Am back from the trip to the pahadland, refreshed and rejuvenated. Literally and figuratively. The nose is clearer. The two weeks went by without a single migraine attack which by itself is incentive enough for me to want to pack up all my shoes and bags, and shift out to a log cabin in Binsar, with central heating of course. I cannot, cannot, cannot bear the cold. Anything below 10 degrees Celsius had me pulling on multiple layers of clothing, and Binsar, where we were at 5 degrees I think, saw me moving around shrouded in the hotel room blanket much like a spectre from an other world.
The funnest part of the trip, was not the places we visited, the sights we saw or the food we ate (which undoubtedly, in my books always ranks high up on the scales, and also explains why the scales have gone high post the trip), but was the fact that we had three teenaged girls with us on the trip. My three nieces. All of 18, 17 and 14. And of course, I suddenly found myself feeling officially over the hill. Of course, I am. I know it. But there is a difference between knowing it and accepting it, isnt there?
So here were these girls squealing about crushes, and girly things and I suddenly found my stomach twisting because I would never know this. I have a son. He will become shuttered and distant when he hits adolescence undoubtedly, as most sons generally do. He will never understand why his mother needs to pack in three outfits for a probable stay for a day. He will never get why I am horrified if I don’t have coordinated shoes, and feel like I’m slumming it out if I wear silver sandals with a top which has gold embroidery. Them girls, they are on my side.
He will never convince me to paint my fingernails with glitter polish in a brilliance so ridiculous for an almost forty year old that it actually looks good. They did. And they not only did, they sat down and carefully painted them nails for me, and squealed in delight over the finished effect so gleefully that I actually found myself agreeing with them. And thanks to them I figured out, (yes, I am that much of a dinosaur), that ankle socks are the way to go. The kind I wear that reach the knee are warmer though, and I might just stick with them in colder climes.
Thanks to my obsession with social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter, I was accoladed as ‘cool’. Or whatever the term for cool is these days. These children speak a completely different language from what we do. I learnt a new term from them too. “Crushing on”. In my day, I used to “Have a Crush On”. Now you “Crush On” someone. Whoever snickered that I would definitely “Crush” someone, kindly leave the room now.
They also introduced me to someone I could happily crush on, without the spouse getting all worked up. Edward Cullen. Yup. The stone cold vampire with the Greek God looks and the sparkling body suit when out in the sun. Seeing the entire series with two nieces, curiousity got the better of me and I began reading the first one. I read through it and barfed and scoffed a bit. Cullen was like the ideal boyfriend. Rich, goodlooking, obsessed with Bella, saving her from all the baddies and accidents and constantly with her, even while she slept. “He’s a stalker,” I squawked in disgust to the girls. “Is this the kind of guy you girls like?” Strong, independent girls like you? Tch Tch, I said, until it hit me with a sledgehammer that I had gone and married an Edward Cullen. No, the spouse doesnt drink blood, but has quite a healthy appetite, thank you very much, but he was the Greek God gorgeous kind who fell for mousey little me, and was omnipresent in the early days. Outside my lecture room, outside my balcony, on the railway platform. Getting me safe back home on days when the city got flooded in, bashing up baddies who dared eve tease me. I began liking the Cullen. I saw the boy I fell in love with in him. I began “crushing on” the Cullen. And now I’m totally sold on the series. Even though I think Pattinson could tone down the chalk and the red lipstick and liner look. I patented it. Its mine.
And then the shopping. For this one, I adored having nieces. They squealed in delight with me at little shacks in Nainital’s Bhutiya Market where we found colourful lacy little nothings for unbelievable prices. Of course, we promptly bought up the entire shop between us. They buying the pretty little numbers in pastels and florals and such like while I stuck to pretty little numbers in practical skin and black. We squealed together through shops of cute little candles, we guzzled Pepsi by the bottles to the frowns of their mothers, and I could almost believe I was on a college trip, if it hadnt been for the brat still needing me for bum washing duty.
Thank you girls, for making the holiday funner than it already was.