Leopard Print peep toe gold speckled wedgeheels. Multihued hair thanks to the indignity of random henna being slapped onto old and faded highlights. Tshirts straining to contain growing corpulence and euphemistic prosperity. Deep Indigo Next Jeans that once fitted snuggly and now have ugly roll of far lolling undignifiedly over waistband. Legs that look like plucked chicken, massive cellulite thigh and scrawny knee down. Gold bling bling Guess bag that would have nicely counterbalanced its bulk when carried by slim model type person, but adds to the overall sense of rotundity. Kungfu Panda dark circles adding to drained goth look face. Eyeliner streaming in every direction. Powder compact unfortunately a couple of shades lighter than the regular thanks to having been bought in a rush from badly trained counter salesperson—L’Oreal, are you listening? Manicure ruined by neglect and stress inducing chewing. Any wonder I almost screamed and leaped away in fright when I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in a mirror in a public place.
This being the month of reinvention, according to one of them bibles one reads assiduously to improve one’s mind and wardrobe, namely Marie Claire, which has done us the favour of making Mandira Bedi new and improved and featuring simultaneously, IN THE SAME ISSUE, a complete rundown on the various looks adopted by Madonna through her long and illustrious career, one needs to bury one’s head in shame and pack the sand around it. Or one can leap up, like a spring just got pokily prodded in one’s butt and decide to do a complete reinvention of self. I talked myself into choosing to do the latter. Where do I start with the reinvention? Am all in a lather and confused and rather like a bird which has meandered into a room with no windows and a fan at high speed.
First things first. The scale has to swing. And quick. Random strangers are walking upto me and congratulating me, asking me when the baby is due. A load pile of weight has just slapped bang into me over the past couple of months, and this when I am eating chicken feed, subsisting on fruits and milk at night, walking two hours a day and have become the equivalent of a saint and eschewed alcohol and all things sweet and calorific. Blood tests and such like have not revealed nice things, and medication is being administered to tackle the issue. So hopefully one will be back to levels where there is some differentiation between the indent of waistline and hipline soon.
Something needs to be done about the hair. If ye kind souls cast your minds back to the anguished plea few posts down the line about the hair falling like the Blessed Damozel’s tears (yup, overdose of Wodehouse happening, I confess happily), rest assured that the Blessed Damozel has spent all the tears she could spend and has none left for shedding anymore. Read that as the scalp is showing through the few strands that are left attached by root and bulb to said scalp. Have reconciled myself to the loss of hair that was once pride and glory and lionmane like and am now buying hair clips and rubberbands and butterfly clips and such like to keep the remnants off my face, given that a few stray strands fluttering in the mean monsoon wind donot a pretty picture make. And no, don’t go by the picture in the header. That was over a year ago, and life and weight has come a long way since.
The wardrobe too needs some reorganizing. Given current weight situation all tight fit tshirts have been shoveled to the bottom in the optimism that I would one day shrink enough to fit back into them and not look like a leg of mutton dressed like lamb and such like. The loose tunics, the stuff that doubled as maternity wear, and horror of horrors, kurtis have made it to the top of the pile. The mother snorted in disgust. You might as well wear kaftans and roll around like a ball if you want to camouflage your weight. No one gets fooled, she says, and says so with righteousness and rightly. The looser the clothes one wears the faster one expands, imagining innocently that no one can see the fat cells on multiply within the loose folds of clothes covering them. Till kaboom, one fine day, you cant get into them loose clothes too! The moral of the story, according to the wise and aged ancestor is to stick to them tight clothes never mind how ridiculous one looks, which then works as a motivation for one to get cracking to reduce levels of ridiculousness and develop thick and impervious hide to deflect stones thrown by them urchins as one passes.
Therefore, have cut out pic of Madonna at fifty and stuck on the cupboard door. Wear itsy bitsy garter and corset type ensemble, Cleopatra eyes and red lips and looking like something any redblooded man would fight lions with barehanded to get a fair chance with. Kidding myself I’m more Monica Belluci than Kate Bosworth doesn’t work. And seeing the husband wipe drool off his chin at a recent pix in the papers of La Dixit rehearsing for her US shows doesn’t help a bit.
If that doesn’t push me to reinvent and improve self, nothing will.