Back to the blog. Withdrawal symptoms awful…

For a week, wordpress has held me at bay, like some unwanted maladrous suitor chasing a high society diva. Never got beyond the login page. Kind of reminded of my days of youth and not so much glory, when faint hopes of being the arm candy of the current flavour of college studhood was always dashed to the ground by them soda bottle spectacles and pustules and globules of excess sebum secretion. Not to mention the adipose. (Be careful of your dreams, they might come true. Actually got married to college hunk. Don’t ask me how, miracles do happen. And he is not even short sighted!). Withdrawal from blogging is not to be recommended. Temper tantrums, overeating and irrational behavior, aka, checking whether one can log in one zillion times a day, and resetting one’s password ten gadzillion times is not the sign of a normal healthy hobby. Perhaps I should check into blogaholics anonymous? Only if they let me hook up with a computer and a broadband once a day…might consider it.

So here I am, thanks to a super efficient Barry on the wordpress support team, back to lamenting the sudden rash of sales all over again, and the current dismal situation of the wallet. Is there some metaphysical law at work here? Will some kind scientist with no better research topic investigate why 50 per cent sales always happen when one is at one’s brokest ever, without even a penny to spare for chewing to kill gnawing hunger pangs caused by totally useless self starvation that only results in growling acidity and absolutely nil weight loss. Because one is delusional enough to eschew gym and chew gum, for one refuses to take to smoking. Responsible mother and what have you, and also the husband doesn’t smoke so he would immediately know the ashtray mouth. Not that one hasn’t tried. In the prepubescent era, one snitched a smoke from an ubercool Europe settled aunt’s bag and lit up in the dark confines of a musty bathroom only to have to emerge sputtering in embarrassment. That was the end of my smoking escapades. One has not smoked since. I like air to go into my lungs, God knows, breathing in Mumbai’s air is probably equivalent to chainsmoking in these smog infested times. Why add to the carcinogens already free floating in my bronchial tubes. Reading up about the ABCs (Atmospheric Brown Clouds, get real, one is past the ABCD as in alphabet stage by now, even though the writing might not reflect it.), and one doesn’t really want to know what soot and chemicals are congealing to create alien life forms in one’s nasal passages. As long as the lungs keep functioning, one is thankful.

Coming back to me and sales (Isn’t it absolutely delightful how I can go off on a completely irrelevant and needless tangent and emerge triumphant having bored the socks off all concerned?) Lifestyle is on a 50 per cent sale. They have some wonderful shoes I would break into a bank for, and if those are on sale, I want, I want, I want. I am in troth carrying around two gift vouchers from Lifestyle which were a birthday present from dear friend. Remember the birthday happened way back in June. And this is August. You just have to commend me on my incredible self restraint, or if truth be told, the brat is the permanent fixture to the side once one enters Lifestyle, and I am not decimating my birthday gift vouchers on a megablaster Power Ranger team. Perhaps I should be thankful to the brat, he is actually the main reason why one is not shopping as much as one used to. Never stays still enough for one to look at any shelves. Everything whirls into one dizzying mélange of colours as one passes through at warp speed, throwing aside hapless souls who dare block one’s path as the fruit of one’s womb runs helter skelter. A future career as a decathalon athlete is guaranteed.

Options is still on its 50 per cent sale. Havent been able to step into its hallowed slippery marble confines because though one passes it every day, one has brat attached to one’s person, and taking him in there would mean hara-kiri. The last time one went into it, to pick up a few pairs of jeans which had been bought the previous day, without brat in attendance and just had to be altered down to my size (read snipped into exactly half. These are jeans meant for lush long limbed Caucasian women.Which one is not, no matter how delusional the tripping around with four inch heels is.) had half the sales staff chasing him all over as he ran through shelves, behind counters and into, gasp, changing rooms. While people were changing. Horrors. Its amazing how the child can slither through the narrowest of gaps. Lokhandwala market is on a perpetua sale. I pass through it with the kind of hangdog expression roadside romeos reserved for the model types who emerge from chauffeur driven cars with the practiced smoothness that comes from repeating the same moves a thousand times over with different cars. One shop, god bless my greedy heart, even has a 70 per cent sign on the window. It was difficult to get out to take a dekko with the brat hanging onto the leg like a koala bear, so one abandoned the thought. What I really need right now though is the big ticket items for the house. The dining table. The sofa. The kitchen cabinets. The objets d’art. But somehow buying for the house isn’t arousing the right kind of fervour in me. I should now begin thinking of the market research as exercise. Walking up and down furniture stores is a legitimate form of exercise isn’t it? And given that I now have a waistline which rivals the hipline, any form of walking is welcome. Even one with a koala bear hanging onto right leg. More energy required to lift said leg. More energy expended equals more calories burnt. Wonder why talking doesn’t get one in shape? After all, the tongue is a muscle isn’t it, the strongest muscle, I am told. I would be the J Lo of suburbia by now.

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About Kiran Manral

Author of The Face At The Window, ( 2016), Karmic Kids, All Aboard (2015) , Once Upon A Crush (2014) and The Reluctant Detective (2011).
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