The morning walk has been discarded ruefully. My shuttered eyes are thanking me for it, though the ostensible reason I keep giving myself is that there is too much company to allow me to walk in peace. Some other residents of the building who consider themselves my friends decided I was looking too mournful walking on my lonesome ownsome and decided it was their moral duty to drag themselves out of bed at the godawful hour of five thirty am and put on their walking shoes and walk with me. The problem in the mismatch is that I donot consider them my friends. Neighbours. Acquaintances. Perhaps. But not friends. We have nothing in common apart from being of the female gender and having offspring of similar ages.
So they flank me on either side. And keep up a droning inane conversation of what they cooked yesterday, what they plan to cook today, what they love cooking and eating. Most appropriate conversation for a self declared worst cook in the world to participate in. And when they get engrossed in their rhapsodic declarations of just that little pinch of that something in something which then adds an unforgettable taste to whatever delicacy they’re expounding on, I break out into a sprint and hope they cant catch up.
Which is another grouse. I need to walk at their pace. Which is a level above dwaddling on river fronts looking for lurking fish to catch by spearing it. Or sashaying down store front high streets ogling at the window displays.
Therefore I decided. No more. Early morning walks. I will sleep in. Blissful. Undisturbed. Snore my lungs out. Wake up refreshed and revitalised and ready to seize the day by its horns or whatever parts a day has open to seizing purposes. But I hadnt reckoned for the light sleeping husband in my devious plans to sleep in. The man opens his eyes at the first call of the muezzin. Read five am. I will be rattling the walls with my snores. He will helpfully shake me awake. Such a devoted husband. “Lemmmesleeep,” I snarl, pulling the blanket further up around my ears. There is a reason why I am a woman who runs with the wolves apart from the fact that I can rarely drag myself to the parlour for much overdue waxing sessions. I open one eye hopefully to check why I was needed to be awake. And have my hopes deflated quickly enough. “Arent you going for your walk?” asks the one true love. The voice resonating with the unsaid implications of the waist spreading beyond containment in the waistband of existing once loose jeans. “Noooo. Lemmmesleep,” I snarl politely. Refraining from leaving scratch marks on the hand that dares shake me awake. He mutters not nice things about lazy women with no will power and purpose and lies down silently, no doubt telepathically willing me to get up and get going. Now that the sleep has been truly and completely shattered, I open both myopic eyes. The room is dark. The world without is dark too.
I sit up and contemplate my course of action. And lie right back and go to sleep. My dark circles will thank me for the extra hour of shuteye. And whatever exercise I need I make up for when I take the child to the park in the evening and have him play catch with me for half an hour. Works up a sweat, gets the heart rate buzzing, makes me a fun mom (or so I hope, the child is not old enough to realise his mother is being terribly uncool), and keeps me from feeling guilty about skipping the mornings. And best of all? No one can walk next to me and drone infernally into my ear about how they make dahi vadas. And fill my head with visions of food while all I am trying to do is work it off.