Bermuda Triangled

Over coffee and conversations, this would have been better.
But since the coffee is dehydrating the skin. And the conversations cannot happen due to distances, this will have to do.
Apart from India winning 20-20, Mukesh Ambani becoming the new Richest Indian, some more profound things have happened that affect my life a wee bit more than the above mentioned hot news.
Like there’s a pimple next to my eye. Actually a little down. On the left-hand side. Its taken up permanent residency. And its upsetting me to the extent that I’ve reconsidered all my financial situation and peep shyly into the back pages on UK edition Elle & Cosmopolitan magazines and look at tacky plastic surgery advertisements.
Yes. I’m considering it.
How the lah-di-dah would call it a small surgical holiday.
Even though I work in advertising and write a lot of equally tacky ads promising youth, beauty, fame and sex on the basis of washing one’s hair with a particular shampoo and or scrubbing your skin raw with some bad-smelling soap, it doesn’t cross my mind that maybe its not a very good idea.
At least, for the time being, I have a plan. I have things to do and people to see.
I’d much rather want it to be ‘people to do and things to see’, but that’s another thing.
Now about this plastic surgery madness that has entered my head; few glitches here and there.
Firstly, I really do not have that kind of money to go do this. No really. Even if I sell off all my shoes and bags, I’d be able to barely sit in an airplane to Heathrow. And I’m not sure of my abilities to beg on the streets in London. I don’t think that’ll take me too far.
Secondly. I’m unable to call any of those numbers mentioned there. And that’s because my cell-phone network provider has kindly asked me to pay a deposit of 10 grand to activate ISD on the phone. If I had 10 grand to spare, I’d be in Goa, sunning myself and my skin would be all dark chocolate and coffee and a stupid pimple won’t even show.
In other news, I’m changing jobs. And much like face packs and assorted beauty products that promise a wonderful life ahead of their usage, this job promises to get me a life. Actually, that’s not what’s written in my appointment letter and remuneration package, but I’m hoping that would be it.
The job would also mean my mind will be busy making nice impressions on new set of bosses VS throwing attitude and tantrums on the old ones and having too much free time to day dream about some really stupid people.
I’ve also become a year older. And possibly a little wrinklier.
Added three new gray hair as well. So older, definitely yes. Wiser, only time will tell.
Sadly, I have got no gifts.
And bestest friend no. 2 forgot all about the day. Happily, I was too drunk all day long starting midnight to realize how many people have called and maintain logbooks and a lifetime of grudges. So if you haven’t wished me yet, not to worry.
Just tell me you did and I might just believe you.

Stupid White Horse

Remember Gold Spot? Well, Campa Cola if you must. Or even the gold paper covered coin chocolates? Phantom Cigarettes. The list is endless. What is not is the fact that it goes back to a time that was truly wonderful. I didn’t think so at that point. But now I do. Responsibilities included ensuring that you look right, left and again right while crossing the road. Not snatching away others’ lunch during recess. Finishing homework. And to play a fair game.
Life was simple. So were things. And what made all the self-induced trauma of growing up and early teenage anxiety worthwhile was a golden promise that one day we were all going to grow up. Finish college. Get freedom. Have our own money and not have to make do with the measly pocket-money that mom handed you in the beginning of the month. And then one day, magically, some prince-charming will gallop his way into your heart and life will be fairy-tale perfect.
Stupid white horse. Really.
What happens instead is you finish college. Get confused. Don’t know what to with your life. Have a string on nonsensical men pretending to love you. In reality they just want to get into your panties. Get a job eventually. Only to realize that you don’t really want to spend you hard-earned money buying stupid freaking candy. You rather buy Jimmy Choos. Or settle for Nine West. But Jimmy Choos aren’t available in India. So must you relocate to foreign shores for shoes? And Nine West sucks nine times out of ten. And you really don’t earn that much to but velvet green heels for 7500 bucks. You fall in love with the wrong people. And then a lifetime of waiting for them to get their ‘Tah-dah! How could I not know how I felt for her and of course she’s wonderful and a rockstar and I must be stupid to let her go and not be with her’ moment.
Office politics? Let’s not get there. Friends? They drift apart. Get married. Have babies. And suddenly you find you have nothing in common with them anymore. EMIs and taxes become the focal point of your existence. You are permanently broke. Even when you birthday is just two days away. Do I even have money to buy myself a bottle of wine that day? How many people will remember the day? Will I get flowers? Ever?
And so somedays, when I wake up at 6am on a Monday morning, bracing myself to face another day at work, and think about all this, I quickly write it all down. Getting it out. And blame the stupid white horse. Its all his fault. It is.

There's a little bit of something me in everything in you

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced this is the way it meant to be.
Somedays you just wake up knowing its a different day.
Not bad. Not good. Maybe you don't know even. But different, you know. This little understanding comes out of years of being best friends with your instincts. And we all know they never lie, do they?
Anyhow. So its a different day. To celebrate it (or make peace with it, if you may) you spend a little extra time in front of the mirror. Wear nicer clothes to work.
Breeze through the day, pretty much ignoring everyone and every thing. Don't let work get on your nerves. You're enveloped in a zen-like calmness. Buddha-like, minus any enlightenment of course. And before you know its time to swipe out the card that doesn't really work, but you have to swipe it anyway. Much like clockwork. And then suddenly, out of the blue, you catch hold of a friend, drag him and go ahead and do the one thing you've wanted to for years. Get your tongue pierced.
As for the post title, its just a song playing in my head and has nothing to do with any body part, pierced or otherwise.