Lapses of lingy…

There’s nothing like a Fashion Week to take one’s mind off all the things that really matter. Like an illness in the family. A fued with a good friend. The volatile state of one’s love life. Weight, which has to be lost. Yada, yada, yada…

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It was the best of times. Am getting a foothold career-wise. The wheat is separate itself from the chaff, relationship-wise. And last Friday I was gently rocked to sleep, the sweetest slumber I’ve had in a long time. The ocean was my mother. The boat was my cradle. And the baby was me.

It was the worst of times. My uncle (who’s actually my foster dad) has a lump in his lungs. My friend hates me. My dad has an E Coli infection and must be on a liquid diet for God knows how long. My folks ae not visitng me in November.

Funny how a quote from a wonderful novel of yore can be so timeless and so relevant to this season of my life.

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Yesterday, we communed at Altaf’s for his annual Id get-together. Ankur and he badgered me about why I’m bothering to dress up (not in the literal sense) to the nines these days. They think it’s because I want to impress a man. I tried to drum it into their heads that fashion for me is about self-expression. It matters, not at all, whether you are sporting Prada, Choo or Tarun. The point is can you carry it off the damn thing? Or will your dastardly slouch ruin the effect of these exquisite creations? Anyways, coming to my obsessive friends. They want me to ‘style’ them.

Now, coming back to what impresses men. Initially, I thought it was all about how you look. This could be because I was frightfully fat in school, courtesy a lack of exercise, lots of Pepsi and marathon chocolate chip cookie sessions. I was usually the medium between my two hot (but ironically plump) best friends and the male classmates. My school crush liked my best friend. However, I don’t remember pining too much. I accepted such unfairness with a pinch of salt, and drowned my sorrows in my favourite book of the moment, The Thornbirds. The idea that thin is attractive sub-consciously stayed with me for a long time to come. It does not help that one’s mother is also obsessed with one’s weight.

Anyways, the other day a friend pointed out that I am obsessive about my weight. I never quite thought of it like that. But I realise that deep down, how good I feel is often related to how thin I feel. Not a healthy trend at all. However accepting the problem is half the battle won. And yes, it’s not just about looks. Now, it’s about looks and brains

On a different note, a good (single) male friend and me, who have regular conversations on love, relationships and similar jazz, have mutually decided that we are not interested in pandering to BS (aka bullshit) from potential love interests. Examples of BS include being commitment-phobic, being insensitive, being overtly cynical, dishonest, having emotional baggage that you just can’t let go of etc.

We also decided that having physical designs is acceptable, because one always has a choice about whether to respond or not. But packaging one’s interest in the lacy trimmings of a relationship is not. It’s unnecessary and a colossal waste of time. Harsh but true.

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Enjoyed a peaceful, cosy, spontaneous weekend with green meadows, a barbeque, wine, a lake and great music.

Slept in a tent. Watched cows graze. Water glisten. A pup romp in the mud. Was made to understand the nuances of an artist’s sketches (made when the artist is feeling ‘trippy’). The weekend was trippy.

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Remember my post eons back about me and a good friend going on a double date with a single guy? Both of us decided we found him hot during Macbeth when he essayed the role of Macduff. Attractive, witty and charming, we were both bowled over by his presence on stage. So, our good friend who was also starring in the play, fixed us up on a date. Me, my friend and Macduff.

The date was fun, and post, my friend solo dated him for a bit. It was an intense phase for her, both mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

Yesterday, he passed away. He died of a heart attack. He was 34. And I feel like crying. I feel like bowling my brains out. Because, I knew of his hopes and dreams through my friend. I know that he did not acheive many of them.

Life’s too short to be commitment-phobic, to thrive on the baggage of the past, to be insensitive, to hurt friends, to take sides, to be restrained, to be poised, to run away from the things that matter to us, to plot, to plan, to yearn, to escape, to experience low self-esteem, to be insecure, to be competitive, to spend much time at the mall, to take others for granted, to pretend, to be caught in the throes of this urbane manic rat-race.

And now I want to cry some more. Big, bulbous, voluminous tears, that will never let me forget that life is just TOO DAMN SHORT.

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On some days, the energy from within is bustling and bright. But outside forces just sap every once of what’s left within you. It’s so easy to succomb. However, maybe it’s a good test of one’s internal strength. I feel like myself again after days.

On the weight loss front, have quit gorging on the office snack, a greasy mess of nothing that’s either nutritious or delicious. Now, I live on fruit, veggies, coconut juice and some other unmentionable elements (wink!) etc.

Now, off to the gym to walk (on the treadmill) all my negative energy and troubles away.

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My wish for gay friends has been granted! Yesterday I went to a fashion event and bumped into a designer duo who’s clothes are simple divine. Or fabulous, as is politically correct to say in the world of fashion.

Anyways, in one of my earlier fashion week stories, I wrote some nice things about their collection, which I really liked. And now the couple has adopted me. Merril this, and Merril that, they gushed. It felt quite wonderful to be fussed over by a gay couple.

On a different nore, every Wednesday a beggar with no legs parks his peddle-less tricycle outside my lane at work. I usually smile at him and push some money into the palm of his hand. He has a lovely smile and a glint in his eye. Today I felt like chatting. He said he lost his legs in a train accident three years ago and now get aroud on his tricycle. He spends his time begging for alms at various locations and always has a cheery smile for me. Sometimes, I wonder if he makes more money than me in a day? Then again, money is no substitute for legs.

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I’ve been accused of playing safe. No, not accused. I asked for it, pretty much and I deserve it too. Thank God I can be honest and that some people out there can be honest too.

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Surprisingly, I don’t have any gay friends. I wonder why. I suspect some people I know are bisexual, but they are quite secretive about it. I’d like to have a deep conversation with a gay person, as I would like to know all about how he/she thinks and what they have experienced during the course of their life — the bouquets, the brickbats, everything.

This weekend, a friend (who wanted to get pissed) and I headed for a popular watering hole in Bandra. When we arrived the place was somewhat packed. We ordered our drinks and started grooving to the music. 5 drinks down and my friend was a happy drunk (or rather she insists she’s a happy drunk). I whispered to her that I thought this chap in a tight black T-shirt was gay, cause he was grooving at very close quarters with another chappie. My happy friend waddled over to find out. However, she asked a poor defenceless chap sitting quietly in a corner instead. And he was like (effeminately),” No ways am I gay,”. Like hell, I thought.

Anyway, he danced with us and also protected us from a slobby chap who was lunging at all women in sight, rather disgustingly. We took pictures with our allegedly gay friend too. T’was fun.

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Is it better to accept that one is feeling vulnerable. Or try to put up a brave front? Yes. No. Yes. No. It’s a tough one to answer.

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