, 2/3 Silver Spring, Lokhandwala Complex, Andheri W, Swami Samarth Nagar Road, Mumbai 

The Apparel and Clothesrack stores. Branches all over Mumbai.

And I wait till I can go back to MNG and Guess without guilt pangs.

 What are you doing to stay hip in these frugal times??

Here’s what I found in my inbox. From Wills Lifestyle. It is called the Wills Lifestyle Signature Line. The designers?  JJ Valaya, Rohit Bal, Satya Paul, Rina Dhaka, Ranna Gill, Shantanu-Nikhil, Rajesh Pratap Singh and Rohit Gandhi-Rahul Khanna. The price points? Rs 3000 to Rs 15,000. The temptation to run out shrieking to pick up one right now, credit card maxed out limite be damned? Immediate.

On closer scanning though, I dont think I would wear any. These are all designed for stick insects. And well, I am a woman with, er, womanly attributes. It would be nice if designers got it into their heads to design party wear for women like me who want all parts of their body to be covered, the drape to camouflage the little tummy that sticks determindedly out, the flare to do nice things with visual perspective and create the illusion of a waist, the length till the ankles for modesty (what, what, I’m a dinosaur, remember, I dont do short dresses!).  Maybe I should just stick to sarees.

If I was pushed into any of these, twould be the black and white crinkled Rina Dhaka up left. Nice drape, one shoulder covered, very Grecian, cinched waist for definition and in my favourite colour of all times. I would lay off the jewellery though. A dress this dramatic doesnt need overload with chunky jewellery to kill it.

Which one would you choose?

…and what a year it has been. Its been the kind of year that I’m happy seeing the back of, and waving good bye and good riddance and such like. Annus Horribilis. I need 2010 to be an Annus Miraculus. Or whatever a nice year is called in Latin without the queen getting into the naming of.  Now that I’m on the verge of waving 2009 off into the void of time/space where I can only return if I ever live to see a time machine and maybe a young Michael J Fox in it, would I like to go back to 2009 ever? No. Not in my life. Never. I would have to be brought back molecule by molecule, screaming into the ethers of space vacuum (soundless screaming I think that would be, if I’ve got my sci-fi right), fighting valiantly all attempts to have this year happen to me again. But the year has had some good moments. And I have had some serious mindshifts. For those who have been regular readers of thirtysixandcounting, you would understand how earthshaking these mindshifts have been in the house of Manral.

I’ve come to appreciate Eleanor Roosevelt’s quote, “Women are like tea bags, you dont know how strong they are till you put them in hot water.” And boy, have I been scalded this year. Scalded pink and raw.  Hopefully, the next year will have the water at a more pleasant temperature. Overboiled tea leaves can turn bitter. I’m not turning bitter.

I am not overboiled tea leaves. To think of it, I’ve ditched the tea and coffee habit and now I am healthier than ever thanks to my new great regimen that involves me staring longingly at the coffee jar, and physically restraining myself from twisting the lid off and brewing myself some. To be honest, during the initial days of going off tea and coffee, I could be found sleepwalking to the coffee jar, spoon in hand ready to spoon some granules straight into my mouth. It was not easy. I am the kind of person who takes her addictions very seriously. And coffee has been the kind of addiction that has seen me through trying deadlines and pressure cooker levels of stress. It would seem disloyal to ditch it so abruptly, but one must be ruthless. Given one’s hands had started senile trembling if I was deprived of my morning cuppa. To be honest, going healthy, stopping tea/coffee/carbonated beverages and overeating has been the biggest thing I’ve done for myself this year. Add to this cutting down on needless shopping for self and child. I think I’ve earned my halo, polished to mirror shine.  I’ve started taking exercise seriously. Not serious exercise mind you. Just a regular one hour evening constitutional. At a relatively easy pace, going upto the brisk if one feels the need for a little sweating to prove to one that one has exorcised some grams of fat. They are stubborn things these grams of fat, they have the survival skills of cockroaches. In the aftermath of a nuclear war, the only thing that will survive are cockroaches getting oversized because all the fat from the humans has migrated to surviving cockroaches. Which is all well, because they can then open fat farms.

Another big lifechange for me has been the giving up of unnecessary buffet dining. I stick to a la carte. Its worked out better. I order less. I can actually see my fellow diners across the table and not find my vision blocked by the mountain of food on my plate. I dont feel compelled to ‘get my money’s worth’ and proceed to the buffet counter for a minimum of six rounds, and then request a wheelchair to be taken to the car due to lack of mobility caused by insane overeating. I have nightmares of getting stuck into my chair at one of them buffets and needing a carpenter to be called in to extricate me.

I also began getting Serious White Hair this year. I mean serious. I mean white hair that pops up in nostrils and eyebrows and places on the body unmentionable in a public G rated forum that makes you feel truly old and at the point of giving up the ghost. I gave up hair colour. I turned to henna. I decided not to tempt fate into multiplying the number of grey. Wouldnt do for the child to still be in the primary and moi to look like I was ready to marry him off. I’ve stuck to henna. The grey on the scalp gets camouflaged a bit. The grey elsewhere I ignore. The spouse knows better than to bring it up in a casual conversation. He may be a brave man, but he is also not a foolish man. On the flip, the spouse has gone completely salt and pepper and rocks the look. Life isnt fair. Should I decide to let the grey be untouched, I will find people offering to help me across the street.

Recession deprived me of another one of my most favourite things to do in life vertically speaking. Shopping. No more impulse buys. No more strolling into stores and buying new clothes, shoes, bags, just because. In fact I think my last pair of new shoes and two new hand bags were bought in June. By the man. As a birthday gift.  That was me falling down in shock and breaking the floortiles. Six months of no new bag is a first. This calls for a news crew to be here, interviewing me. This calls for me to write a book on how I cured myself of Shopaholism by Going Broke. This is the kind of book that I just see as a best seller, and me doing book tours and appearances on television where I just hope the host gets my name right and holds the book upto camera for three seconds before moving onto the next guests and leaving me free to yawn and snooze off on the comfy sofas they normally have for this kind of show.

 This is the kind of self restraint that I admire in folks like monks and nuns and such like. I think I could try the bed of nails next. If I can stay away from shopping. And buffets. And coffee, I can pretty much do anything I set my mind to. Except cook a decent meal, maybe. Is the shine from my halo putting the sun to shame?

And for me, that is cause to celebrate by pulling out the pullovers from storage. I have a body thermostat that is acutely sensitive to cold. Or implied cold. I am the one in the sweater in the movie theatre, and with the shawl over the shoulder in case it gets colder within, to limits that three hours of sitting in one place to watch a film would need them to thaw my corpse when the lights come on after the end credits. And yes, I have got my thyroid levels checked. Normal. I am a cold blooded creature. I’m probably a reptile reincarnated. I must have been a snake in my previous life. The only explanation why I go ballistic at the sight of them in the current.

Paradoxically, I love the cold, for someone who shivers when the car airconditioning is on, and who constantly has screaming fights with the husband about the fan being on full blast, and must sleep with a thick woollen blanket pulled all over herself. In much the manner of a corpse. I am so not going to be a candidate for those Himalayan treks. I will spend all available fuel on warming myself up. But I love hillstations. In winter. Bundled up in warm clothes, with puffs of air coming from one’s breath, the crisp smell of fallen leaves and woodfires all around, the kind of crisp clear air that makes everything seem technicolour. I dont get to see much of the cold thanks to the husband who, if he could, would retire from a professional life, and get a second career as a beach bum.

For someone who lives in a warm, humid city, that only changes from summer to monsoon, I have a fabulous collection of woollens. Which, of course, I rarely get a chance to wear. Therefore, when the temperature slips to below 20 degrees Celsius, my heart starts singing. I bring out my woollens from storage and air them to rid them of the mothball smells. I think of opportunities when I can wear them out in a public situation without people around me collapsing in uncontrollable mirth or reacting by breaking into a sweat at the vision of me snug as a bug in my woollen turtlenecks.

It has always been a longstanding desire to own a black fitted leather jacket. I think the look is cool. Black leather jacket. Slim jeans and sharp high black patent leather stilletoes. The man vetoed it. He mentioned unmentionable things like perspiration doing nasty things to the molecular structure of treated leather making it, well, if I must be graphic, smell. He wasnt buying into the Ladies Dont Sweat motto. He’s seen me at my best as a fire hydrant during May, where if I sweated any more I could be a walking waterfall. Nonetheless, I have an absolutely first class collection of regular jackets and warm clothes. Even, I am embarassed to say, some argyle vests gifted to me. Some fine cable knitted oversized sweaters. A couple of front open cardigans. Many woollen turtlenecks. In case of a second Ice Age, I am stocked up with clothes. And the body fat.

Therefore, when, the other day down at the park in the evening, a cold pleasant breeze broke out, I had to be physically restrained from doing cartwheels. I was thrilled beyond words, it is starting to get cold, I declared with great joy to my fellow walkers. They looked at me strangely, mopping their sweating brows. One of them suggested that I take a sip of water. No, no, I chirped enthusiastically, it is getting cold. See, it is definitely, chilly, I pointed out. They obviously didn’t. I could see the sweat pouring off their faces and they walked brisk and determinedly around the jogging track. I could feel the cold breeze cutting through the thin cotton that I was wearing and solemnly swore to wear a sportsjacket the next day, to keep in my body heat. Wouldnt do to get attacked by hypothermia while on the daily constitutional. As I mulled over this, a blithe young thing raced past us in a racer cut vest and capri tracks. I winced. I shivered a bit looking at her. I admired her bravery. The temperature had hit 18 degrees. It was time to bring out the fleece and the flannel. Maybe she was like some of those Russian or was it Japanese folk who like to jump into freezing lakes butt nekkid in some sort of pagan celebration of the cold weather. Maybe, was it possible, that she didnt really feel the cold. Maybe, just maybe, its me who needs to get the internal thermostat checked out.

The past couple of weekends have been weekends from hell, the details of which I will not go into right here, suffice to say I have my own personalised version of resident evil right at home.

So it came to pass that on Sunday evening the little men with horns and tails were having a right bang up within my cranium. It started rather innocously with a slight ache behind the right eye as it always does and within the hour I was head buried into the pillows wishing I could garotte anyone who dared speak in volumes greater than a whisper. Unfortunately the spouse and child are made of stern stuff and do not believe in following decibel levels as laid down by me. Obviously I need to change my intimidating strategies. I need to be taken seriously. I need my commands to be followed unquestioningly. I thunder, “Keep in down guys, my head is splitting.” The child comes right upto my ear and lets out a high pitched scream that would have been a right contender for glass shattering abilities after Darryl Hannah patented it in Splash. The spouse changes the channel to a filmi song one which has the kind of loud beats that the men in pointy horns just love and start synchronising their drilling too. They spread operations from behind right eye and get down to serious work in mid cranium now with road drills that seem to be making pulp of the entire right half of the brain. Within half an hour my jaw, my teeth, my ear have all risen in revolt, and handed in their papers. I loll listlessly on the bed in agony. “I think I have a brain tumour, ” I gasp to the spouse, ready to dictate my dying will and last testament. He casts a surly gaze at my agonised face, and changes the channel without a word. “Take a Disprin.”  “I already took two. The headache is just getting worse,” I reply in dramatic manner that would have won me an Oscar is anyone would have got a camera rolling while I said it.

I drag myself inch by inch to the next room which happens to be currently unoccupied because the elderly relative is out for a religious function. I put the lights out, close the door, and lie with my head sandwiched between two pillows to muffle out the sound and light that set the drills on overdrive. I should atleast drink to enjoy the pleasure of being drunk rather than suffer these phantom hangovers, I think. I wonder if I should go in for a brain scan. I wonder if they will find a blob the size of an orange somewhere within the flabby grey folds. I revel in doomsday projections with the kind of sadism that would have served me better had I been in the movie making business. I picture myself in a hospital robe, smiling wanly at the child before being wheeled in to have my skull cut up, it occurs to me that the child has skipped his evening milk, thanks to my headache, so I crawl across the room, which has suddenly become the consistency of treacle like air molecules, and yell at the spouse to get the child his milk. I get a grunt in response. I crawl back into the bed, and position pillows appropriately. Then, take one pillow off because I cannot hear the spouse yelling at the child to down his milk, a task on normal days, which must have at least fifty repetitions of “Drink your milk” at volumes enough for the cows at Aarey Milk Colony across the highway to start lactating in fear. I swam through the treacley molecule air that suddenly forms when I have migraine attacks and motion becomes difficult, and poked my head into the other room, the child and the spouse were contently watching a movie, the storyline of which revolves around a character named John Rambo and contains gratuitious acts of violence. I threw the kind of yelling screaming tantrum that had John Rambo forgotten and the milk downed in two shakes of an AK 47.

I prepared to crawl back under the pillows when I realised that the head was normal. I was not seeing double, the men with horns and a tail had tucked their tails between their legs and vamoosed. The head was back in my sole possession. The moment they return the next time round, I know just what to do. I’m patenting that tantrum. I’m open to giving guest lectures, and doing appearances on shows. I think I might just make my fortune yet.