Monday, October 14, 2013

A Distressing Realization (in which she's becoming everything she mocks & mocks everything she's becoming)

The boy I am currently observing closely for the purposes of long-term-companionship-shortly-to-be-followed-by-imminent-rejection, has an intriguing habit.
We'll be coasting along merrily, when I will turn to him and EMOTIONS.
When this happens, he usually does a swift about turn and zips off into the horizon as fast as his Road Runner stalks can carry him.
Without so much as a beep-beep.

At this point, I usually take a moment - or several - to fall apart in a fashion not unlike that popularized by this fresh thing:
Yes, Uncle indeed.  

Then I gather myself, wipe off the snot (or not - I work from home) and realize that there's a major part of my brain that's now freed up to think about other things. Like politics and my bank balance and travel & exploration. Yoga perhaps? Or Twitter. Aah Twitter. With a gaping boy-shaped hole in my cerebral cortex, other things of CNN-level importance can now pour in.

Over the last 5 months, these boyless interludes have resulted in (1) an accelerated rate of meeting work deadlines, (2) me powering through several unread volumes in my Kindle (including a David Foster Wallace book, which is worth not one but TWO 'boyfriend-stonewalls'), (3) writing a film script on ceramic crucibles made out of something called Mullerite (which I may have misheard as Miller Light and taken on), (4) planning a vacation to South East Asia and (5) being nice, in small doses, to my mother.

In contrast, when things are peaceful in the realm of boy, life takes on a decidedly free-flowing-no-responsibility tenor, where social outings and alcohol intake rise and a new daredevil attitude takes over me, where things such as caution, deadlines and reading the newspaper are thrown to the wind in lieu of weeknights out and pretending I still inhabit the body of an all-nighter-pulling 20 year old. There is sweet, sweet chaos in my otherwise ordered world - the kind that makes me wonder why I needed order in the first place.

Which all makes me come to a distressing realization. What kind of woman am I? The kind who can't function at her best when she's happy? Or someone who's governed so thoroughly by hormones that she has to drop practically everything in her life just to stay upright? Oh God - can I not have sex and a tweetworthy political opinion at the same time? Am I not - shudder - a female and hence a multitasker?

If this is indeed the case then I should perhaps, instead of weeping at the temporary loss of a cootchie-cooing counterpart, focus on all the things I neglect when in the throes of romance. Like reading a book, doing my taxes, taking in a show or an exhibition (haha who am I kidding, I never do that anyway), writing down all the wisdom I've gleaned from relationships with men and once and for all deciding if I want to audition for Indian Idol or not.

More importantly, just in case the boy returns before that hard-earned final chapter of DFW's book ends, I can always just EMOTION or DECONSTRUCTION OF CHARACTER more time to complete it.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Happy Festivus

It isn't festival season in India until you've been kept awake by the amplified yodels of a Bengali man channeling Kishore Kumar (who, in turn, built his career channeling Julie Andrews channeling lonely goatherds), which - even though the singer is situated half a kilometer away from where you attempt to sleep - reach you through the turbo-charged surround sound system that's been expressly hired to simultaneously please the goddess Durga and drive you batshit insane.

The good news this festival season is that Orissa (Odisha, whatever the chick's name is) managed to survive yet another devastating cyclone, all thanks to tweets like this:

Yes, why should we not take this moment to pat ourselves on the back for being the bestest country in the world with the bestest disaster management that allowed us to have the bestest disaster-free 24 hours of our----what? What, Barkha...Barkha...I can't hear you...115 deaths you say? In a...Navami-related stampede and bridge collapse in Madhya Pradesh?...

Dang. We almost made it.

But if you ask me, the best thing about this season (besides the results of my dengue test being negative) is how non headline-making-gangrapey this month has been. Of course, rapes will happen and what's a little ass-grabbery in a pandal once in a way? But by and large October, though only halfway through, has managed to be refreshingly rape-free in the newsworthy world.

The world celebrated one year of Malala surviving the Taliban's idea of tough love. She inspired admiration in the most cynical of hearts, when she went on The Daily Show and spoke about wanting to retaliate by throwing a shoe at her attacker but then rising above.
You're a better man than me, Malala, because here is my shoe and here it is being launched as retribution (for crimes far less severe than those committed on you) towards the skull of a yodeling Bengali man, whose time has come.