There are two ways to negotiate the karela (bitter gourd in more fashionable circles). One is to accept it at face value and take its bitterness in your stride. The other is to destroy every evidence of its personality, render it completely unrecognizable, and then pride at how you have camouflaged its bitterness.
Since I am a strong advocate of retaining as much of the aesthetic of a vegetable as is realistically possible (with an exception of baingan for bharta), I would brave the karela as it is, with no major alterations to its physical or chemical composition.
Perhaps the most extreme of torture would be to scrape it off its alligator scale-like appearance, rendering it almost bald, then drowning it in salt, squeezing it off all its bitterness, stuffing it with a million masalas, tying it up in threads and then slow-cooking it. Stuffed Karela in my world would qualify as exemplary cruelty to vegetables.
When we were kids, my mother (or father, when he got a chance) would slip karelas into the lunch menu every odd Sunday (rather apologetically) and then steel themselves to incur our wrath. The effect was rather immediate. Me and the siblings would sulk, go on a mini hunger strike, postpone eating for as long as we could, and then grudgingly eat the karela in its various avatars. But except the crispy ones (a variant is available at the nearest Hot Chips), nothing got our vote.
Things have changed a lot since then, at least for me. I have explored this lesser gourd, seen it in a new light, and made some happy memories out of it in the process(see below)
One thing the karela teaches you for sure is patience. It cannot endure drastic measures, like say, the potato. So whether you are making a simple crispy karela or blending it with other members of the vegetable family, it needs to be handled with care, de-bittered, but not too much, cooked slowly, tossed often. And despite being the spurned one for many palates, it still puts up a brave front. I love it for its resilience.
Karela with potatoes
This is the simplest way to eat karela and one of my favourite recipes. The potatoes help absorb the bitterness of karela, making it a great marriage. It was given to me by my Bengali colleague. “Do nothing to it, add nothing,” is her mantra.
Method:
Wash, dry and chop karelas into small pieces. Do the same with the potatoes.
Heat one tablespoon oil in a non-stick man. Add the karela-potato mix, add salt, a pinch of sugar, haldi and mirchi powder.
Cook slowly. Do not cover (water from condensation brings out the bitterness)
Serve with chapatis or rice and dal.
Note: You can also substitute the potatoes with aubergines.
Karela with onions
One thinly sliced medium sized onion
2-3 karelas, slit vertically and then thinly sliced. Soak this in water with a teaspoon of salt and then squeeze dry, draining off the water
Two vertically slit green chillies
Amchur powder
Jeera powder
Salt, sugar to taste
Method:
Heat one tablespoon oil in a skillet. Add mustard and when it splutters, add the slit green chillies and the sliced onions and slowly sauté.
When the onions are near-brown, add the karelas, amchur powder, salt and mix well.
Cook slowly, uncovered, till the karelas brown.
Karela in tamarind sauce (paarikai pachadi)
Chop fine. Discard larger seeds, but keep the tender ones. Soak in salted water , squeeze out excess water.
Heat oil, add mustard seeds. When it sputters, add hing and two slit green chillies.
To this add the chopped karela and sautee…
To the juice of a lemon sized ball of tamarind, add a spoonful of besan and mix well.
Add the tamarind-besan mixture to the sautéed karelas.
Add sambar powder, salt, a small piece of jaggery, and bring to boil.
Serve with rice or chapatis.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Continuum
“She has so lost her spark after coupledom.”
Thus speaketh a friend about someone we knew in common and largely admired for her pluck to put herself out, and make singledom look good. Apparently, this girl was not so cool anymore as she couldn’t stop talking about her new-found relationship.
My friend, on the other hand, has technically never been single since she turned 18 and was more or less a relationship goddess to me through my long stints as a singleton. She is now finally single, two decades and two marriages later, and is currently tapping me for advice on how to do the ‘table for one’ life. She also wants me to find a ‘suitable boy’ for her, a role I am so not used to playing.
It’s a bit odd, being on the other side with her—she is still dealing with the irony that I have stepped out of my continuum of singledom— having not only tied the knot, but also produced an infant. It is a transition that both of us are learning to handle, she trying to get used to being single, me trying to get used to not being so.
But what I found odd was her desire to now see single as cool, after years of her promoting coupledom to me, and years of me resisting, by saying I was happy for her, but I was happy in my state as well.
I guess she is unlearning wearing the coupledom hat. I on the other hand still have trouble wearing my married hat — read that as thinking like a married person does… for example—“Let me check and get back to you, I don’t know now, can I let you know by the weekend,” stuff like that. I am so used to making my own decisions that sometimes, I have to remind myself that I have to think for two (now three). But I am getting there, with a little help from the husband, so it’s all good.
It’s still funny how singledom is viewed as something in transition, something waiting to be altered, and coupledom as something that has attained balance and stability. It reminds me of my chemistry lessons a long time ago where we learnt about valence electrons and their bid for stability through covalent bonds. So singletons were like electrons, trying to get into stable orbitals, and perhaps that’s why they call it ‘settling.’ But chemistry, unlike life, was kinder to the single bond as it rendered it the most stable as opposed to double and triple bonds which were considered unstable (more to share=unstability in chemistry)
But then again, it is not about singledom versus coupledom. It is which electronic state allows you to form bonds you want to keep.
Thus speaketh a friend about someone we knew in common and largely admired for her pluck to put herself out, and make singledom look good. Apparently, this girl was not so cool anymore as she couldn’t stop talking about her new-found relationship.
My friend, on the other hand, has technically never been single since she turned 18 and was more or less a relationship goddess to me through my long stints as a singleton. She is now finally single, two decades and two marriages later, and is currently tapping me for advice on how to do the ‘table for one’ life. She also wants me to find a ‘suitable boy’ for her, a role I am so not used to playing.
It’s a bit odd, being on the other side with her—she is still dealing with the irony that I have stepped out of my continuum of singledom— having not only tied the knot, but also produced an infant. It is a transition that both of us are learning to handle, she trying to get used to being single, me trying to get used to not being so.
But what I found odd was her desire to now see single as cool, after years of her promoting coupledom to me, and years of me resisting, by saying I was happy for her, but I was happy in my state as well.
I guess she is unlearning wearing the coupledom hat. I on the other hand still have trouble wearing my married hat — read that as thinking like a married person does… for example—“Let me check and get back to you, I don’t know now, can I let you know by the weekend,” stuff like that. I am so used to making my own decisions that sometimes, I have to remind myself that I have to think for two (now three). But I am getting there, with a little help from the husband, so it’s all good.
It’s still funny how singledom is viewed as something in transition, something waiting to be altered, and coupledom as something that has attained balance and stability. It reminds me of my chemistry lessons a long time ago where we learnt about valence electrons and their bid for stability through covalent bonds. So singletons were like electrons, trying to get into stable orbitals, and perhaps that’s why they call it ‘settling.’ But chemistry, unlike life, was kinder to the single bond as it rendered it the most stable as opposed to double and triple bonds which were considered unstable (more to share=unstability in chemistry)
But then again, it is not about singledom versus coupledom. It is which electronic state allows you to form bonds you want to keep.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Advance booking
The husband is a ‘let’s reserve a table’ kind of person while I am a ‘let’s go out for lunch’ kind. I find it absurd walking into a restaurant, having reserved a table and then discovering that most of the tables around me are empty. Because, in my mind, I have done the extra work of making that phone call, listening to a syrupy voice at the other end, talking to it for a good three minutes, and then not being rewarded for it. Ideally my reward would be the visual of other people begging for a table, while I breeze in with supreme confidence, just dropping my name.
On the other hand, I find it equally absurd cold-calling an eatery, noticing that most tables are empty and then being asked, “Do you have a reservation?”
The husband of course takes reservation to another level. He reserves an appointment for his routine haircuts at the salon-around-the-corner called Miracle, where, I reckon, he is the sole customer. Or at least the only customer who gives a fifty-rupee tip. Given that Miracle salon has more staff than clients any given day, the husband’s franticness about having to make that appointment seems a bit misplaced. But it’s still been hard for me to convince him that he can just show up.
It’s evident that I am a creature of spontaneity, while the husband likes planning (never mind that half the plans are never meant to be executed). I like just showing up. If the restaurant/movie/salon doesn’t have room for me, I’ll find another restaurant/movie/salon that does, or just find something else to do. So unless it’s a Rehaan Engineer play (which, if you miss once, you never get to see again) or a good stand-up gig, I never book in advance for anything.
In my single-screen childhood, going for a movie was a high-adrenaline expedition. First of all, we never knew if we’d get tickets, then we never knew what was plan B if we didn’t. Could we afford them ‘in black’? Would it be another movie in another theatre? Would we go out for dinner? Ice-cream? Or would we just go home? But the option of booking tickets in advance for another day was never considered by my get-up-and-go family.
Booking is also a bit impersonal according to me.. where is the thumpety thump of the heart when you walk into a theatre not knowing whether you will actually get to see the film? Where is that feeling of “OMG! There are 17 people in front of me, so will I make it?”.
Unfortunately, multiplexes and their multiple choices have taken the adrenaline out of movie watching. Life, strangely, has become a series of plan Bs.
On the other hand, I find it equally absurd cold-calling an eatery, noticing that most tables are empty and then being asked, “Do you have a reservation?”
The husband of course takes reservation to another level. He reserves an appointment for his routine haircuts at the salon-around-the-corner called Miracle, where, I reckon, he is the sole customer. Or at least the only customer who gives a fifty-rupee tip. Given that Miracle salon has more staff than clients any given day, the husband’s franticness about having to make that appointment seems a bit misplaced. But it’s still been hard for me to convince him that he can just show up.
It’s evident that I am a creature of spontaneity, while the husband likes planning (never mind that half the plans are never meant to be executed). I like just showing up. If the restaurant/movie/salon doesn’t have room for me, I’ll find another restaurant/movie/salon that does, or just find something else to do. So unless it’s a Rehaan Engineer play (which, if you miss once, you never get to see again) or a good stand-up gig, I never book in advance for anything.
In my single-screen childhood, going for a movie was a high-adrenaline expedition. First of all, we never knew if we’d get tickets, then we never knew what was plan B if we didn’t. Could we afford them ‘in black’? Would it be another movie in another theatre? Would we go out for dinner? Ice-cream? Or would we just go home? But the option of booking tickets in advance for another day was never considered by my get-up-and-go family.
Booking is also a bit impersonal according to me.. where is the thumpety thump of the heart when you walk into a theatre not knowing whether you will actually get to see the film? Where is that feeling of “OMG! There are 17 people in front of me, so will I make it?”.
Unfortunately, multiplexes and their multiple choices have taken the adrenaline out of movie watching. Life, strangely, has become a series of plan Bs.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Game zone
I got hit on!
By a twenty-something. In broad daylight. Straight out of his daddy’s car. Not at a club or a brunch, but at the local nariyalpaniwala. And I didn’t see it coming!
Great, I can still score, I thought, and must say it felt good. Flattery always does, even if people tell you otherwise. Thing is, I have so been out of the game, that it took me a good 30 seconds to realise what was happening. I was caught off-guard, and it was the last thing on my mind—I was still recovering from my post-partum belly, having a bad hair day (nothing new) compounded by a wardrobe crisis, flaunting my greys (now that’s another column, but I believe that if I don’t do it now, I never will, and then one day I will be 60 and wrinkled, but have jet black hair and pretend I am 55, which is all a bit lopsided if you ask me)
Here’s a snatch of the conversation between PFY (pretty fresh youth) and me:
He: Nice shades!
Me: (irritated at being distracted from my nariyalpani): Thanks…
He: Where did you get them? They are really cool
Me: (perplexed as they are really vanilla shades, no big deal about them): They are Fast Track. You get them anywhere I suppose.
He: You come here every day?
Me: No. Why?
He: Just asking. I live in X building. How about you?
Yay! I am still in the game — marriage, infant, notwithstanding. And don’t you believe women who say it doesn’t matter once you are ‘settled’ and have kids and all that. Of course it matters. Else why do books on how to get a man, make him stay, make him think the world of you, etc etc fly off the shelves? Why are parlours never out of business, recession or no recession? Why are women always getting their face, nails and hair done? The pheromones never stop working, do they?
It sounds really lame and clichéd, but your self-confidence is hugely related to your scoring potential, whatever life stage you are at. So the more you are out in the open, the better it is for you. If you are not out there, you will never know.
Most women spend months and years, not to mention a huge amount of money trying get back their body image (and it’s not about how many pounds you gained or lost) post baby, and in the meanwhile impose a reclusive lifestyle on themselves. I know it’s a bit bizarre that I was reading The Game soon after my delivery, but it wasn’t intentional, just a book I hadn’t read before and a friend visiting duly got. But something from the book still rings true: You are the prize. And it’s not whether you look like a million bucks, it’s about whether you think you do.
By a twenty-something. In broad daylight. Straight out of his daddy’s car. Not at a club or a brunch, but at the local nariyalpaniwala. And I didn’t see it coming!
Great, I can still score, I thought, and must say it felt good. Flattery always does, even if people tell you otherwise. Thing is, I have so been out of the game, that it took me a good 30 seconds to realise what was happening. I was caught off-guard, and it was the last thing on my mind—I was still recovering from my post-partum belly, having a bad hair day (nothing new) compounded by a wardrobe crisis, flaunting my greys (now that’s another column, but I believe that if I don’t do it now, I never will, and then one day I will be 60 and wrinkled, but have jet black hair and pretend I am 55, which is all a bit lopsided if you ask me)
Here’s a snatch of the conversation between PFY (pretty fresh youth) and me:
He: Nice shades!
Me: (irritated at being distracted from my nariyalpani): Thanks…
He: Where did you get them? They are really cool
Me: (perplexed as they are really vanilla shades, no big deal about them): They are Fast Track. You get them anywhere I suppose.
He: You come here every day?
Me: No. Why?
He: Just asking. I live in X building. How about you?
Yay! I am still in the game — marriage, infant, notwithstanding. And don’t you believe women who say it doesn’t matter once you are ‘settled’ and have kids and all that. Of course it matters. Else why do books on how to get a man, make him stay, make him think the world of you, etc etc fly off the shelves? Why are parlours never out of business, recession or no recession? Why are women always getting their face, nails and hair done? The pheromones never stop working, do they?
It sounds really lame and clichéd, but your self-confidence is hugely related to your scoring potential, whatever life stage you are at. So the more you are out in the open, the better it is for you. If you are not out there, you will never know.
Most women spend months and years, not to mention a huge amount of money trying get back their body image (and it’s not about how many pounds you gained or lost) post baby, and in the meanwhile impose a reclusive lifestyle on themselves. I know it’s a bit bizarre that I was reading The Game soon after my delivery, but it wasn’t intentional, just a book I hadn’t read before and a friend visiting duly got. But something from the book still rings true: You are the prize. And it’s not whether you look like a million bucks, it’s about whether you think you do.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Just in case
The husband is a worry wart. He is the one who will always have an umbrella (two, in fact, just in case one has to be lent to the delinquent at work). He would be the one to buy the last four packets of meat lasagna from the super market (“What if one night I feel like it and there’s none in the freezer?”).
He would be the one to announce an epidemic if he spotted a red ant or cockroach on the counter. Windows are shut, fastened and rechecked (just in case germs come rushing in or it pours and floods the house) every time we leave the flat. He might even have stopped taking the lift to protect himself from swine flu, just that we live on the fifteenth floor and the last time he exercised was probably when he learnt to walk.
A stubbed toe or a scratched palm will be gazed at despondently for hours like surgery was imminent. A mere sniffle would have him packing to a certain quack who prescribed Ceftum indiscriminately, and he spent the next five to six days feeling sorry for himself, imagining drug molecules fighting battles with the toxins in the body and being largely overwhelmed.
I, on the other hand, am the queen of cool. I love open windows, hate air-conditioning, doctors and processed food (not necessarily in that order) don’t pop pills, carry umbrellas, or obsess about what to wear or eat. I am a ‘now’ person, never have multiple copies of anything, stock up for dry days or make contingency plans. I just improvise, and it’s worked so far.
Meanwhile, he buys five of the same white linen shirts, just in case the laundry man lost one or two, or Cotton world stopped making them (and they did!). He has, in storage, ten bulbs, a dozen batteries, four toothpaste packs, and at least a dozen soaps and shower gels. Everything is backed up … milk, coffee, juices, peanut butter, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese, bread, chocolate, whatever.
He fondly calls it Verma stores (random surname, no offence to the bearer of the name). I proposed we re-christen it to Agarwal Mart, since it has assumed gargantuan proportions: Agarwal groceries, Agarwal cold storage, Agarwal medical, Agarwal hardware and Agarwal confectionery
He calls it ‘advance work’. His definition is – work that is done before it needs to be done, so that when the time comes, it doesn’t seem like work.
Yes, but what about work that has to be done now, I ask. “Have you filed your returns, asked for the mutual fund statements, got your passport documents ready, downloaded the infant’s videos……?” He has left the room.
We are now curious to see how the infant turns out. Will he be the chronic worrier with a dash of OCD, or will be the king of cool?
Time will tell.
He would be the one to announce an epidemic if he spotted a red ant or cockroach on the counter. Windows are shut, fastened and rechecked (just in case germs come rushing in or it pours and floods the house) every time we leave the flat. He might even have stopped taking the lift to protect himself from swine flu, just that we live on the fifteenth floor and the last time he exercised was probably when he learnt to walk.
A stubbed toe or a scratched palm will be gazed at despondently for hours like surgery was imminent. A mere sniffle would have him packing to a certain quack who prescribed Ceftum indiscriminately, and he spent the next five to six days feeling sorry for himself, imagining drug molecules fighting battles with the toxins in the body and being largely overwhelmed.
I, on the other hand, am the queen of cool. I love open windows, hate air-conditioning, doctors and processed food (not necessarily in that order) don’t pop pills, carry umbrellas, or obsess about what to wear or eat. I am a ‘now’ person, never have multiple copies of anything, stock up for dry days or make contingency plans. I just improvise, and it’s worked so far.
Meanwhile, he buys five of the same white linen shirts, just in case the laundry man lost one or two, or Cotton world stopped making them (and they did!). He has, in storage, ten bulbs, a dozen batteries, four toothpaste packs, and at least a dozen soaps and shower gels. Everything is backed up … milk, coffee, juices, peanut butter, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese, bread, chocolate, whatever.
He fondly calls it Verma stores (random surname, no offence to the bearer of the name). I proposed we re-christen it to Agarwal Mart, since it has assumed gargantuan proportions: Agarwal groceries, Agarwal cold storage, Agarwal medical, Agarwal hardware and Agarwal confectionery
He calls it ‘advance work’. His definition is – work that is done before it needs to be done, so that when the time comes, it doesn’t seem like work.
Yes, but what about work that has to be done now, I ask. “Have you filed your returns, asked for the mutual fund statements, got your passport documents ready, downloaded the infant’s videos……?” He has left the room.
We are now curious to see how the infant turns out. Will he be the chronic worrier with a dash of OCD, or will be the king of cool?
Time will tell.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The ex effect
Last week, post walking into shockingly non-bouncy new place called Bounce in Bandra for some PBQT (post baby quality time) with the husband, I noticed him squirming as he edged me towards the bar. “Guess what? My ex-girlfriend is here. Should I be ignoring her?”
Now this was a first—the extremely suave and articulate husband transforming into this clumsy rookie that is. But I could sense he was uncomfortable, so I said, “Pretending she doesn’t exist would be giving it too much importance. If I were you, I would throw a breezy ‘Hi’ in her direction and continue doing what I was doing.” (Spoken in the tone and manner of someone who has become a pro at the breezy-with-the-ex thing)
Which is what he did, and then all was well. Except it opened the window to some post-morteming by me. “She needs a haircut, and some tact,” I said. I wasn’t just being my bitchy self—she really could do with a haircut—and her constant nudging of friends, pointing in my direction made me think of the second ingredient. So there!
Coming to think of it, he did the same when we ran into one of my exes sometime last year. “You actually dated THAT?” was his response.
One of the conversations we did have pre-marriage was about not inviting any of our exes to the wedding, since it was about celebrating the future and did not have to involve revisiting the past. But a conversation we didn’t have is what would we do if we ran into one of them.
Which brought me to: why are we embarrassed by our exes? And I figured: we are actually embarrassed by what we were when we were with them. Stupid, needy, clingy, confused or a combination thereof. And when we move on, we pretend we were never any of those things and that’s why an encounter such as the above leaves us flummoxed. What makes it worse is that there is no such thing as closure. It is something one only reads in books.
So we fit our exes into different boxes—some have access to our Facebook (some on limited profile, others whose walls we still write on), some we still call and wish on birthdays, some we socially hang out with (but only in large groups), some who text us and we never text back, some whose numbers we remember by heart but haven’t saved, some whose new girlfriends we are dying to check out, some we call for professional (but never personal) advice, and some we just ctrl+alt+delete from our lives and feel good about it.
What we all really want at the bottom of our heart is a Deewar moment with an ex, however petty that might sound. “Mere paas _________ (fill object of value here, like new boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, child) hai! Tumhare paas kya hai?”
Now this was a first—the extremely suave and articulate husband transforming into this clumsy rookie that is. But I could sense he was uncomfortable, so I said, “Pretending she doesn’t exist would be giving it too much importance. If I were you, I would throw a breezy ‘Hi’ in her direction and continue doing what I was doing.” (Spoken in the tone and manner of someone who has become a pro at the breezy-with-the-ex thing)
Which is what he did, and then all was well. Except it opened the window to some post-morteming by me. “She needs a haircut, and some tact,” I said. I wasn’t just being my bitchy self—she really could do with a haircut—and her constant nudging of friends, pointing in my direction made me think of the second ingredient. So there!
Coming to think of it, he did the same when we ran into one of my exes sometime last year. “You actually dated THAT?” was his response.
One of the conversations we did have pre-marriage was about not inviting any of our exes to the wedding, since it was about celebrating the future and did not have to involve revisiting the past. But a conversation we didn’t have is what would we do if we ran into one of them.
Which brought me to: why are we embarrassed by our exes? And I figured: we are actually embarrassed by what we were when we were with them. Stupid, needy, clingy, confused or a combination thereof. And when we move on, we pretend we were never any of those things and that’s why an encounter such as the above leaves us flummoxed. What makes it worse is that there is no such thing as closure. It is something one only reads in books.
So we fit our exes into different boxes—some have access to our Facebook (some on limited profile, others whose walls we still write on), some we still call and wish on birthdays, some we socially hang out with (but only in large groups), some who text us and we never text back, some whose numbers we remember by heart but haven’t saved, some whose new girlfriends we are dying to check out, some we call for professional (but never personal) advice, and some we just ctrl+alt+delete from our lives and feel good about it.
What we all really want at the bottom of our heart is a Deewar moment with an ex, however petty that might sound. “Mere paas _________ (fill object of value here, like new boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, child) hai! Tumhare paas kya hai?”
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Woman, interrupted
“I expected you to be fatter,” he said, accosting me at a house party. The chronic smug singleton was visibly shocked at my reappearance in the circuit in what was almost my old form, pre-pregnancy. Funny thing is, he looked disappointed, as though I had proven him wrong, or beaten him at the ‘I bet she will never get back in shape’ game.
I told him I had good genes, but it was clear that I had the will to get my life (and body) back post pregnancy. However, it got me wondering. Shouldn’t he be happy for me if he is a real friend? Shouldn’t there have been delight and not disappointment in his eyes upon sighting me?
What he is actually thinking is, “Hmmm… it’s not all that bad then to get married and have babies. She can still score..”
What he is not saying is, “I love how you can have a baby and not lose yourself.”
What I am thinking is, “Did you actually expect me to be a fat cow, you loser!”
What I am not saying is, “Why is motherhood=loss of sex appeal=out of the game?”
The fact is, I just wanted to ‘get on with it’ and fill my life with other things that also deserved my attention besides the infant. That simple. No glorious motherhood theories there.
People live their lives by extrapolation. What they see around them, they apply to themselves and visualise. If it doesn’t work, they reject it. It’s a great way of not changing the course of one’s life. The thing about the chronic smug singleton is that he/she always finds excuses to feel happy about not being in your shoes.
If you don’t show up at social dos post a change of status to mother, you are a sad sack who has no life, who cannot multi-task, who probably has a low body image, who is probably so emotionally overwrought that she could actually be bad company.
If you do, you are a careless mother.
If you get back into shape, you obviously care more about yourself than a new mother usually does.
If you don’t, you are just another new mom who has lost herself in her baby.
Which brought me to…Am I also guilty of ‘Been there, done that’? Perhaps I am. Like once-upon-a-time, I would look at married couples who barely spoke to each other, let alone laugh, and think, “That’s how relationships decay,” and then feel happy about being single.
Clichés are a double-edged sword. Damned if you fit, and damned if you don’t. This is how it happens.
Scenario one: Girl gets married. Girl has no time for friends. Girl disappears.
They say: “We knew it…”
Scenario two: Girl gets married. Girl still hangs out with old friends, with or without husband.
They say: “Something must be wrong. Why is she hanging out with us? Doesn’t she have a life?”
Either way, you lose. At least they think you do.
I told him I had good genes, but it was clear that I had the will to get my life (and body) back post pregnancy. However, it got me wondering. Shouldn’t he be happy for me if he is a real friend? Shouldn’t there have been delight and not disappointment in his eyes upon sighting me?
What he is actually thinking is, “Hmmm… it’s not all that bad then to get married and have babies. She can still score..”
What he is not saying is, “I love how you can have a baby and not lose yourself.”
What I am thinking is, “Did you actually expect me to be a fat cow, you loser!”
What I am not saying is, “Why is motherhood=loss of sex appeal=out of the game?”
The fact is, I just wanted to ‘get on with it’ and fill my life with other things that also deserved my attention besides the infant. That simple. No glorious motherhood theories there.
People live their lives by extrapolation. What they see around them, they apply to themselves and visualise. If it doesn’t work, they reject it. It’s a great way of not changing the course of one’s life. The thing about the chronic smug singleton is that he/she always finds excuses to feel happy about not being in your shoes.
If you don’t show up at social dos post a change of status to mother, you are a sad sack who has no life, who cannot multi-task, who probably has a low body image, who is probably so emotionally overwrought that she could actually be bad company.
If you do, you are a careless mother.
If you get back into shape, you obviously care more about yourself than a new mother usually does.
If you don’t, you are just another new mom who has lost herself in her baby.
Which brought me to…Am I also guilty of ‘Been there, done that’? Perhaps I am. Like once-upon-a-time, I would look at married couples who barely spoke to each other, let alone laugh, and think, “That’s how relationships decay,” and then feel happy about being single.
Clichés are a double-edged sword. Damned if you fit, and damned if you don’t. This is how it happens.
Scenario one: Girl gets married. Girl has no time for friends. Girl disappears.
They say: “We knew it…”
Scenario two: Girl gets married. Girl still hangs out with old friends, with or without husband.
They say: “Something must be wrong. Why is she hanging out with us? Doesn’t she have a life?”
Either way, you lose. At least they think you do.
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