The Anatomy of Pants

The biggest trial in my life is shopping for pants. I avoid it like the plague and i dread having to go buy jeans, linen pants or even formal trousers. Why? Because they don't make them for normal women anymore. And while people may have doubts about the normalcy of my mental state, i'd like to believe that physically, i could be categorized as normal. Whatever normal is. 

So i'm neither thin nor obese. I'm what they call *khaate peete ghar ki* or *healthy* (in the most euphemistic way). That, coupled with the curse of the Indian body type (which was designed, i think, only for sarees), makes it nigh impossible to find that perfect pair of pants. Why?

Because pants have a mind of their own. Which is as messed up as the people designing them.

Pants today look good only on the mannequins wearing them. Which means, that for those same pants to look good on a human, she needs to have proportions like that - extra long legs, almost no ass, a tiny waist. And what do I have? Neither of the above. Suffice to say, it's sheer torture inside the dressing room.

With formal trousers i never know what i'm supposed to look like. Maybe because i still haven't managed to find a good pair in all these years. There seems to be nothing out there that doesnt make me look like a short dumpling with a giant bottom. And if my derriere does look good in a pair, the thunder thighs grab your attention. No, don't visualise it. I can't afford your therapy. 

And don't even get me started on jeans. The problem starts much before the trial rooms. For some reason that i seem to have too much sense to understand, people manufacturing jeans have all decided that wanting a pair of jeans that actually reaches the waist is like asking for the moon and a couple of stars. No really. Try looking for  a pair of jeans that is mid-waist. The sales people will look at you with pity. Almost everything out there (at least in the women's section) is low waist. Straight leg, slim leg, boot cut, all in low waist. And pardon me if i'm being difficult, but i really have no interest in joining the group of women who make you cringe every time they sit, bend or do anything but stand ramrod straight. You know *exactly* what i'm talking about don't you? Yes. That.

So yeah, i hate shopping for pants. They just don't respect fat. Or being healthy as i'd like to call it. And if you're a skinny female reading this, please to not try and disagree with me. I might decide to sit on you and you know you will break. 

Teenage Revisited

So Mr. Khan is on Twitter. And even though I know I’m way cooler than this, i’m super-excited. I mean imagine if he actually replied to one of my tweets??!! Aaaahhhh. That would send the teenager in me rocketing up to space on pure thrill and hormones!

Ok. So before any of you (and by that I mean you PK) start judging me about this you should know that SRK was my teenage idol. I put posters of him up on my walls and sneaked postcards of him into my textbooks. I saw DDLJ more times than I can remember. I even imagined conversations with him where I would be all nonchalant and super-cool (and not at all high-pitched and girly), and he would be so charmed by my wisdom (that I had garnered at the ripe old age of 12) and wit that he would be my friend (c’mon. I was 12. What did you expect?) for ever more!

Yes yes. I know it sounds a bit kooky but I was pre-pubescent. I blame the hormones and the fact that I really couldn’t appreciate Ajay Devgan or Suniel Shetty the way I could Shahrukh Khan. And now he’s on Twitter. And he’s playing the same video game the Fellow has been obsessing about (which makes it slightly easier for me to adjust to the fact that a game is more interesting than me).

And so even though I’m having a giant bimbo moment happening here, I make no apologies. I mean I’m already starving Fat Avantika (who is hiding inside me waiting for her time). I owe at least this much to the teenage me right?

You Know What I Miss?

(Day 101 of 112)

Going for ice-cream with the Fellow in the middle of the night and having to listen to him grumble about how I’m a glutton.

Ordering in food just because I didn’t feel like eating my own cooking.

Getting the Fellow to cook because I didn’t feel like eating my own cooking.

Filling in the Fellow on all the latest gossip on the way back home from a party.

Having the Fellow drive me around town while I read whatever book I was reading at the time.

Listening to the music CD I made in the car while the Fellow complained about his car being traumatised by ‘girl music’.

Ordering in pizza and eating it in bed while watching some random movie on TV.

Beating the Fellow in Scrabble and then listening to his excuses about how he’s out of practice yada yada yada.

Watching the Fellow’s face when he figures out the solution to a problem.

Getting the Fellow to solve my problems.

Having the Fellow pamper me when I fall even mildly sick and mollycoddle me till I never want to get better.

Listening to the Fellow tell me how girly and not me at all I’m being when I put up posts such as these.

The Fellow.

Of Tresses and Trust

(Day 54 of 112)

I took a big step today. I overcame my trust issues when it came to getting my hair cut. It may not sound like a big deal, especially to guys (well not all guys, but most in any case) but a haircut is quite a serious issue.

A haircut or rather the hairstylist (politically correct word for barber/hair cutter) holds in its power the ability to make or break your self image. A good haircut often leads to an ego boost and a confidence arising from the knowledge that your hair looks good. On the flip side, a bad cut will damage you to no end and be the cause of extreme self doubt and negative body image. Ok, maybe that’s a little extreme, but a bad haircut will definitely not do you any good mentally.

And so, for the last 7 odd years, I’d been getting my tresses (hah!) styled/chopped off at the same place in Bombay. I trusted the stylists there to do a good job and they always did. But now I don’t live in Bombay anymore.

So I decided it’s time to shake the balance of things (and learn to deal with change). This brings me to how I placed my trust in the hands (and scissor yielding skills) of a new hairdresser (I don’t trust her enough yet to call her a stylist). Even while she was cutting my hair my mind was busy making comparisons and I think I even winced a couple of times. I even told her about my trust issues I think. Thankfully she agreed with me instead of getting all offended (phew!). After she was done and I was free to go, I took one (final) look in the mirror and decided to make up my mind about the new haircut later.

It’s later and I still haven’t decided.

All I know is that the 2 months before I meet the Fellow will serve to grow out my hair and he won’t even know the difference!

Darcy and the Monsoon

(Day 33 of 112)

It’s been raining non-stop now for nearly 21 hours. It hasn’t let up even once. And it’s not the romantic kind of drizzle (which after 21 hours would also be annoying) but is the heavy duty torrential kind which Bombay is (in)famous for.

The cautious, the experienced, the paranoid and the simply lazy have probably stayed home today rather than face the wrath of the rain gods. People like my dad simply took advantage of the empty (albeit very wet) roads and went to work. And now that the roads around my house are looking like Venice without the gondolas, it’s going to give my dad another excuse to stay at work – or buy a new, big car which would be able to get through all that water without spluttering to a stop.

Where do I fit in this very wet picture? Well, I did have some minor plans of finishing work I’ve been postponing for some weeks now. But the rains made me postpone them again today. Not that I’m complaining. I get to stay dry and warm and not have to wade through a foot of water to get to the other side of the road. I also get to curl up with a good book and chocolate biscuits. And the only thing that made this rainy day better was Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy on television. Watching him dive into that lake even made me smile at the water logging around my house.

So now I know that even faced with floods, a torrential downpour, cancelling of all plans and just a depressing dampness and dankness all around, I can smile. Just give me a wet Mr. Darcy. Oh yeah.