Is the structured that is considered the norm for beauty, or is the variance in the unity of beauty what makes it beautiful?I don't have the simple answers but it's the standard unattractive that I consider attractive, actually sexy, or rather something that I want to possess and make mine.
Is it only me that sees the beauty in the unobvious? A misshapen object, not fired to the absolute in the kiln and instead letting nature warm it and taking a shape of its own, is like a man that does not fall into the standard tall and handsome category, which actually makes it more appealing.
Is it because his beauty is more dimensional than like the object which is sharp-lined, fired and hued right. The standard beautiful is just so boring, desired by all, its beauty is not sharpened by life's blows at a young age through rejections for being considered short, ugly, too thin, gangly, too much of a nerd.
Every rejection is a scar. Each scar is a story, a conversation. Time is what moulds these objects, with weathering they become the most beautiful objects, but one needs to spend time to look past the obvious physical flaws. How is it that what I possess, suddenly becomes the object of desire?
Is it because my discerning eye has seen what was after all, so obvious, or do only some like me have the gift to love that which others consider ugly but will want it only when possessed by someone else.
Is the misshapen vase more desirable only when it sits on my mantlepiece?
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Plastic
Amino collagen, Glutathione, CoQ10. No these are not antibiotics for a female thrush or dengue or made-up malady. These will help retard my ageing. Or so am hoping. Or so I’ve been convinced. Or so it’s been prescribed to me at the innumerable clinics where each pop makes me poorer by quite a few notes.
Post 40 we can be sold anything. From breasts to butt to thigh gaps to rhinoplasty (not the animal but the one that will rest on your face). Now don’t go thinking I’ve enquired about the following or subscribe to them. Just seen the effects on a few acquaintances. Would I consider them, possibly if I were brave enough.
My social life as of today is rustic and simple. My days are spent scouring the vegetable markets in worn linens and the evenings at the gym so I can score with panna cotta when it rears its head in my very vivid imagination at 10.40 at night watching the latest on the flat screen. So why bother wasting the precious when nobody’s there to ogle and go googley eyed and get slapped by spouse, girlfriend or whichever status is on the arm for staring too hard at the enhanced.
Ok. I toy with the idea of botox every morning when I raise my bed-head hair after brushing my pearlies to look into my mirror and see frowns, lines, nebula lines, crowsfeet. Terms I’ve Googled. Am the latest derma quack in my social circle. I even dole out Derma Wisdom over a glass of red (I sound more convincing after 3 glasses).
See, I told you earlier I do not have much to do these days, so I spend all my time on medical sites convincing myself and my family members that with every sneeze and rash its cancer or ebola or plague. These illnesses visit only my family. Ok am digressing. So botox I’ve struck off the list as after the third botox visit I may be approached to play Joker’s Sister in the Indian Batman version.
How about an enhancement? I could do with many inches - though my husband convinces me otherwise, saying “I love you anyways, Darling”, am sure its more out of insecurity that I may look better than him. A good enhancement costs about 5 lakhs a pair, well I could buy a pair of diamond studs too with that. Now honestly, which will be more visible. It’s all about the visual. So I shall sleep over this one on my stomach, which is my preferred position. See now with the enhancement, that would be impossible. There we go, let’s strike that off too.
With my ample thighs, the pounding and beating the treadmill seems to take under my red Nike trainers seems to be of no avail as the bulk stubbornly stays there. Now what purpose is that gap supposed to serve? With that much less fabric, reduce the cost of the outfit, let the breeze through, give me a clearer view of the person behind me. Let me know if you find the answer to that. That was not on my list anyways.
I’ve even considered sticking cello tape on my eyelids like the Koreans. I’ve asked my husband countless times and other pot-bellied male friends who display their belly with pride like we women do our toned bicycle-ridden thighs. Could I wear a sloppy t-shirt, yes with a belly the size they sport, with a pair of cargo shorts? And will we be loved the same? If we do, can we also be assured that they will have eyes only for us when a pair of long pins struts by with boobs that precede her entry and looking all dewy-skinned?
Hey, after all I too had pins and dewy skin once; not the orange peel and open pores the size of craters now. Ok so am I going to age gracefully? Yes, I shall embrace it.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
RTI (Right To Indulge)
"One-two-three Squat! one-two-three Lunge! one-two-three Stretch! The shouts from my trainer, inspite of my groans and protestations about unwilling muscles and advancing age. Gym-scarred, I return to Buckwheat, Quinoa, Matcha. They are not my children's names. They are what you will find on my kitchen shelf.
Does this sound like am living the happy life? All the pain I subject my body to, in the pursuit of happiness, which I believe I can achieve only if I'm healthy and young. You're right. Denying the simple pleasures of a sinful burger or pasta. Every fourth day that I cheat on buckwheat with burger is with fear. Praying my love handles don't catch me out. The next time I fork that pasta into my mouth is with trepidation, hoping my non-existent thigh gap does not choke further with asphyxiation.
My parents never walked on a treadmill a day in their life, yet they've remained slim. When my parents visit they ask if I would like to join them for an evening of roadside junk, I pause and think of the red dress. I decline with my head hung low and go to my cupboard to feel her sinuous fall. Then go the fridge and pull out a buckwheat and quinoa salad and a glass of matcha and settle down to watch Jane Fonda spread her leg out wide above her head.
Yes, the simple pleasures I could have indulged in and had a one-evening stand with junk. So why am I putting myself through this rigour? Is it because there's a deep, dark conspiracy between the nutritionists, buckwheat companies and the government. Maybe I need to file an RTI application.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Does this sound like am living the happy life? All the pain I subject my body to, in the pursuit of happiness, which I believe I can achieve only if I'm healthy and young. You're right. Denying the simple pleasures of a sinful burger or pasta. Every fourth day that I cheat on buckwheat with burger is with fear. Praying my love handles don't catch me out. The next time I fork that pasta into my mouth is with trepidation, hoping my non-existent thigh gap does not choke further with asphyxiation.
My parents never walked on a treadmill a day in their life, yet they've remained slim. When my parents visit they ask if I would like to join them for an evening of roadside junk, I pause and think of the red dress. I decline with my head hung low and go to my cupboard to feel her sinuous fall. Then go the fridge and pull out a buckwheat and quinoa salad and a glass of matcha and settle down to watch Jane Fonda spread her leg out wide above her head.
Yes, the simple pleasures I could have indulged in and had a one-evening stand with junk. So why am I putting myself through this rigour? Is it because there's a deep, dark conspiracy between the nutritionists, buckwheat companies and the government. Maybe I need to file an RTI application.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Friends or Lovers
Been chatting with the world. Why is the word "friend" scary. Do friends really exist. By friend I mean the sort that you can discuss your darkest secret and not be betrayed, I have been guilty of that and lost my closest friend.
By friend I mean whom you can chill with and talk trash with. Now if it were a guy, would it be possible. People confess that such relationships exist, none in my world, maybe cos I send out more mating signals than the back slapping sort. Can the ones I have slept with be converted? Nah!
I know a woman who has had a great sexual relationship with a man and now has one of the best friendships with him. They discuss everything that crosses their path and can go on to even discuss their new love lives and have decided to grow old together as neighbours. I envy women who have platonic relationships with men, especially if they are both good looking. Would they be tempted at some point I wondered? Always different conclusions. Maybe either is not attracted, or they are attracted at different points or are wise enough not to confuse the two and mess up something great like a true friendship.
I don't know. You tell me.
By friend I mean whom you can chill with and talk trash with. Now if it were a guy, would it be possible. People confess that such relationships exist, none in my world, maybe cos I send out more mating signals than the back slapping sort. Can the ones I have slept with be converted? Nah!
I know a woman who has had a great sexual relationship with a man and now has one of the best friendships with him. They discuss everything that crosses their path and can go on to even discuss their new love lives and have decided to grow old together as neighbours. I envy women who have platonic relationships with men, especially if they are both good looking. Would they be tempted at some point I wondered? Always different conclusions. Maybe either is not attracted, or they are attracted at different points or are wise enough not to confuse the two and mess up something great like a true friendship.
I don't know. You tell me.
Middle-aged Teen???
My 17-year-old borrows my clothes not because it's vintage fashion. People my generation listen to their music, hang out at the places they consider cool enough, my kids and their friends think we are swag (post 2014 introduction) enough to hang out with. They invite their friends to our parties but we do not do it in the reverse. I watch the latest reality TV soaps the kids watch. By this law, we are still teenagers living in middle-aged bodies battling sagging everything.
My generation suffered a huge parent gap, I think the gap now has diminished and at most times does not exist. Look at the careers we are choosing today. I know a lot of people post 40 are giving up their corporate jobs to pursue a life chasing that elusive dream, or go off the grid or travel or paint or start an eco-farm or just plain retire. Something my parents and their previous generations would have frowned upon and thought as courting monetary suicide. Isn’t that what we tell our kids today, “Don’t take that sabbatical!”, “Get a Job!”, “You’re already 21, time is passing you by”, but hey, we are doing that at 40.
I think we teenage adults don’t want to grow up. That’s why the surge in botox clinics. Not letting go of the short skirt I wore when I was 25, doing everything, even denying myself that piece of red velvet or spoon of panna cotta. Are we creating a future generation that will suffer from image issues because of our obsessions with being perennially young and being seen at the hippest clubs though they now play only EDM and trance and rubbing shoulders and back slapping our kids’ friends?
We are falling in love twice, thrice, four times, searching for that elusive love as we grew up on a diet of fairy tales and happily ever after. The very fairy tales and nursery rhymes that today are being retold in dark avatars, so dark they have an 'A' certificate. We are denying our kids a hearing of those very Grimm Brothers fairy tales. Like a child in a candy store refusing to share and saving it all for himself. So who’s actually the teenager...
Pic credit : http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2622489/Pushing-100-chic-Meet-fashionable-stars-new-documentary-challenges-conventional-ideas-aging.html {All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Monday, September 14, 2015
Mom, You Don't Get It!
I disappeared from the Wordsworth and words worth scene for a while as I’ve settled into wedded bliss- well second time around. Older – desperately trying to fight that, more mature- hopefully, promise not to make the same mistakes- do we ever follow through?
Things have changed, I am not in charge of my life anymore. One almost adult with barely-there whiskers and few hairs on the chest and another mid-teenager control my existence now. They know everything from sex to sin to wrong. Ask them anything about right and they will convince us what’s wrong about right. Well right aside, what’s wrong about what the kids of today convince you is their right style which is so wrong according to social diktat.
Now I’ve not laid down the diktat, it's been in existence forever, being tweaked by every generation in certain degrees. Just the bar is being raised ridiculously higher. Now my pet peeves are “Chill bro”, “What’s your deal Ma”, “YOLO”. Those are just expressions. Shall we slide into body language, ignoring you as they are having a bad day - which happens to be every few hours - or yes, “Love you and thank you for bringing us into this world” so that they can shout to me (as they are convinced am a little deaf) thank you for all the designer clothes and trips abroad and providing them with individual bedrooms so they can leave us wondering and worried whether we will be early grandparents inspite of our strong protestations.
I am actually exhausted with my belligerence, but hey I have just begun my rant, thank you Mr. Blog whoever –you-are-that-started the-blog-page, so other parents can read this and not feel alone. I am on my second marriage and countless relationships later, I still (according to my barely-there whisker and older and almost-teen) know nothing about love, lust and gender issues, as these issues have evolved with science or Eminem or whoever or whatever has had a greater impact. Watching Vampire Diaries off late and Sunny Leone who’s been given so much of print mileage, am convinced its not science.
I am not a prude, am considered highly fashionable and pretty risqué with my clothes choices post 8pm and yet I question the choice my almost teen wants to adorn her ears, nose, toes and other body parts with either no clothes or metal or whatever objects Rihanna and Izzy seem to be paid to sport. It’s a battle ground between father (yes he’s father for them - nurture wins over nature!) and five-times-pierced-teenager, as to why he’s not convinced by garters, thigh-high boots (which he calls “hooker boots”), she disagrees with raised eyebrows “Seriously??!” tone et al, and 3 button-open-shirt-with-cravat to a party which ends by 4 or maybe 5am. I sheepishly stay out of this as I have planted a few seeds of fashion in her head.
I know what you did last summer, do you know what I did this summer greets me as I walk through the door with my travel tote and suitcase. It sounds like a mild threat. She informs me, not seeks permission, that she has expressed her teenage philosophy about religion on her right shoulder blade in the High Valyrian script. Coming back to my peeves, it’s the curfew they dictate, and that they will be dropped home by some pimple-faced-scrawny-gelled hair-jeans-below-the-butt-crack-with-a-ghetto-swag-Goa beads around the neck-and 3 and 5 piercing on each ear, I’ve missed the one on the tongue punk home. That’s what’s wrong about the right or normal that I don’t seem to see or find with this generation.
Maybe my parents were too peeved over my torn jeans and cut off sleeves and coloured-scrunched-washed but uncombed-fingered-curls-hair. Choosing my career which was not banking or medicine or engineering, choosing the boy I went to marry and regret. I have just paused to sigh and remember my mother say, when you become a mother, you’ll see.
I had convinced myself that a generation gap does not exist but, based on the above rants, maybe a thin line does. So do we adapt, do we try to understand, walk in their shoes, I doubt that’s gonna happen as I do not see myself with 5 piercings or wearing garters or listening to Eminem or walking down with my pot-bellied, white-goateed, respectable-looking husband wearing beads with butt-crack showing jeans.
So I shall continue to find fault with the choice in careers : DJing, fashion blogging if that pays, long sabatticals to find themselves, choice in clothes and yes getting home well past curfew, which I would ideally like it to be 10.30 and God knows what else that I am not privy to. And as my son so rightly convinces me, "its how I want to live, it's how you perceive it".
Things have changed, I am not in charge of my life anymore. One almost adult with barely-there whiskers and few hairs on the chest and another mid-teenager control my existence now. They know everything from sex to sin to wrong. Ask them anything about right and they will convince us what’s wrong about right. Well right aside, what’s wrong about what the kids of today convince you is their right style which is so wrong according to social diktat.
Now I’ve not laid down the diktat, it's been in existence forever, being tweaked by every generation in certain degrees. Just the bar is being raised ridiculously higher. Now my pet peeves are “Chill bro”, “What’s your deal Ma”, “YOLO”. Those are just expressions. Shall we slide into body language, ignoring you as they are having a bad day - which happens to be every few hours - or yes, “Love you and thank you for bringing us into this world” so that they can shout to me (as they are convinced am a little deaf) thank you for all the designer clothes and trips abroad and providing them with individual bedrooms so they can leave us wondering and worried whether we will be early grandparents inspite of our strong protestations.
I am actually exhausted with my belligerence, but hey I have just begun my rant, thank you Mr. Blog whoever –you-are-that-started the-blog-page, so other parents can read this and not feel alone. I am on my second marriage and countless relationships later, I still (according to my barely-there whisker and older and almost-teen) know nothing about love, lust and gender issues, as these issues have evolved with science or Eminem or whoever or whatever has had a greater impact. Watching Vampire Diaries off late and Sunny Leone who’s been given so much of print mileage, am convinced its not science.
I am not a prude, am considered highly fashionable and pretty risqué with my clothes choices post 8pm and yet I question the choice my almost teen wants to adorn her ears, nose, toes and other body parts with either no clothes or metal or whatever objects Rihanna and Izzy seem to be paid to sport. It’s a battle ground between father (yes he’s father for them - nurture wins over nature!) and five-times-pierced-teenager, as to why he’s not convinced by garters, thigh-high boots (which he calls “hooker boots”), she disagrees with raised eyebrows “Seriously??!” tone et al, and 3 button-open-shirt-with-cravat to a party which ends by 4 or maybe 5am. I sheepishly stay out of this as I have planted a few seeds of fashion in her head.
I know what you did last summer, do you know what I did this summer greets me as I walk through the door with my travel tote and suitcase. It sounds like a mild threat. She informs me, not seeks permission, that she has expressed her teenage philosophy about religion on her right shoulder blade in the High Valyrian script. Coming back to my peeves, it’s the curfew they dictate, and that they will be dropped home by some pimple-faced-scrawny-gelled hair-jeans-below-the-butt-crack-with-a-ghetto-swag-Goa beads around the neck-and 3 and 5 piercing on each ear, I’ve missed the one on the tongue punk home. That’s what’s wrong about the right or normal that I don’t seem to see or find with this generation.
Maybe my parents were too peeved over my torn jeans and cut off sleeves and coloured-scrunched-washed but uncombed-fingered-curls-hair. Choosing my career which was not banking or medicine or engineering, choosing the boy I went to marry and regret. I have just paused to sigh and remember my mother say, when you become a mother, you’ll see.
I had convinced myself that a generation gap does not exist but, based on the above rants, maybe a thin line does. So do we adapt, do we try to understand, walk in their shoes, I doubt that’s gonna happen as I do not see myself with 5 piercings or wearing garters or listening to Eminem or walking down with my pot-bellied, white-goateed, respectable-looking husband wearing beads with butt-crack showing jeans.
So I shall continue to find fault with the choice in careers : DJing, fashion blogging if that pays, long sabatticals to find themselves, choice in clothes and yes getting home well past curfew, which I would ideally like it to be 10.30 and God knows what else that I am not privy to. And as my son so rightly convinces me, "its how I want to live, it's how you perceive it".
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