Sunday morning yours truly got up like she’d been roaming with hibernating bears roused out of their slumber. Which, coming to think of it, is a metaphor which couldnt have been truer, given that husband and son had conspired to keep her awake till well past the witching hour, and these old creaking bones and dehydrated brain synpapses need their eight hours of deep uninterrupted sleep in order to be at functioning level the next morning. Snapping my way through morning tea and brekkers, yours truly noticed that the newspapers were inordinately full of pancaked and smiling women enticing one to run amok at stores and spend all one could, including fillings and undergarments, to buy more stuff one could never ever fit into even on a non PMSing day. Womens Day, it said. 8th March. Yours Truly bopped the surly hungover husband on the head with the rolled up newspapers and grinned inwardly as he winced, relishing her saintly decision to give up alcohol and liquor and other such inebriants when she realised she was on the point of pouring a peg into her morning cuppa chai. “Its Womens Day today,” she informed the man in unnecessarily sharp tone of voice. Ensuring that every word was drilling holes in said hungover brain. “So…” he croaked, looking up delicately, given the precarious situation of said head. “Its my day. Therefore, I want to go shopping.”
The antidote to all PMS angst, every moment of “OMIGOD, is that really me in profile, when did I grow an extra stomach”, Every thought of “What business does she have to look so good at her age,” is simple. Pure, undiluted and totally hedonistic. Shopping. Unfettered. At sale time. And Inorbit is one great gigantic orgy of sales at the moment. And of course, yours truly is currently so retail therapy deprived that she is going quick into into acute withdrawal symptom mode. Read, going into dreamy eyed fantasy mode when picking up vegetables at the local green produce store. Thinking how perfect that shade of yellow bell pepper would be if converted into a grainy leather tote. Or how that fabulous purple of the brinjal would be the ideal colour for a velvet and brocade anarkali ensemble, if only one could lay one’s grubby, grasping hands on it.
The spouse refused to rise to the bait. Probably, the bait should have been tempered with some hair of the dog to be effective. Yours truly sat mournfully in said balcony, sulking with such ferocity that well meaning folks asked her to down some triple strength kayamchurna for relief, looking longingly at the newspaper supplements, detailing the sales on, the discount percentages swarming in front of my eyes like so many bees from a broken hives, distorted by angry tears of helplessness at being denied the privilege of exercising cardinal right of Womens Day unfettered, run wild with credit card held aloft in waving hand kind of manic shopping.
And right on cue, came the downer AHA moment. The maid came into said balcony to swab, and the cook wandered across to check quantities and ingredients of lunch menu with yours truly. (Not that yours truly brings any expertise to the cooking process, she just prefers to cross check, in case things go wrong, she has the perfect scapegoat to whine, “Bhabhi ne bola tha…” to save her scalp).
So what did yours truly do on Women’s Day? She ate. She played with fruit of womb. She did some spring cleaning. She chatted with the legally wedded spouse. She chatted with more women. In short, she had a perfect day.
Yup, sales donot make a Woman’s Day. Women make Womens Day. And do we really need a day to tell us to celebrate ourselves? All ye women, who give me strength and courage and hope and who laugh with me, cry with me, bond me in this great sisterhood that spans countries and continents, this one is for you.
Yup, we hold up half the sky. More power to us women. Every single day.
Psst: Am so checking out the sales this evening. Credit card permitting. One really doesnt need the man for that. Only during credit card bill paying time, perhaps. Yup, that’s what a man is for. To pay my credit card bills. Inorbit, here comes the supershopper. Get the gawping crowds out of the way. And yup, keep the Women’s Day banners up .