A Rather Footsie Dilemma!

I have a question. To all the women and men (really not judging) who have ever got pedicures done in their life.

You know how after all the scrubbing and rubbing and wriggling-because-it-tickles torture is done…somewhere in the duration of a pedicure the pedicurist gives you a nice foot massage?

And the guy really puts in a lot of effort trying to find all the right spots to press and rub?

And then he looks up at you to see your reaction?

How the hell do you react?

Do you close your eyes and smile and relax? Do you let the pleasure of the massage show? But then what if it’s some weird pervy pleasure for the pedicurist to see that reaction? Because he smiles at you and starts massaging even more. All the time looking up at your face.

Do you just ignore all the massaging and continue talking to the person next to you / on the phone like nothing’s happened? But isn’t that kinda rude? I mean that guy is putting in a lot of work into your foot. And the only way he’ll ever know if he’s good or not is by your reaction? You’re literally depriving him of his self esteem at that point, you know?

Or do you sit there, wondering about your weird dilemma and thinking about how you’re going to rush home and ask the whole world in general about it?

And you do run home and ask your flatmate about it, and she shrugs and says she just tips the pedicurist.

Oh.

Note to self: Search for new pedicurist, lest the un-tipped-earlier-now-low-self-esteemed pedicurist chooses to murder my foot the next time.

P.S. I got pink nail paint...PINK!

For the love of heels!

Image Courtesy: www.tresmode.com

So here’s the deal, I’m 5’6”…and apparently for a girl in India, that’s really tall. Mostly because I’m as tall as a lot of men around me. I’d say that reflects on the men rather than me, but seriously, who cares.

What this usually means is that any and every time I choose to wear heels, I get a lot of questioning looks.

“But why do you need heels? You’re already so tall!”

I’d like to tell the girl at that time that she’s just jealous, but instead I might as well let her know why I actually wear heels.

• When living in Mumbai, heels are a good way of staying elevated above the muck in monsoons...though it might just be the end of your beloved heels
• When living in Delhi, heels serve as a good weapon in case a guy is getting a little too close for comfort
• The above two points can be geographically interchangeable
• Heels make your legs look way slimmer, and way longer...though not half as anorexic as the chick in the pic above
• It does good things for other parts of your body as well ;)
• Clothes just somehow look better with heels
• When you really don’t want to go anywhere else with your boring company, you can just make a girly face and say, “Oh but I can’t…I’m wearing heels!”
• You feel a little more Carrie Bradshawish…so what if I don’t have my own column in the paper? I can at least have the Manolo’s!
• Ok, so I obviously can’t afford Manolo’s, but Tres Mode, Aldo and Charle’s and Keith are totally the Third World’s Manolo Blahnics!
• People have at times complained that I can be intimidating thanks to my apparent lack of social skills and lack of want of the same.  And with heels even more so. Win-win, I tell you!
• Plus at the end of the day, they’re just oh so pwetty!!!

P.S. Yes, I’m in a girly mood. I’m allowed sometimes.

P.P.S. No, there is no underlying larger than life meaning to this post.

P.P.P.S. Yes, bullet points, I missed them! :)

It's Monday, but its OK!

It’s Monday morning.

And I’m in a bloody good mood.

I don’t know why. I don’t really care.

Bad, really bad things have happened recently. But some good things have happened in the past few weeks as well.

My sis and nephew were over for the weekend, and I had a good time troubling and hugging and not letting go of either of them.

On a day when all seemed to go wrong, when I really needed something good to happen to me, a friend from afar cheered me up by surprising me in a way I really hadn’t expected.

I realized I’m still capable of smiling and laughing and being happy, I just seem to forget it rather often nowadays.

I realized I have the ability to annoy someone to the extent that he has to run to his Zen place. But he smiles and lets me annoy him anyway.

I kicked someone’s ass in my dream last night. And I woke up and remembered that I used to be the person who could kick people’s asses if I wanted to. And the reminder of the knowledge of that ability made my day.

So lovely readers here's hoping you have a lovely blue-less Monday, and an even more amazing week ahead!

I shall, instead prepare for nervous pigeons, brain-less people, sudden houseless-ness and other usual stuff that continues to make my day.

Shit happens.

Oh well.

As a friend once said, “Yeh lo. Rat’s ass. That’s all I’ll give.”

Except, I really really really refuse to give even that.

The Day the Music Died

Image Courtesy: www.morguefile.com

So you meet this new person who for whatever weird reason you’re stuck with / want to be stuck with and try to make all sorts of useless conversation which portrays you / him / her as interesting in a way that doesn’t make you want to pull your hair out by the end of the hour.

And after all the ‘aaahs’ and the ‘hmmms’ it eventually always comes down to this one question, a question that I have come to despise, a question from which there is no escaping.

“So what kind of music do you like?”

See, now my problem with the question starts with the simple premise that it seems to be based on. And since everyone seems to ignore that premise, I always find myself in a conundrum where I’m bored enough to talk through my teeth, and fumble around with two left feet.

So I say I like rock. To which he / she will obviously ask me which bands, what kind of rock etc. etc., and I’ll give him / her some basic prepared answers and he / she will nod and discuss the band members / albums / history with me. And then one of these happens:

“Oh have you heard that song?” or

“Oh you must listen to this blah-blah song by this blah-blah band. Here, I’ll play it on my i-pod / phone / whatever idiotic gadget for you.”

And this is when I pack up and leave.

And weirdly the above scenario played out multiple times is easier than to correct the simple premise where the person went wrong.

I don’t like music.

Actually, let me correct that, I have nothing against music. I have nothing for it either. I don’t run to music to improve my mood. I switched off music while studying. And I wouldn’t starve to frustration if I didn’t have access to music.

I can’t sing to save my life. And there isn’t a single musical bone in my body.

I don’t care for music.

Now this should be simple enough. You know, like people don’t like to dance, or don’t appreciate art, or something like that. But noooo…in stead I’m met with these shocked expressions and not very subtle question marks.

“But…how is that possible?! How do you live?! What do you do???”

“Err…I read. I write. I watch stuff?”

Nope. That is not an acceptable answer. Sowwy.

I could tell you that my singing would give donkeys some very serious competition. That when I had a television, I liked to wake up and dance to MTV break-free mornings while getting ready. That most of my knowledge of music is borrowed from songs I heard playing in the neighboring hostel / people’s cars / parties where I was too drunk to care what I was dancing to.

But that won’t really help my case I guess.

Because apparently I can’t just be a boring writer / reader / viewer.

Who doesn’t like any sports. Specially cricket.

WAIT…WHAAAAA??????

Of Life and Hope

Luck and I aren’t exactly known for seeing eye-to-eye. This isn’t something I’m making up. Believe me, I wish it was. But over the last few years, it’s come to be accepted as a fact.

Among some of the more recent happenings (you know, apart from the bad career choices, fracture, meru-curse etc.):

A pigeon fell on me while I was having breakfast. Breakfast in a cafeteria. Breakfast in a closed cafeteria. A damned pigeon.

After months of procrastinating and worrying about my backbone, I finally managed to push myself out of bed a little earlier than usual on a Monday and head to my society’s gym. It was decided that day apparently, that the gym shall now remain closed on Mondays.

And today, I missed a dream opportunity, by a day.

Yeah I know. It sounds really stupid. Maybe I’m just a klutz. Maybe I’m just not organized. Maybe I’m not strong the way I’m supposed to be.

And maybe I’m just an over-analysing crib-pot.

But you know what, I give up.

I’m done fighting karma and luck and fate and the whole jingabang.

I’m tired of being confused and trying to find a logical explanation behind everything. I’m tired of nothing ever going right. I’m tired of making all the wrong decisions. I’m tired of defending my decisions to the whole world, when I no longer can defend them to myself.

I’m tired of hurting and disappointing people. I’m tired of not being who I’m expected to be. I’m tired of running away from people who are only trying to help.

I’m tired of believing in things that aren’t meant to be believed in. I’m tired of fighting for dreams that seem too far-fetched.

I’m done cribbing and feeling bad.

And I’d really like to be done crying.

You win.

Seriously.

Please.

Just let me be.

And here I thought it was going to be a chirpy and breezy Monday.