I have no idea why I lapse into the Ye Olde Dayes…I just do. Imagine an imp with a neck ruff a la dear ol’ Will sitting on my shoulder, nudging me to shake things up a bit.
Anyhoo, I’d had a fever for a bit. Nothing critical but it was on the higher side and I felt bloody awful. There were fevers I’ve danced my way through (literally) but barring that I felt quite weak and miserable. I had weird Frankensteinish dreams which are bits and pieces of everything around me and my consciousness, all knitted together into an unholy mess. For e.g: I had visions of cobras being milked (I know they were damn cobras because my kid loves them and because I was stupid enough to read this article on The Better India) and some friend of the family moving into the home of one Red’s tennis partners. *shrugs*
I dreamt of days of more leisure, less responsibility (because that’s what the mind and body was craving). I kept dreaming of dinos because I was camped out on my kid’s bed while I sent him off to sleep with Red in mine. I had weirdass sound tracks running through my dreams as well because my mind was still preoccupied with setting up my customized playlists on Amazon Music for our own dear Alexa!
All the dream dissection apart, I just want to take some time and appreciate my peeps. I married one of them and made the other but both are equally precious to me this weekend at least. The Lord&Master kept me quarantined and took over the running of the house, poured liquids into me at regular intervals and made sure I took meds and basically kept my germs to myself and kept my grumpy face to my part of the house.
The offspring, and this is uber cute, came up to me for multiple hugs and kisses only to be turned away each time with threats of germs migrating onto him and setting up camp. He finally came up with a solution; he would give me a massage and make me feel better and get heaps of praise for his efforts-making him feel oodles better too. As a result of which, there is a bottle of Jergens which will not see the light of day again. Apparently the surface area of my body merits almost an entire 400ml bottle. I almost slipped out of bed by the time the lotion application got done.
But I have to mention that tiny, soft little hands, gently and delicately massaged goops of aloe-scented lotion onto my face, forehead, hair, roots, up my nose, in my ear and it was *quite* relaxing for the most part. What was particularly endearing was,”Aww you poor baby, you look soooo bad. I’ll make you feel better.” Followed by waking me up from my half-stupor to make me relate to everyone how well he’d taken care of me and what a good boy he was.
And he was…they both were. They let me wallow, they let me heal and MOST importantly…they LET ME BE. Weekends are relaxed but I’m usually the one picking up the slack. Red and brat help out but obviously I wish they were more proactive (Nyah!). And here they were, cleaning up wherever they could and BEST of all…not adding (much) to the mess. It was blissy. Verry, verry blissy.
So, moral of the story? If you’re going to be sick, don’t be a half-assed kind of sick. BE SICK! They love you to bits when you are.
Here endeth the lesson.
Cough, sniffle, sneeze!
Piggies is purely a metaphor. It doesn’t mean anyone who looks porcine, grunts or even loves to shove their face into the slop they eat or wallow in the mud. And even if there’s an insidious thread of the meaning woven through the blog…tough!
Since childhood we all get introduced to the little piggies. Different cultures name the toes as different things or animals but we all play the same game in some form or the other with kids. And sometimes with adults too but that’s a different post for a different time and with an NC-17 rating in it 😉
Each piggy does a different thing but they remain part of the same foot. One could intellectually masturbate long enough to derive the notion that it’s symbolic of the different roles the same person plays in life OR the different roles different people play in the same person’s life.
Let’s go ahead with the second theory. And being a woman’s blog…we’ll take a woman as the rat in the maze.
Every woman (post the onset of puberty and definitely after having sampled the joys of sexual fulfillment) needs people to play these roles-
- the shopping buddy
- the bitching buddy
- the talking about non-personal and non-intimate stuff buddy
- the no-holds-barred buddy
- the sympathetic buddy
- the empathetic buddy
- the hand-slapper buddy (they exist to keep you on the straight and narrow)
So they play the game of ‘this little piggy went to market’ and from time to time each piggy has their day in the sun.
It seldom,and I mean that it’s a huge statistical improbability, that a single person can embody all these qualities for a woman. Or keep embodying them consistently without dropping the ball.
And the cardinal sin here would be to look for this person in a member of the opposite sex. The fact that we have different physical characteristics means something here. A man doesn’t usually get the rationale behind the exhausting range of emotions a woman feels and expresses. Things are fairly cut and dry for them except for those prima donnas you wanna bitch slap because they can’t decide when their “feminine” side takes over and when they start functioning with the brain lying south of the border.
But having these different people around can and does maintain homeostasis in a woman’s life. Each of these people holds up a mirror of her varied facets for her to see, understand and grow stronger from.
However, each one of them have one common factor binding them all…get enough alcohol into them and you’ll have them singing karaoke, laughing like loons and possibly dancing on the tables as well.
Amen to that!
I am not averse to sharing my living space with another person or other people. I’ve lived in a dorm, as a boarder and lived with my folks till I was an adult and those things really drill it into one’s head about the utter necessity of having your own space for your own shit. I mean, it’s critical!! Especially after a more permanent cohabitation starts with someone and they just leave their things all over the place like goat droppings. It can vex you like nothing else truly can.
Picture this- a smallish studio space or Praise Be To The Gods Of Personal Space, a loft…a few bean bags or bean bag chairs scattered around the room. A few non-skiddy throw rugs with vivid geometric designs on them. A large white wall designed a la Jackson Pollock viz this-
There needs to be an island in the area designated as a kitchen for the cutting and chopping and sleeping is either a sleeping bag or a water-bed in a corner.
Not a very pseudo boho-chic manner but a messiness that gets into every living space but also one which is just short of a tornado-hit area.
Because at the end of the day it all boils down to this- my shit is my shit but your shit is just bloody annoying!
That’s right. Not getting your happily ever after with the one you long and pine for or imagine yourself to be deeply in love with has tremendous ROI.
Let’s take Romeo&Juliet as an example. Too bad they really haven’t found the Fountain of Youth else Will Shakespeare would have been a very rich bugger indeed, reaping benefits from all the royalty he’d have been getting from this one play he wrote. And it’s not even that a good one mind you. It lacks the depth of a Macbeth, the twists of a Midsummer Night’s Dream or and you don’t really feel the love. I know I don’t. I mean take a look at this- 2 teenagers (it could only be teenagers being this impulsive and stubborn) decide that they have a crush on people their families find unsuitable. Families turn into big baddies to keep them apart and teenagers manage to muddle through it till they both end up dead. Yay…have fun making out in the afterlife nerds.
This tragedy of WS has been made into operas, movies, music videos, reenacted as a play and reread as a book and continues to persist even now. Why? Because a never after means the story can persist at least in your own head. A happily ever after means it’s over and done and you have no further role to play in it.
Everyone who has gone through unrequited “love” or has “love&lost” will forever be marked with the touch of that “what-if”. They may not moan and groan throughout their lives about it but they’ll wonder and they’ll hark back to that person or the people who “got back”, “could have been” etc etc. When you get the one you wanted, it turns into marriage, babies, mortgages and the story becomes dull at some point for sure. Happiness might still play a part in it but the depths to which your mind can run when it unleashes the potential of the unknown is massive! And I think it’s fun for people to do from time to time to wander off on this particular path.
Unrequited love has spawned an entire era of work in English Litt from sonnets to prose to modern-day stalkers who have transitioned into very successful serial killers and creeps in the movies. The Never after leads to illicit forays onto Facebook profiles of people you don’t have access to anymore while you take in their lives as they pose for selfies or check into some minuscule coffee shop on social media or tweet about the time they last sneezed.
You don’t check out the happily ever afters…they got their happy ending and started a predictable new story of their own…where’s the mystery in that?!
I remember going back again and again to read Love Story. Sad as shit but she died so beautifully on film and the way Oliver contemplated his life post Jenny dying…man! a man happy with his life doesn’t have half that appeal!
We like a little bit of the unknown in our lives. The places we could have gone, the things we should have done, the lives we would have led…it’s a fun exercise on it’s own and doesn’t hurt anyone. As long as you know you got exactly what you wanted- alive, hale and hearty and not swooning and dying or spouting nonsense from balconies…your very own happily never after!
But going back to R&J, ever think what might have happened if they had ended up together?
It’s inevitable that when people live together, work together, do stuff…again together, there’ll be occasions when there is acrimony.
Acrimony can get bumped up into enmity or also a severe case of I-don’t-recognize-your-existence yada yada yada. But in the whole scenario, the one thing that no one quite figures out how to do is burying the hatchet.
The question now comes- where the heck is it to be buried? In the head of the person you’ve had the falling out with or just in some neutral ground where it doesn’t bother anyone anymore?
Well till the hatchet is good and ready to be buried, we are ill-fated to carry it around like those unimaginative serial killers, dripping with blood and guts aka our angst and ill-will.
The hatchet bumps into things, nicking stuff, causing bleeds which are some extremely out there metaphors for saying it causes us harm in turn and growing heavier by degree since the ill-will hasn’t been washed away.
Laughter is an exceptional antidote for the hatchet. Either at yourself or at the object(s) of your derision. Laughter caused by the prolonging of a situation where even the absence of the provocative stimulus causing bile to surge up in your gut without any occasion for letting it out. Essentially at the futility of things.
Once the laughter bubbles over, a spot magically appears bearing the words, “bury hatchet here”. And thus it ends.
Till something or someone causes you to go medieval on their ass and again swing the hatchet.
We had a very robust English literature syllabus while I was in school. Pope, Dylan Thomas, Matthew Arnold, Sassoon, Rupert Brooke et al.
I specially remember Pope because just reading the title of his famous long poem ‘The Rape Of The Lock’, had us all giggling like silly school girls (which we were) and also because we had totally misunderstood which lock the poem referred to.
Now, 20+ years later I know. Oh, HOW I KNOW!
The relationship that women have with their hair is quite different from the one men have with theirs. While in both cases having a good head of hair induces happiness and a good amount of vanity together, we women cannot get away with being bald. There! I’ve said it. It’s a man’s prerogative to be bald. Its something he can feel bad about but it’s not something people will look askance at. But a women having bald patches, or just not having enough hair to cover her scalp brings about reaction ranging from, “Oh you poor dear! Is it chemo?” to “Damn! these cult-types give me the creeps.”
A bald woman, unless gorgeous in her baldness quite like Persis Khambatta will have a TOUGH time getting laid; among all the other angst in store for her. It’s inconceivable for people to think of a bald woman without there being a less than extraordinary reason for it.
Male pattern baldness? Hell, teenagers know about it these days; with alopecia having become a common word in all householders’ vocabulary. But baldness doth not behoove a lady be. Erm…you get the drift.
I lost a lot of hair while I was pregnant. But a gained a cute kid so it was a sacrifice I was ok with. Thankfully he doesn’t show signs of being too light-headed trichologically speaking. And while he’s not headed into McDreamy land either, he’s just fine.
So when I started losing hair yet again, often just at the thought of combing, I began to get very truly and thoroughly sad.
The worst of it was when the offspring once came up to me with a clump of my hair that he’d rescued from somewhere saying I’d dropped it and if I wanted it or not.
I’d have drunk myself into a silly stupor had I the requisite booze around. But I don’t so I’ll just focus on thinking thick-haired thoughts and try to not comb my hair as long as it’s possible. Who knows? Maybe dreds are my thing.
Now that’s not a word that means your kids are at summer camp or has Grandma babysitting while you take off on a holiday. No indeed. Childfree is a proper concept thank you very much and one that’s catching more momentum as well.
Today there are more people who consciously take the decision to not become parents, biological or adoptive, than there were a few decades ago. It’s not merely with an eye on the exponential rise in population and dwindling natural resources the world over, but also with a good look inside oneself that tells them that this is one area where they could take a pass. And happily so.
Having been a parent for a few years now and still a child for god knows how many more, I can honestly say that I applaud this decision. Not because kids are little monsters we have to groom into becoming humans but because the decision to give life is not one that should be taken lightly. Ever.
It is the highest level of responsibility an individual can ever expect to undertake and try to fulfill. Over millennia it has sadly become something that people do because it seems to be expected of them. Proliferation of the species aside, shaping and nurturing a child is something that ends only when the parent passes on. Even separated by continents, a parent can reach out and influence their child’s nature, emotions and ultimately behavior as well. That’s a heady thought to start with and when it occurs it’s a headier thing altogether.
This next bit is taken from Wikipedia verbatim “According to economist David Foot of the University of Toronto, the level of a woman’s education is the most important factor in determining whether she will reproduce: the higher her level of education, the less likely she is to bear children. (Or if she does, the fewer children she is likely to have.)
Overall, researchers have observed childfree couples to be more educated, and it is perhaps because of this that they are more likely to be employed in professional and management occupations, more likely for both spouses to earn relatively high incomes, and to live in urban areas. They are also less likely to be religious, subscribe to traditional gender roles, or subscribe to conventional roles.”
And it makes a lot of sense. There’s a shortage of resources, there’s a shortage of time to parent and see to it that a child doesn’t have to grow up too hurriedly, rise in crime and even with any dystopian constructs, there’s often a more pressing reason for not having a child. Simply, not wanting to.
A few monthly ago, the Holy See released a statement saying it was selfish opting out of having kids. And am sure quite a few religious and spiritual heads will concur. Proliferation of life can be and is joyous. But one can still proliferate joys and a quality life without bringing forth new life.
It is assumed that women yearn for motherhood. Some do. Some don’t. Some can be very nurturing towards others’ children and yet sleep peacefully every night despite not having a child of their own to tuck into bed.
These women come from a variety of backgrounds but by and large are enlightened enough to know where their fortes lie, where they can maximize on their potentials the most and have multiple avenues of not only keeping busy, but being productive and also being contented and downright happy.
So if kids aren’t *that* big a deal then why does the whole world and their Aunt Samantha go around having so many? Well…it’s like this. Seeing an extension of yourself (mind and body) have a corporeal form is akin to a miracle for most people. Myself included. No matter how many babies have come forth in this world and no matter how many would have come by the time the blog is posted, each one is special. They are the blank canvas that reflect the glories of the world and not the vagaries and debaucheries.
But for me, I guess I just wanted another person to love. And now looking at my child there’s very few little I would do differently where he is concerned. But had I the benefit of hindsight before it became hindsight, I would properly think it through before opting to become a parent. Because I have also realized this while parenting -I would have been a good non-parent as well.
Acknowledging it isn’t a bad thing at all. Just honest. So if you are a childfree individual, that’s just who you are. Accept it. Don’t justify it.
You are still who you were supposed to be.