Your 30s Are For...

...realizing that while you possess the intellectual capacity to contemplate the deeper puzzles of life and pursue them to their artistic, philosophical or academic conclusion (on or off social media), you actively choose not to, instead devoting much of your free time to constructing penis & fart jokes.
Until you are confronted with a situation that demands you summon your highest self and act from a place of reason, nuance, kindness and empathy. In which case, you influence outcomes as positively as you can (from voting mindfully in an election, to helping an old person cross the road or being kind to a telemarketer) so that you can go back - as soon as possible - to your raison d'être i.e. constructing penis & fart jokes.

https://edwardsheridan.wordpress.com/2014/04/21/raison-detre/

Little Heartbreaks

Sick and tired of my one big heartbreak, I joined Tinder because who wouldn’t want to curate the Book of Tiny Humiliations & Disappointments? Technology is so helpful.

I signed up with a bad attitude, cynicism seeping from every pore and found a couple of adequate fellows to chat with.

Them: Hi

Me: Hello.

Them: Wassup?

Me: Nothing much. You say.

Them: Happy Diwali.

Me: Same to you.

Indian men possess charming dating skills. As do I.

There was this one chap though, going by a generic and not-hard-to-find-in-a-haystack-at-all name, with a single photo in which you could just about figure out half his face. He had a sense of humour, we seemed to be getting somewhere, when whoosh, for no reason I understand, he ‘unmatched’ me.

It’s hard not to take it personally when you are rejected not just by a human but also by his mobile app.

Now I’m left with the ‘Hi-Wassup-Happy Diwali’ gang and it’s back to square one.

Yet (as Amit if-that's-even-his-real-name said before we were consciously uncoupled) there is always something to learn from setbacks.
My conduct on Tinder has shone a light on how I am in real life.

I aim low, am consistently apologetic and insecure in my interactions with men, all the while imagining that I’m vastly superior. And then, when they behave like subpar humans, I am distraught and tragedy-struck.

But this is Tinder, see? It doesn’t matter. It’s about swiping left or right. I should be braver, aim higher. I should fake (high self esteem) it, till I make (high self esteem) it. I should catfish my personality – instead of a people-pleasing, short-selling apologetic wimp, I should be the straight-talking, deludedly confident, penis-shriveling diva-bitch of my dreams[1].

I should go after the good lookers, the guys whose profile pics have them paragliding in Guam with a champagne flute in one hand, the IIM-As, the Punjabi-chiknas[2].

No. Wait.

The White Man.
I should seek out the White Man.  

---

[1] I realize I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is. Physically speaking. I’m so consumed with feeling bad about my own schlubbiness that I choose the schlubs by default.

[2] Call me racist but most Indian men look like such douchebags in their profile pics. Hardly an open or warm smile amongst the lot of them. And everyone poses with cars that are not theirs, bikes that are not theirs, horses that are not theirs (but wives and children that are theirs? That seems to be the way our chaps wish to attract the opposite sex.)

The Cultural Imperative Song

You should get married.
You're 36 you should get married.
You're overweight you should get married.
You can barely make rent you should get married.
Your job is stressful you should get married.
You have subclinical hypothyroidism you should get married.
Kashmir, Palestine, Yemen, Syria you should get married.
You burned the dal you should get married.
Your parents are going to die one day you should get married.
Your friends' marriages are in trouble you should get married.
People will think you're a lesbian you should get married.
You won't be guaranteed happiness but you should get married.
The share market is falling you should get married.
That'll be Rs.500 you should get married.

You're married you should have babies.

Yeah YOU

To the Gentleman stealing ideas from my blog: Trust me, sir, there are far better writers in the blogosphere to pilfer from. Having said that,
I'm on to you.

I'm watching.
I'm everywhere.
So be afraid.








(What's tragic is that you get more traffic on your blog than I do...why then?)

Apologizing: For Dummies

When our mummies and daddies were teaching us to say 'Sorry' and 'Thank you' to gali-waley-Uncle & next-door-Aunty, many of them neglected to explain the finer nuances of these niceties. I'll save the 'Thank You' for another day...
...Because saying sorry, to steal a page from Elton Uncle's songbook, sometimes really does seem to be the hardest word.

An apology incorrectly made can cause more damage than good. Therefore I've prepared what I feel is a comprehensive of Do's and Don'ts in the aftermath of a blunder that needs to be atoned for:

1. Inflection:The tonal quality of your apology is of paramount importance. Before you craigslist 'vocal coaches near Shalimar Bagh', let me assure you, you don't need the chops of a Groban to do it right. 'Sorry' is a word that's said slowly and with deliberation. Not to be barked out in an 'eat my shit' tone. If you choose the latter approach do not be surprised if the Wronged One throws you a swift one-two in the 'nads.

2. Prefixes and Suffixes: Sorry is often accompanied by words either preceding or succeeding it. Choice of these words is indispensable to an effective apology. Words like 'Really', 'Extremely' and 'So' are great when used before the sorry. The word 'Fine!' and 'But' are counter-productive to the apologizing process when used before and after the sorry, respectively.

3. Facial Expression: All veteran Fucker Uppers know that a solid sorry is only complete with the appropriate sorry face. This does not mean channeling the Olsen twins (circa 1990) and making poochie faces. An insincere apology can be spotted from a mile away - especially if your eyes wander over her shoulders to catch the umpteenth rerun of the friggin IPL. The apologizer MUST channel the adult in him (hard, but worth the effort), look deep into the eyes of the Wronged One and take responsibility for being a champion bozo.

4. To the Pros: Some smarties amongst us figured out long ago that the best away to reduce time spent in the doghouse is to immediately apologize. They've got the inflection, prefixes and facial expressions down pat. However, they are eventually recognized as repeat offenders and much like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, get a rather gory ending.

5. Intent: And so we get to our next essential point:Apologize only when you mean it. Only when you acknowledge that your actions messed someone up. If you don't get it, save your breath for when you go hunting for new friends.

6. Sorry isn't a standalone word: Just saying sorry without conveying what you're sorry about makes no sense. The bigger the mess, the longer the discussion must be. Sorry boys - try to stay awake.

7. Sorry cannot be replaced with expensive gifts: This does NOT however mean that it can't be accompanied by them.

8. Sorry cannot be said via email or sms: Do not - I repeat - do NOT use the internet or a pager to do your dirty work - unless you are trapped under a 20 tonne truck and have just enough life-force left in you to text the Sorry template to the Wronged One.

9. Sorry cannot be conveyed through Third-Party: Saying sorry through beloved sister, mother or best bud is wrong. If it's done through an ex-girlfriend, that's even worse. There's no excuse for third-party-apologizing unless there's a restraining order against you; in which case you've made bigger messes than the one you're apologizing for.

10. Follow On: An apology means nothing if your subsequent actions don't back up the apology. "Sorry I frolicked with Seeta" does not work if you're out partying with Geeta 2 weeks later.
----------------

PS: One will notice that this blog assumes that most of the apologizing will be done by men. Since, it is in this blogger's experience that 99.93214% of the times it is in fact the male Homo Sapien who fucks up (and since said blogger is only 0.06786% imperfect), this post has been tailored accordingly.
For those who disagree, two words: Jesse James.
For those who still disagree: Sorry.

Un-Clichéing Myself

Many are the lessons a woman learns as she grows older. Among the more important ones is shattering the Myth of the Mysterious Man.

Currently the flavour of the season is Twilight's Edward Cullen.
My best friend and I went to see the film the other day. As the tweens ooh'd and aah'd, we both found (to our horror) that every time the tortured vampire's tortured brow glowered at its tortured best, we dissolved into splits. Everytime he lurked darkly in the background, we got goosebumps - and not the fun kind either. The kind you get when you're walking on the streets of New Delhi at night and a carfull of drunk jat boys zips past you for the third time & you reach for that swiss army knife in your bag just in case...

Of course, I say all this as a woman who was once a girl who was once attracted only to the dark, brooding kinds. As if the silence gave them a booster shot of EQ or being misfits allowed them access to higher truths. Turns out the mystery was there for a reason - to hide who they really were: scared little boys.

Don't get me wrong - there's no shame in being a scared little boy. Who isn't (apart from us scared little girls)? Just let us know. For god's sake tell us women what's really going on. Dark silences are not very sexy. They're annoying because who knows what's happening in that male brain?

Which brings me to the next cliche - men are uncomplicated. Bull. Shit. You lot are the strangest, most bizarre creatures and I don't for one second claim to understand what you're thinking. Or if you're thinking at all. And if they call the lack of thinking 'uncomplicated' then I'm sorry - that logic will just not fly. Thoughts result in action - a pre-requisite for including yourself in the human race. Without thought, you'd be a bit like a comatose patient set afloat on a raft in the Indian Ocean. That's pretty complicated, I would say...

Anyhoo, point is - dear, sweet, well-meaning men above the age of 23. Please don't be mysterious, please don't brood or try to attract women by squinching your brows & hiding your feelings. Be nice, talk to us every so often. Who knows, we might just have a conversation that's fun. Trust me, nature intended for us women to seek out the stable, open and communicative types who are equipped to raise our babies with love & compassion. Not to zero in on guys who only wear black and have a tendency to weep after 7 beers.

The First Flush of BS

Am in the process of getting to know new people. That golden period where every word and action emanating from you is peppered with just a tich of bullshit. It's a tightrope walk, deciding which parts of you are worth being put on display, which parts are to be filed away for later and which parts are never to be shown the light of day. (I can't help but wonder how much better off we'd be if only the rest of our lives were lived with similar diligence.)
Of course, I am older now. Which means that I can now make a more informed choice of the kind of bullshit I want to introduce into the mix. The levels of goofiness, political opinions, taste in films & music and of course revealing your battle scars - some glamorous, others not so much.
I realise that with time the number of party tricks I'm willing to perform has reduced. And I had some pretty nifty ones. I had a 'guerrilla warfare' strategy. Be very still, the better the camouflage, better the chances of getting onto the home team. Listen but rarely speak. Nod your head and agree a lot. Be funny but not in a cynical world-weary way. Keep your back straight, your eyes focused and don't look at your watch every five seconds.
Some of these I still subscribe to (esp about the posture and watch thing) - most, I am too tired to indulge in. I can no longer pretend that I like The Doors or that I remotely understood Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels. I can't keep sucking my stomach in, trying to look like that amazing chick two bar stools down, with the pixie haircut & pixie body and I cannot, for the life of me, pretend to be enraptured by someone who's rhapsodizing endlessly about his BMW and LSE education.
Also, now I have stuff to say. And there is definitely stuff I don't want to waste time listening to. Have a theory on how Gujarat 2002 never happened? Air it by all means but don't expect any applause from me. Want to expound on Tendulkar's batting stats when I've just told you I have no interest in sports? Please be prepared for my eyes to glaze over. Think that insulting the waiter is a sign of your machismo? Better make the most of the evening because you'll never see me again.

Of course, I acknowledge that if done in the right spirit and to the right degree, bullshitting can be oh-so-much fun. There's only a limited amount of time each one-on-one interaction gets before we decide if its worth taking forward or not. There's no way we can transmit all of our authentic selves in that period. Unless we get sucked into the 'Juno' soundtrack...

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on you're back is the latest trend

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't, you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

- 'Anyone Else But You' by The Moldy Peaches