After having mortgaged myself life and limb to pay for all the laser treatments to reduce manly outcrop on chin and mouche, have discovered that polycystic ovaries are not to be trusted. They cannot be trusted to let good enough be and have to start doing mean things to hormonal levels just as one is stroking flawless, hairless, strokable chin. Therefore, I woke this morning to, eeeps, stubble. I kid you not. Next, the husband and I will be elbowing each other for viewing and shaving space in front of the bathroom mirror.
The husband sniggered meanly. “Its back,” he informed me politely. “You gotta admit now that the whole thing was a total waste of money.” This coming from a man who doesnt need a watch to tell the time, rather a watch to tell how much money you spent on it. I stroked my chin in Zen like contemplation. “Actually, its just one. Or maybe one more. Come on, I am nearing menopause now. All old ladies have beards.” I kid no one. I was crushed. The moment he settled himself in the armchair with the newspaper, I sprinted to the bathroom, with sharp and trusty tweezer in hand to remove the offenders. And then spent the rest of the day examining the face in varied lighting and varied angles to check for any stray offenders sprawled on the landscape mucking up my perfection. Lets just say. Quite a few were booked and incarcerated. As for self esteem, it has plummeted where no gravity defying bra can ever rescue it. Lets just face it honestly. I am now truly, completely and absolutely in old lady territory. And it doesnt help a bit when Madhuri Dixit comes on screen for the promos of Aaja Nachle and has me spend an hour mopping up drool on the floor from the open mouthed gawp of Madhuri fanatic hubby. “Look at her. She has two kids,” he takes time out between saliva drooling gasps of adoration to mutter as an aside to hapless me. The implication does not get lost on me, me with my antenna always on red alert to pick up implications.
To give the man credit though, he is always the first to give me tips on what I should be doing to get the ole body into ship shape. He never believes that a cause is lost. He is the type who is a fighter, who believes in the against all odds story. What can I say, he is a man who watched every episode of Biggest Loser with an intensity that I do not even reserve for Brad Pitt/Richard Gere/George Clooney movies.
The body. It has a mind of its own. Therefore, to balance out the outcrop on the chin, the hair on the crown of the head is thinning rapidly to allow greasy scalp to shine through in the glow of sunlight. Am contemplating bringing back the eighties chic with Halston turbans and such like. Or maybe, the Audrey Hepburn chic of scarves knotted carelessly around crown of head meant to carefully conceal rapidly diminishing hairline. Too much androgen happening in the body does this mean? A masculinisation of self. Must check if all the layers of pure fat are morphing into pure muscle. Nope, no luck there. But yes, something is definitely getting masculinised. Threw the grandfather of all mega tantrums in the office yesterday. The focus of my ire, the hapless peon who dared sell all my precious stash of fashion mags to the raddiwallah. I could have torn him limb to limb. I gnarled and snarled and bounced off the walls. They were just about to call the good doctor for a sedative injection and a certification for commitment to a double barrelled security facility when I realised I was throwing a hissy fit over magazines I wouldnt really need anymore. After all, hitting menopause and reading Vogue donot really go hand in hand. Therefore will now take out subscriptions to Goodhealth and Inner Voice and such like and improve on my inner self. Now the outer self is fast crumbling, will have to search for the beauty within. Something tells me its going to be a long and hard search.