Lapses of lingy…

I knew that 27 dresses would be corny (we felt like a nic ole’ chick flick to help brighten up a lazy, gloomy, humid day).

But it’s worse. Cliche after cliche (dialogues). Stereotype after stereotype (character sketch).

The only nice-ish bit was the sequence where our protagonist sashays in her umpteen ghastly bridesmaid dresses. The style for sugar daddy-meets-PYT is radically different from the Victorian theme wedding. Lots of leg and cleavage in the former and puffed sleeves and bonnets in the latter.

Reminds me of my own bridesmaid experiences (chuckle!) of having to sport several strange creations sewed together by various ’ladies tailors’! 

Also, we tried watching this movie called The Big Hit (on DVD, thank goodness!). Within 20 minutes we turned it off, having rechristened it The Big S%*t. It reeks!

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In the last few days I’ve had quite a few conversations about school with my ex-classmate-turned-friend Al.

While I thought school was all about carebears and My First Pony, my friend seems to have experienced a taste of gangsterland (Al-speak for disapproving of something with a vengeance). As we exchange stories, now, I wonder if we did indeed attend the same school.

It’s not that I loved school. It’s just that my expectations were fairly low.

And coincidently, we both happened to think the other was a ditz! I never knew he had an opinion on politics, listened to jazz, knew where Timbuktu was located and was so bright. He never quite got to know the real me because apparently I was an aspiring most-popular-girl’s minion. This perception startled me for about 30 seconds. But yes, I supposed I did play the role of the best friend rather than the main lead in my own life.

Over the years I am so glad we kept in touch. By a cat’s whisker, we may never have. Just the other day, he pulled out an old letter penned by me to him way back in 1996. I was in Goa and hating it; I was rather vocal about these sentiments. It got me all nostalgic.

Somehow those school days now seem like a bit of a blur, and he seems to remember with great clarity all the subtle nuances I missed. Who was mean. Who was depraved. Who was stupid. Who was fake. Who was genuine. Who was a real friend. Now, that I think about it carefully, most people at school seemed like clones of each other. Sigh. But from that experience I came away with one or two friends for life. A genuine friend is worth 10 years of blur. And carebears.

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I have a friend who usually calls up to ask ‘what are the Saturday people doing?’. What he means is: where are you partying this Saturday night. This chap of course never parties or has a saturday night plan. Usually, I would have a venue in mind, along with a set of people. 

But these days, my high-octane party lifestyle has become somewhat defunct. It mostly has a lot to do with the type of crowd that parties in Mumbai. Everyone is looking at everyone else and what they are wearing. Or over their shoulder to see what just walked in. No one’s doing anything remotely scandalous (tabletop dancing etc)/ spontaneous. Too tame for my taste, now.

I prefer meeting friends at breezy terrace restaurants, which offer great food, have furious debates over coffee, have DVD nights (includes watching docus like Planet Earth with blue-ray technology), etc.

Partying is SO yesterday, me thinks.

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Last week I got a call from my friend’s lil’ sis inviting me for a surprise soiree. My friend’s marking time studying in the US and is currently down for a week to meet her friends and family, and basically chill. So, her folks figured she would not have enough time to meet all her buddies (she has many).

They made a list of all the people she ever mentioned, and facebooked everyone on the list. It’s the sweetest thing ever. She called me yesterday and I feigned work as an excuse not to meet her today. It was partly true, since I am working freakishly late hours due to this fashion week in Delhi (I call it a fashion emergency).

So, when we all landed up for lunch today and she thought I had fabricated the whole story and was impressed by what a good actress I am, only to discover I am indeed working freakishly long hours.

One chap came all the way from Pune to meet her. And some people who’s numbers she lost, also turned up. Her family was there. This included her grandparents who are now in their 80’s and looked content to sit quietly, watching all the happy going-ons. The food was great — biryani, mutton cutlets, all that typically good food eaten by the Muslim community.

As my friend Yael would say, sweet!

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Cut to November 2006. It was a gloomy time for me and my friends, Al and M.

My dad was ill, and getting worse. Al was on the road to emotional nowhere. M was struggling with a difficult relationship dynamic. But we spent about three weeks together, all trying to make the best of a bad phase.

Cut to March 2008. Pop is in the pink of health (touch wood). Al is happy. M is happily married. In M-speak, we are all in a ‘happy place’.

The song Ring of Fire some to mind. But we didn’t fall into a ring of fire. We fell into a ring of happiness.

In Al-speak, I am a corn(y)dog )

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One of my singleton friends, accused me the other day, of being a commitment-phobic. This is her logic: I find something wrong with every single chap I meet. Too prejudiced, too sweet, too low on energy, too self-conscious, et al. The only people I approve of (in concept, of course) are one or two married or gay people (one or two celebs too!), who seem appealing.

But she thinks, that if hypothetically they were to turn single, they would fall from grace. I grew very defensive at being stamped by this new label!

So, I did the childish thing of accusing her of being a commitment-phobic, too. “Yes, I do acknowledge that I am CP,” she said candidly. Hmmm…after that, the whole CP deal didn’t sound so bad.
 

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