If you truly want to be single, get married

To those of you still in the dating game, in a relationship, or on the verge of a relationship — I feel for you.

Not because I am a smug-married who is trying to show off a picture-perfect life of a husband, a baby and two cats (because if you see how I live, it's far from perfect). But because I have the one thing that you don't have — the freedom to be rude. To be me. To say what I feel and get away with it. Because we have our whole life to make up, and neither of us is going anywhere.

Well, I have been thinking about it, ever since the husband told me that I was much ruder now that before he married me. And I realised—this whole dating/being in a relationship thing is too much about being polite. About letting the other person have their point of view. Their thing on the menu.  Their choice of temperature for the air-conditioning. Their choice of which place to go to, or who to make brunch plans with.

Needless to say, you end up doing a lot of what you don’t really want to do, because there is all this pressure of being good. About being sensitive. Because after all, you are in it for the long haul (or at least, that's a good way to go about it)

It's always about, "Honey, would you like to do (insert activity that gives you a rash here)? And you are like, "Sure, when would you like to go?"

We also had a cute a/c thing going in the first few weeks of dating that ceased being cute when I realised that he slept optimally at 18 degrees. I hated air-conditioning, and could, at a pinch, bear it at 24 degrees. But we played keeping count just to humour the other.

Honey, is 20 ok for you?

Ummm, may be 23?

How about 22?

Ok, done!

But things change after marriage. Now there’s freedom. Freedom to say no. Freedom to veto. Freedom to express your views about their life, their friends, their idea of a good time. Freedom to give a rat’s ass.

Now it’s more like, “I’m sweltering here, I need the a/c tonight!”

“But I am freezing..! And it’s pouring cats and dogs outside.”

“Well you can wear a jacket!”

“So, you can shed some clothes.”

Marriage is no pressure at all, its freedom. It’s how it was designed to be. Eat what the hell you want, be as bad as you want, say what you want and never say what you don’t want, and all will still be well.

 Now it's more like, "Honey, there’s this wild party on Friday..."

"No I am not going to a party where you have to come dressed as a monkey, get your own booze, your own food and your own toilet seat."

"Ummm okay"

The fight lasts forever, so there is enough time to be rude. Now isn't that actually liberating, than dragging yourself to said party, hanging around with bimbettes and himbettes who are too busy getting wasted, and expecting you to drop them to addresses they are not sure of themselves? Or being told that OMG, you are the best married couple ever, because you are so cool, and you party even after you’ve had a baby.. blah blah (fill in the blanks)

A child gives you additional room to be rude. Any obnoxious trait inherited can be attributed to the spouse, and the good stuff can be gloated over as coming from your gene pool. So convenient, no?

I love being married.

"You are not about the looks"

A few days ago, a girlfriend of mine told me the best thing I had heard in a long, long time. We were at this party, sipping some free wine, and figuring out what our threshold for tolerance for flakiness was. We had both had enough of "Awesome!" and "Wassup?" and "That's way too cool." or "This party rocks!". So we were doing what the time and the space and decibels allowed us to do. Having a girlie chat. She said she liked my new haircut and I asked her if I should continue short or go back to long.

And then she told me something that I will remember for the rest of my life.

"You are not about the looks babe."

I wasn't sure I heard right. I know I am not conventionally pretty, but you know, other than the adolescent phase of "Oh my god, when will I ever have boobs?," I have been very confident about my persona, and always managed to pull. But had I actually got to that place where it didn't matter at all?

"You have that aura. You are beyond it. It hardly matters whether your hair is long or short, whether or not you colour your hair or whether your dress is too long or too short or whether your bum is too big or too small. You have a way of making all of these look insignificant.  You are your best accessory. It's only about you, not about how you are packaged!"

Whoa! I felt I had arrived. I felt that finally, I had reached that place where I was liberated from all the trappings of dressing up, looking sexy, wearing the right colour or having the right phone. I have been feeling free for quite a long time, but it took a friend to tell me that.

It felt bloody good!

So now I know why I always act nonplussed when someone asks me what I am wearing. The next time that happens, I am going to say, "I am wearing me!"

Every girl should have a Dabangg friend

Someone who calls her ‘chikni’ or ‘item’ and gets away with it, because for once, she doesn’t feel objectified.

 

Someone whose idea of button-down dressing is to leave two buttons undone instead of four.

Someone who defines insouciance, but is never sure what it means. And cannot spell it to save his life.

Someone who doesn’t remember your birthday. And makes no bones about it.

Someone who you never have to worry about subtext, because he hasn’t a clue what it means.

Someone who says he will break someone’s arm if they mess with you and mean it.

Someone who says it like it is, because he doesn’t know any other way to do it.

Someone who loves the girl in you and celebrates her.

Someone who makes you feel like a woman, while still counting you as one of the boys.

Someone who never pretends to know what he doesn’t.

Someone who walks in and fills the room, whatever his size.

Someone you walk in with, and think you can fill a room too, whatever your size.

Someone who thinks it’s a waste of time engaging in deep, intellectual discussion.

Someone who will cheer the loudest when you have a victory.  And feel your pain when you are sad.

Someone who thinks ironing your hair doesn’t make you more of a woman;  and using cuss words doesn’t make you less of it.

Someone you can cuss with to your heart’s content and not be judged.

 HK, I salute thee!

About a hat

The husband wears a hat. He is not bald or balding, neither does he have an ugly skull or dandruff or a wig he is trying to hide.  He is not trying to talk his face away (which is also interesting, if I may). He wears the hat because he likes it, and because it makes him who he is. The hat was sheer happenstance – a dancing night at a nightclub a few summers ago when a few chosen heads were rewarded with hats by the hostesses and his happened to be one. But what was a happy one-night stand for most men in the room turned out to be a long-term relationship for the husband. The hat and he were made for each other. The hat was here to stay.

It has its uses. He is of lean frame and looks much younger than his age. The hat offers many things. Age. Attitude. Insouciance. Mystery. Rank. Sometimes, a point of conversation. At other times, sheer prop powers.

Wherein all the trouble begins. I have done enough theatre to know the power of a hat on stage. In his case, the dance floor. The husband is a fabulous dancer, and the hat just takes him to another level. Things happen.  People are mesmerised. They stop and watch. Then the evil one in them thinks, “Why can’t I have what he has?” The problem begins when one of them believes that the hat can actually transform their gauche self into something fluid, fun and fabulous. Men cannot stand the fact that a married guy gives them a run for their money, so they often try to ask him for the hat, hoping it will turn them into less of insects than they actually are. Sometimes, in a suicidal move, they try to take it off his head.  Women do it too, sometimes they want it for themselves, at other times, for their men.

So every time we go out, there is a hat incident. Everyone wants a piece of the hat. Some guy walks up to him and says he wants it. Another takes it off his head in a deft move, placing it on his own. A woman sends her boyfriend to ask for the hat. A man sends his girl-friend (or boyfriend) to ask for the hat. The husband refuses. They make eye contact. Then follows a verbal duel.  The husband promises dire consequences. Some retreat, some try harder. Some get beaten.

I have no problem with the hat. It helps me play out my fantasy of being married to Johnny Depp, and I must say I know few men who can carry off a hat and the husband certainly is one of them. But what I didn’t bargain for, is that sometimes, I live more on the edge than Vanessa Paradis.

You fat? Me happy

So, you have put on, said she of immodest waist and fat arms.

Yes, I  must have. I went on a holiday, ate a lot, slept well, and didn't exercise.

She looked pleased, almost approving. The rest of the misshapen estrogen population in my yoga class also nodded in unison and displayed their collective delight at my newly acquired 'healthy body'. I call it my Rani Mukherji avatar. I am now mostly square, neck downwards. It's somewhat of a relief not to worry about body contours any more. My friends still think I am thin, although I know that I am not. I can't get into my 26 inch jeans anymore and I find myself looking at M rather than S sections during shopping. Not that I shop much. I hate it. But I have become a little conservative in deciding what fits and what doesn't, and no, I don't keep aspirational clothes that I could get into someday. I just give them away. Currently, I have less clothes than the husband, but that makes it easier to decide what to wear.

But I always wonder why women are always so delighted when someone else puts on weight and not them. Is  it because you have just lowered the bar for them? Is it because it gives them someone else to point a finger at, to deem a work in progress? I also find the same delight on women's faces when a hot girl ends up with a not-so-hot boyfriend.  Perhaps it makes them feel better for the apology-of-a-man they are stuck with.

Perhaps for my yoga class women, I was the epitome of thin and it ired them even more that I was so post-baby. I noticed that they also cringed when I got back to my pre-pregnancy size in less than five months, but never bothered to compliment me about it. That's what women do. When they have something nice to say, they never say it. Unless they are friends. Men on the other hand are far more generous in this area.

Take my hair for example. I had luscious long locks for the longest time. Yes, I got tired of it, and yes, I wanted a new look and yes, I needed a spot of adventure in my life. So I went ahead and surrendered myself to Amanda, my hair-goddess. And she gave me a new look, that perhaps is the cause for my added bounce these days. But forget telling me how good it looks, the women are busy expressing shock at how I let my locks go. Or how good my hair 'used to be'. I beg your pardon? You had a decade to tell me that! And you do now, when it's gone. Strange!

Why do men marry?

 So I am back. After a three week hiatus, some of which was technically a vacation, a rather feeble attempt at finding ‘me’ time post marriage. Okay, I am one of those people who loves travelling alone (although now, I am inextricably linked to a blooming toddler whose boarding pass still lists him as an infant, much to our collective annoyance). 

Yes, I did miss the husband when it came to negotiating luggage and trolleys, but that was about it. I guess when you’ve been single for as long as I have been and married for as little as I have been, you value the ‘me’ time even more. The boy is a good traveller, low maintenance, loves airport lounges, the outdoors, markets, parks, new faces, new food and practically everything I love, so was a good travel companion. He is also in that phase where his smile melts hearts and faces, giving me additional me time to wander, ever so slightly out of his radar.

The very next day, the husband called. Now, I have said this before, but I can’t deal with these “miss you” calls, whatever that makes me out to be. “Sorry to bother you darling, but Nadia...”

Nadia is my first born, my feline goddess, the resident slut.

Turns out, Nadia jumped out the window on to the ledge (don’t panic, I live on the second floor, so it wasn’t really danger zone), and decided to go walkabout around the perimeter of the building. The husband had, in the meantime called an animal NGO,  an ambulance and the fire department. Two hours and no interventions later, Nadia walked back into the house.

Phew! And it was only day one, I thought.  

On day two, he called again. No, actually, this time he croaked.

“What happened to your voice?”

“It’s pouring cats and dogs in Bombay. I think I have got the sniffles. Also my throat hurts, and I can’t talk much.”

How wonderful, I thought. Would that mean no more calls?

“Why don’t you talk to me instead? Should I start a course of Amoxycillin? Is it better to start it now, or wait till tomorrow, because I really really want to go to this party tonight and break it down. It will cheer me up.”

I was tempted to start a lecture on the demerits of mixing alcohol with antibiotics and the pharmacist in me (yes, I have one of those degrees tucked away under my clothes in the cupboard) was outraged at the abuse of my favourite, cheap and cheerful drug which helped me wean him off the ten-times-as expensive antibiotic that he was addicted to, prior to meeting me. Not that I am one for drugs anyway, but they help with the whining. 

Whatever.

Turns out he did go to the party and he did break it down with the five-inch heel types and did get his Party Hard Driver (yes!) to drop a certain nubile nymphet home and did go to an after-party too, and did feel twice as miserable for the next two days.

But the calls stopped. And I was able to get back to ‘me’ time.

And then it was time to return.

I came home to a few things, apart from a tender husband:

An Aquaguard that had stopped working.

A broadband datacard (that is what Reliance chooses to call its abyssmal internet connector) that wouldn’t work.

Random lights and bulbs that had gone bust and hadn’t been replaced.

An absconding maid.

Over-fattened cats, thanks to a thriving diet of Whiskas (because the husband couldn’t really follow instructions on how to cook rice for their fish).

A strange red feather stole, a prop from aforementioned theme party that was gifted by nubile nymphet, as a token of appreciation for dropping her home.

Unfolded clothes.

Unchanged sheets.

A leaking bathroom.

Various takeways in the fridge that had begun to provide accommodation for flora and fauna.

Toenails on the verge of curling (his).

Which is when I realised that men are innately irreversible pigs, no matter how old they are, how long they’ve been married. And however hard you may try to work on them, they go back to rolling in their own filth (and are somewhat comforted by it) the minute your back is turned.

So even though marriage is the last chance for a man to redeem himself, it is far from perfect.

Expiry date

My domestic life is falling apart. The fridge is refusing to cool, and so is the air-conditioning. Not that I have much use for either, but when you have to deal with a whiny husband whose sense of calm hugely comes from electronic devices or remotes thereof, it matters. More so when the said husband threatens to buy a new one at the drop of a hat when you are trying so hard to be the domestic financial goddess.

When I summoned the repairman for the fixing up job for the air-conditioner, he told me it was easily fixable. When probed further on whether we should consider buying a new one, since technically, it was the third repair, he told me something interesting. "What you have is an old model. They don't make things like this anymore. The new ones are not built to last more than two years, so never let go of the old one. It's always better to get it fixed."

It made me look at relationships of today and why they are so fragile, so fractured, so volatile. Why it takes so little to call it quits and move on. Why we can never have the marriages our parents had, however imperfect they might have been. And why the over-communication has actually led to a communication breakdown.

Moral of the story: If you have something old, never let it go.