The Munchkin blog passed this on to me, and it came a while ago but since I was being to lazy about actually rolling up sleeves and getting down to work, didnt get down to doing anything about it. Plus, the fact that the tag asked me to list out five addictions. Only five. Thats like asking a food addict to survive on a plate of salad for an entire week. Which in turn meant I needed to do deep contemplative thinking. Which in turn meant I needed to stop drooling over fashion magazines and such like. And which meant…anyway…here’s my list.
My son’s smile: I need to see him laugh when he wakes up, I need to see his face crinkle up with joy when he sees me, I need to be the first face he sees when he opens his eyes. Yup, yup, call me obsessive. I can get myself into a funk on a day I think he hasnt laughed enough. It catches my breath, when his face lights up with joy and delight at random things, like pouring a sipper full of orange juice on my handknotted carpet and seeing me beat the world record for maximum number of footstomps in a minute.
My husband’s leg on mine when I sleep at night: If that weight isnt there I cant sleep. I cant fall asleep. I need that solidity, that reassurance of his presence around and the day he scoots off for a boys night out, I’m reduced to smarmy tricks like using weighted pillows on said leg.
The sound of my mother’s voice on the phone: Calm, reassuring, loving unconditionally. If I dont speak to her at least twice in the day, I feel fidgety and unsettled, and keep knocking things over until I realise its not sugar overdose but mamma withdrawal symptoms.
My funny books: PG Wodehouse. Dave Barry. Bill Bryson. Jerome K Jerome. I can read them back to back. Over and over again. They soothe me. They keep me laughing and sane. And they help me realise that this coughing attack brought on by indiscriminate laughing too will pass. And A new attack will come in its place. One accompanied by the tears streaming down face, and getting into nasal ducts and emerging as inelegant snorts.
My Blackberry: I always say, in a fire, I would grab my husband, my son and my Blackberry. Underwear, jewellery and the house ownership papers can wait for a second dash through. Enough said.
Now for my lesser addictions
Shoes: Can any woman worth her insecurity ever resist a great pair of shoes. Post my last brutal and ruthless weeding out, I am now left with two drawer full of shoes, which are now just barely 30. I think. This is being saintly compared with the earlier head count that had shoes spilling out of every cupboard, loft, balcony, bed that was in the house. What are my shoes like? Gold, copper, silver and black strappy numbers for evening wear, flats, ballys, Osho chappals for going down to the compound wear, stilettoes in tan, python, black peeptoes, gold peeptoes, a leopard skin wedgeheel that is current favourite and being worn on everything in most mismatched fashion, a pair of silver and wood wedgeheels which reminds me of being a Japanese platform heeled menace to the world, sequined copper slipons which have been worn once since purchase and a pair of furstrapped black and silver kitten heels that are delicate and sexy. And yes, a pair of white strappy low heels and a pair of (hold your breath) beige wedgeheels from Bata. Yup Bata. They actually have good comfortable and smart shoes that I endorse these days. Or perhaps. I am really become old. No steel spikes or six inchers for me anymore. Maximum four inches on a wedgeheel, or three on a stilletoe. Maybe I should have a couple of them steel spikes. Weapon of protection at parties. Just stuck one into the jugular of the cretin boring you with tales of his latest project on microchip based plasmamorphic matter transmission into outer space.
Bags: Give me a good bag over diamonds anyday. What the heck, give me the diamonds too. Yup weeding has happened in this department too. Am left with huggggge leopard skin Esbeda tote which hold everything I possess and can, in a crunch, contain the child too. A Guess bling bling gold bag. A Guess python and canvas number. A Fendi fake. A Choo fake. A couple of random indeterminate brands and clutches. And some which are hibernating in the corner of the wardrobe for the winter.
Fashion magazines: At any given point in my car you will find the latest Vogue, L’Officiel, Grazia and Marie Claire. And I will pore over them page by page till I know the image on the reverse of each page by heart. And the car seat will be wet from drool caused by excess salivation induced by images of exquisite clothes and bags and shoes and accessories.
Food: Self evident. Will not elaborate. Lets just say, I really need detox for this one.
And now I pass this on to:
Abha of Mamma Mia
Have fun girls.