The brother and the beau have finally met. For me, this was more significant than meeting the parents, or getting along with his best friend. Because, in my world, the brother was always 'the man', although I don’t think he ever knew it. Never mind the fact that he is younger (but looks older) or the fact that he always thought I should edit my dialogues and compress everything I said into 30 seconds, as that was the maximum he could deal with, or the fact that we both liked talking so much, that sometimes, no one was listening. The point is, as a younger sibling, he was often subjected to my domineering ways (or so he says), for which he is exercising payback time.
The tough thing about men you love is that sometimes, they don’t necessarily love each other, rather apply the ‘guilty until proven innocent’ rule. In my case, all it took was ten seconds and the magic word at 2 am. Beer?
And there began the bonding.
Both think that beer is something you drink when you are thirsty.
Both believe that the fridge and the larder should be full of juices and cheese and chocolate and ice-cream and preserves and things that they will never eat, but what if the food in the supermarket runs out?
Both believe that a moody remote is good reason to buy a new DVD player, which is good enough reason to buy a new TV, a hometheatre system, a fridge, and a washing machine — it’s always better when you buy in bulk, is their justification. Also, you get a free coffeemaker, so that’s great, isn’t it?
Both believe that the body can be challenged to consume the most toxic form of food at 4 am.
Both go to sleep with the television on, but wake up the second you switch it off.
Both buy clothes they never intend wearing but squirm when you ask them to give them away.
Both can spend an entire day watching squirrels and cats, and eat a lamb while they are doing so.
Both spring into extreme masculinity mode even if you mention in passing that a guy is sweet on you.
Both are extremely anal about their gadgets and wires, and treat them as if they would a lover.
Both take longer to get ready and spend more time in front of the mirror than I do.
Both have a natural aversion to smaller men and believe they should all perish.
Both have no qualms sleeping over their food, but will raise hell if they spot a crumb on their gaming station.
It’s funny how the things that have always irritated me about my brother are the very things I have to deal with all over again with the beau. But I think its all my doing — I remember I said in my very first column, I have always dreamt of having a boyfriend who was like my brother. Endearing, adventurous, spirited and someone who makes me laugh. Guess I am paying the price for it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
My mommy strongest
Hanging out in the ICU is not a pleasant experience. Especially when it's your mother who's battling it out inside. But as hours grow into days, you begin to achieve a rhythm in the whole thing, and then, it's all about project management.
I noticed that people around me were dealing with pain in quite different ways. Some were magically stoic and contained, as though they had a secret formula that I didn't have. Some couldn't stop their nervous chatter. Others, like me, were pacing up and down, prioritizing the list of things to be done.
But the most trying part is not the hanging around all day, waiting to be summoned. Neither is it being told by the doctors that they are trying their best, but we should be prepared for a tragedy, in case it decides to "befall us." Or waiting with bated breath as the doctor pronounces his verdict after an entire day of ultra-sound, echocardiographs, colour dopplers and INR ratios for prothrombin time. Or arranging for 16 bottles of blood in less than four hours — friends, friends of friends, absolute strangers showed up in their Saturday best for my mother as soon I sent out the alert.
And even that is not the most trying part. The most trying part is handling the relatives and their questions
"What time was she admitted?"
"Why /how did this happen?"
"Who brought her to the hospital?"
"Why Lilavati?"
"Can she talk"?
"What about eating?"
"How come we got to know at X time?"
"Is your brother coming?"
"What airline is he flying?"
"Why is he not flying ABC airline?"
"How is it that XYZ knew about it before us?"
With friends, it is so much simpler. "Tell us what you need and we'll do it for you." And they did. Whether it was offering money, blood, a hug for my mother or me, or just their prayers. Two days later, people are still calling or texting, and wanting to donate blood.
But then, there is something democratic about pain. My mother—retired school teacher with no print space to her credit was separated by one bed from Parle scion, Prakash Chauhan whom the nation reads about every day. I don't think my pain is any different from his daughters' who hang around all day—pacing, agitating, breaking down and going on about their business just like me. Or Kajol's, as she comes to visit her dad at the same hospital every day. Or even Amitabh Bachchan's for his ailing mother Teji Bachchan. Incidentally, my mother is still hoping that she runs into her longest crush before she is discharged. "At least some good should come out of this," she says.
She's a brave girl, my mother, and this is her third escape from death. And right now, I feel like the mother of a rambunctious 63 year old daughter who is itching to run away from the hospital, the tubes and the incessant poking, to her haven with two cats who worship the ground she walks on. She is itching to get out of the hospital gown, which she thinks is not very befitting to her figure. And she is itching to start being the boss all over again, and not being told what to do.
I noticed that people around me were dealing with pain in quite different ways. Some were magically stoic and contained, as though they had a secret formula that I didn't have. Some couldn't stop their nervous chatter. Others, like me, were pacing up and down, prioritizing the list of things to be done.
But the most trying part is not the hanging around all day, waiting to be summoned. Neither is it being told by the doctors that they are trying their best, but we should be prepared for a tragedy, in case it decides to "befall us." Or waiting with bated breath as the doctor pronounces his verdict after an entire day of ultra-sound, echocardiographs, colour dopplers and INR ratios for prothrombin time. Or arranging for 16 bottles of blood in less than four hours — friends, friends of friends, absolute strangers showed up in their Saturday best for my mother as soon I sent out the alert.
And even that is not the most trying part. The most trying part is handling the relatives and their questions
"What time was she admitted?"
"Why /how did this happen?"
"Who brought her to the hospital?"
"Why Lilavati?"
"Can she talk"?
"What about eating?"
"How come we got to know at X time?"
"Is your brother coming?"
"What airline is he flying?"
"Why is he not flying ABC airline?"
"How is it that XYZ knew about it before us?"
With friends, it is so much simpler. "Tell us what you need and we'll do it for you." And they did. Whether it was offering money, blood, a hug for my mother or me, or just their prayers. Two days later, people are still calling or texting, and wanting to donate blood.
But then, there is something democratic about pain. My mother—retired school teacher with no print space to her credit was separated by one bed from Parle scion, Prakash Chauhan whom the nation reads about every day. I don't think my pain is any different from his daughters' who hang around all day—pacing, agitating, breaking down and going on about their business just like me. Or Kajol's, as she comes to visit her dad at the same hospital every day. Or even Amitabh Bachchan's for his ailing mother Teji Bachchan. Incidentally, my mother is still hoping that she runs into her longest crush before she is discharged. "At least some good should come out of this," she says.
She's a brave girl, my mother, and this is her third escape from death. And right now, I feel like the mother of a rambunctious 63 year old daughter who is itching to run away from the hospital, the tubes and the incessant poking, to her haven with two cats who worship the ground she walks on. She is itching to get out of the hospital gown, which she thinks is not very befitting to her figure. And she is itching to start being the boss all over again, and not being told what to do.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
And then there were boys
13th Nov 2007
I can’t wait to see Om Shanti Om. I am thrilled that finally, there’s a movie about the seventies, my favourite era — it was an era where men were men. Whether it was Shashi Kapoor’s flamboyance, or Vinod Khanna’s arrogance, or Amitabh Bachchan’s simmer, or Dharmendra’s bravado, or Feroz Khan’s panache, or even Shatrughan Sinha’s bellowing, or Sanjeev Kumar’s melancholic drama, there was one thing in common. They were all men’s men. They were men your dad celebrated, brother emulated, sister had a crush on and mum adored (I know mine had a deep fondness for Amitabh Bachchan and Manoj Kumar — wonder what they had in common)
Even the villains had flair. Whether it was Prem Chopra in his sharp suits and designer mufflers, with that gleam in his eye, or the clean chested Ranjeet in his micro-briefs, who, for some reason was always lounging on a float in a swimming pool surrounded by a bevy of very svelte babes in bikinis, when he usually got a phone call that got him to say “What?” in annoyance.
For someone like me who grew up in a topography that just about made it to the Bombay map, movies and books were my window to the world. We didn’t have a TV till much after the Asian games. And Star &Style was a piece of work to be taken very, very seriously.
When I was operated for tonsilitis as a kid, I was asked to name whatever I wanted to make me feel better about the fact that I couldn’t talk for two days. I asked for a supply of Picture Post, a delightful movie digest with lots of stills and glossy portraits and bios of movie stars. Believe me, it felt better than the ice-cream.
And what do we have now? If I look around moviedom today, I find the masculinity so manicured, it is not even lech-worthy. There are no men, only boys ( some descendants of the aforementioned) desperately trying to be men, but no amount of jackets, guns or SUVs is helping. Neither are glossy stunts and stylized dance moves and the waxed chests and the woven hair. There are no villains either, as the good guys are also the bad guys. And no vamps, as actresses are ready to break into cabaret-like gyrations.
The 70s was also a time when movies had real sexuality — even if we only saw a symbolic fireplace and torrential rain in the tacky back drop, a dropping of blankets, flowers nodding in unison, thunder for sound effects — the point is, one could feel the sex on screen. When was the last time you saw great chemistry between a man and a woman on the Bollywood screen in the last five years? Think hard.
Yes, the men are metrosexual and yes, they have the moves, good hair and biceps, an occasional cleavage and six packs and all that. But even when they turn 45, they will still be boys. And that to me, is not a great thing.
I can’t wait to see Om Shanti Om. I am thrilled that finally, there’s a movie about the seventies, my favourite era — it was an era where men were men. Whether it was Shashi Kapoor’s flamboyance, or Vinod Khanna’s arrogance, or Amitabh Bachchan’s simmer, or Dharmendra’s bravado, or Feroz Khan’s panache, or even Shatrughan Sinha’s bellowing, or Sanjeev Kumar’s melancholic drama, there was one thing in common. They were all men’s men. They were men your dad celebrated, brother emulated, sister had a crush on and mum adored (I know mine had a deep fondness for Amitabh Bachchan and Manoj Kumar — wonder what they had in common)
Even the villains had flair. Whether it was Prem Chopra in his sharp suits and designer mufflers, with that gleam in his eye, or the clean chested Ranjeet in his micro-briefs, who, for some reason was always lounging on a float in a swimming pool surrounded by a bevy of very svelte babes in bikinis, when he usually got a phone call that got him to say “What?” in annoyance.
For someone like me who grew up in a topography that just about made it to the Bombay map, movies and books were my window to the world. We didn’t have a TV till much after the Asian games. And Star &Style was a piece of work to be taken very, very seriously.
When I was operated for tonsilitis as a kid, I was asked to name whatever I wanted to make me feel better about the fact that I couldn’t talk for two days. I asked for a supply of Picture Post, a delightful movie digest with lots of stills and glossy portraits and bios of movie stars. Believe me, it felt better than the ice-cream.
And what do we have now? If I look around moviedom today, I find the masculinity so manicured, it is not even lech-worthy. There are no men, only boys ( some descendants of the aforementioned) desperately trying to be men, but no amount of jackets, guns or SUVs is helping. Neither are glossy stunts and stylized dance moves and the waxed chests and the woven hair. There are no villains either, as the good guys are also the bad guys. And no vamps, as actresses are ready to break into cabaret-like gyrations.
The 70s was also a time when movies had real sexuality — even if we only saw a symbolic fireplace and torrential rain in the tacky back drop, a dropping of blankets, flowers nodding in unison, thunder for sound effects — the point is, one could feel the sex on screen. When was the last time you saw great chemistry between a man and a woman on the Bollywood screen in the last five years? Think hard.
Yes, the men are metrosexual and yes, they have the moves, good hair and biceps, an occasional cleavage and six packs and all that. But even when they turn 45, they will still be boys. And that to me, is not a great thing.
Femme fatale
Every girl has three kinds of friends — the ones who like her when she is happy, the ones who like her when she is sad and the ones who like her no matter what. Depending on what stage of life or mind you are in, the population of each of the above categories varies. The last kind is what makes a friend for life, so if you have two or more in that one, consider yourself blessed. The first one is not too bad per se — except that its longevity is questionable and one tends to have too many miscellanous files open at some point, and too much access to too many people.
It is the second category that can really get into murky waters — most of us, at some point or another have had friends who thrive on our pain, and use it as an opportunity to remind us how sorted they are.
I have had them too… and didn’t even know for quite a long while. But wisdom has finally caught on, and now I can sniff pain junkies from a mile. They are the ones who look for scabs that they can poke and prod — till they get you to a point when you feel miserable about yourself, and then they offer you their shoulder.
It’s like they need your pain to validate their presence. Think about it, you know it’s a no-win — if you are happy, you wont be by the end of the conversation. And if you are sad, you will be worse.
Either way, the power equation is firmly established by them asking all the questions and wanting to be the ones with all the answers — while you, completely unaware of the powertics, strip yourself of all emotions. Remember, the rule of the game is to start asking the questions. It’s always easier than answering, so why can’t you be the one who has the better job?
With men, it is different. They never really allow that degree of access to anyone, and besides, they hate answering questions. If you do friendships like a man, you are less likely to get hurt. Most men have ‘best friends’ who don’t know their secrets — but it doesn’t matter — there is not much emotion invested, and hence no major disappointments. The flip side is, they usually extend themselves to utterly random ‘friends of friends,’ who might think it is legitimate to call upon them in times of need.
Coming back to where we began, there is hope. All we need is to do some serious flushing, like I have. The last time a pain parasite called me to ask me how I was doing and what’s new and if I was happy and all that random collection of data, my antennae were on alert. I told her it was all good — work, life and love couldn’t be better, and began my barrage of questions. She hasn’t called back. Am guessing the power equation has shifted.
It is the second category that can really get into murky waters — most of us, at some point or another have had friends who thrive on our pain, and use it as an opportunity to remind us how sorted they are.
I have had them too… and didn’t even know for quite a long while. But wisdom has finally caught on, and now I can sniff pain junkies from a mile. They are the ones who look for scabs that they can poke and prod — till they get you to a point when you feel miserable about yourself, and then they offer you their shoulder.
It’s like they need your pain to validate their presence. Think about it, you know it’s a no-win — if you are happy, you wont be by the end of the conversation. And if you are sad, you will be worse.
Either way, the power equation is firmly established by them asking all the questions and wanting to be the ones with all the answers — while you, completely unaware of the powertics, strip yourself of all emotions. Remember, the rule of the game is to start asking the questions. It’s always easier than answering, so why can’t you be the one who has the better job?
With men, it is different. They never really allow that degree of access to anyone, and besides, they hate answering questions. If you do friendships like a man, you are less likely to get hurt. Most men have ‘best friends’ who don’t know their secrets — but it doesn’t matter — there is not much emotion invested, and hence no major disappointments. The flip side is, they usually extend themselves to utterly random ‘friends of friends,’ who might think it is legitimate to call upon them in times of need.
Coming back to where we began, there is hope. All we need is to do some serious flushing, like I have. The last time a pain parasite called me to ask me how I was doing and what’s new and if I was happy and all that random collection of data, my antennae were on alert. I told her it was all good — work, life and love couldn’t be better, and began my barrage of questions. She hasn’t called back. Am guessing the power equation has shifted.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunny side up
I have what you call a cosmopolitan affliction. No, it’s nothing to do with Carrie Bradshaw’s favourite drink in the Sex and the City. It’s my legs that seem to be letting me down, and the on-her-feet dancing queen in me just wants to sit down all the time, as standing has become a bit of a torture.
A few weeks ago, I reported to my doctor about the weakness in my legs, and she looked perturbed. I was too young for osteoporosis, and moreover, there isn’t a drop of Parsi blood in my lineage (or so I think). So it couldn’t have been a legacy. It must be a B12 or D3 deficiency, declared my doc. “Get your blood tested and come back to me..”
I always get a bit depressed while going for a blood test, as I am somehow afraid that it will declare me diabetic, as that is a likely inheritance from my mother’s side of the family. So I decided to cheer myself up the previous night by meeting my buddy who always guarantees me a laugh.
He did. The laugh was on me. The carnivore in him began to get a cheap thrill out of my predicament. “You poor vegetarian. Drink beef soup. Attack those steaks. All the aches and pains will be gone…”
“But you do get vitamins from vegetarian food..” I mumbled, plaintively…
“Yes, if you drink a drum of daal every day,” he sniggered.
“But what about pulses and tofu and broccoli?” I was clinging to my vegetarianism like an ideology.
“The cows can eat the pulses. You should eat the cow,” he declared.
Thankfully, my doctor didn’t shudder at my report. No diabetes again, so I was happy. But there were other red marks. With much trepidation, I asked her, “You really think I should have beef soup?”
“No, what you need is sunshine…plenty of it…!!”
Turns out, I have a D3 situation, which can only be addressed by the sun god. Now, I love this part, as it allows me to go back to my science roots (a very crisp, Masters in Pharmacy degree is lying somewhere in my chest of drawers).
So the verdict is, I am ok on Calcium (ah, no osteoporesis!) and I am okay on B12 too (meat can take a walk). But what’s happening is, there is all this Calcium in my body, but it has no D3 to chelate with (scientific term for hanging out), so it’s all going to waste— the poor D3 needs sunshine for coupledom with my Calcium, and I am denying their love affair!
And since I work in an insulated office, where I don’t even see a window, let alone sunshine, and since my ride to office is about ten minutes (and insulated), I am not flirting enough with the sun god. So my body is crying in agony, “It’s payback time. Give us this day our daily sunshine
A few weeks ago, I reported to my doctor about the weakness in my legs, and she looked perturbed. I was too young for osteoporosis, and moreover, there isn’t a drop of Parsi blood in my lineage (or so I think). So it couldn’t have been a legacy. It must be a B12 or D3 deficiency, declared my doc. “Get your blood tested and come back to me..”
I always get a bit depressed while going for a blood test, as I am somehow afraid that it will declare me diabetic, as that is a likely inheritance from my mother’s side of the family. So I decided to cheer myself up the previous night by meeting my buddy who always guarantees me a laugh.
He did. The laugh was on me. The carnivore in him began to get a cheap thrill out of my predicament. “You poor vegetarian. Drink beef soup. Attack those steaks. All the aches and pains will be gone…”
“But you do get vitamins from vegetarian food..” I mumbled, plaintively…
“Yes, if you drink a drum of daal every day,” he sniggered.
“But what about pulses and tofu and broccoli?” I was clinging to my vegetarianism like an ideology.
“The cows can eat the pulses. You should eat the cow,” he declared.
Thankfully, my doctor didn’t shudder at my report. No diabetes again, so I was happy. But there were other red marks. With much trepidation, I asked her, “You really think I should have beef soup?”
“No, what you need is sunshine…plenty of it…!!”
Turns out, I have a D3 situation, which can only be addressed by the sun god. Now, I love this part, as it allows me to go back to my science roots (a very crisp, Masters in Pharmacy degree is lying somewhere in my chest of drawers).
So the verdict is, I am ok on Calcium (ah, no osteoporesis!) and I am okay on B12 too (meat can take a walk). But what’s happening is, there is all this Calcium in my body, but it has no D3 to chelate with (scientific term for hanging out), so it’s all going to waste— the poor D3 needs sunshine for coupledom with my Calcium, and I am denying their love affair!
And since I work in an insulated office, where I don’t even see a window, let alone sunshine, and since my ride to office is about ten minutes (and insulated), I am not flirting enough with the sun god. So my body is crying in agony, “It’s payback time. Give us this day our daily sunshine
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Cat out of the bag
I was a little taken aback. I was meeting her after three years, so I assumed all questions would be about me. “Okay, I’ll show you his picture,” I resigned, and beamed her the display on my mobile…
Stunned silence…. “A cat…..!!!!”
“Yes, what did you think?”
“I thought Wriggly was your boyfriend…, “ she said, despondent.
“You think I would date a guy named Wriggly?” I was chuckling by now, about my cat being out of the bag.
‘So what? You have a name like Lalli…that’s silly enough…”
It all came together. Pooja had been following my Facebook status updates, where Wriggly featured as the latest love of my life. He incidentally is a rambunctious kitten, recently adopted by my best friend and has turned our collective lives upside down. Yes, I am guilty of status messages like “Lalita is wondering what to wear to her date with Wriggly tonite” or “Lalita is unable to stop thinking about Wriggly” or “Lalita is distraced by Wriggly” or “Lalita is wondering when she can squeeze Wriggly again…
Surely, she couldn’t be thinking I was writing about my beau! I mean, what kind of person would put their love lives on Facebook?
Turns out, it is not as implausible it seems to be. Because, weirder things happen on this superficially effervescent networking site. A friend’s boyfriend who has never made any conversation with me in real life, inundates my wall, my super wall, my funwall and god knows what else, with random messages all the time. Some randoms want me to take the ‘sex appeal quiz’ and the stalker quiz and ‘how alike we are’ quiz and the ‘likeness unrated’ (find your inner criminal) quiz. Others want me to answer their questions and share movie tastes or share their garden or hatch their eggs or something equally absurd. I have been guilty of succumbing to a few of these advances, before I realised how silly and distracting it all was.
I feel like saying, dudes and dudelets, I don’t know how you made it here, but I don’t really ‘know’ you, so I have no reason to know how like or unlike we are, or to evaluate which one of us has more sex appeal. I am very confident in that department, thank you!
Yes, but I am guilty of adopting a pet, playing scrabble and learning my chess moves, because I think, might as well use the services of people who can teach you some skills. And why not?
As for the rest who are oh-so-random or just oh-so-inactive, I just want to know, if I delete them quietly, will they receive a notification that they have been deleted? Because that might be a tad rude, even for a superficial medium like Facebook. Someone please let me know. I am clearing the clutter, and yes, that is my current status update.
.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The things we think and do not say
Consider this:
Man hits on woman. Man scores. Man is a player.
Man hits on woman. Man doesn’t score. Man is a loser.
Man hits on woman. Man doesn’t know if he scored. Woman is a bitch.
Woman hits on man. Woman scores. Woman is a man-eater.
Woman hits on man. Woman doesn’t score. Woman is desperate.
Woman hits on man. Woman doesn’t know if she scored. Man is a player.
Man gets wasted at a party. Man is wasted.
Woman gets wasted at a party. Woman is embarrassing.
I didn’t make these rules. Neither have I heard anyone articulate it. But it’s all out there, under the thin veil of sexual politics, where nothing is said and everything is understood.
I find it amusing that most of these rules are made by women, but the men aren’t complaining. May be, because as a race, they are more forgiving, have lower benchmarks for behaviour, and will largely give the benefit of doubt to the woman (whether or not they are interested in her). Because, in a man’s mind, a woman can do no wrong. So there are no rules for them. With their own kind, there are plenty. “Don’t get in my space. Don’t make eye contact more than necessary. Don’t interrupt me when I am talking to my woman. Don’t tell me what to do unless I ask you. And don’t deprive me of a good fight.”
Women on the other hand are governed by rules — whether it is for our own sex or the opposite. We are also constantly asking for rules to be defined whenever we are in a situation we haven’t been in before. And are forever articulating and modifying them depending on our state of mind and the company we keep. For men, it’s all very simple. “Mess with me and I’ll mess with you. Mess with my woman (wife, girlfriend, sister, friend) and I’ll mess with you. Apart from that, I don’t really care if you are a serial killer or a nudist.”
Which is why men let women get away with a lot more, while they are not forgiving of their own race. At a recent party, a woman mixed a drink too many and spent the rest of the evening pole dancing and lap dancing. Except that the poles and laps were real people. The men wanted to help her, but didn’t know how. The women, for the most part were embarrassed and stayed away.
Had it been a man, the menfolk would have discreetly huddled, bundled him into a cab, and disposed off his remains for the day. To them, a man is a collective. He stands for them. So any man who behaves badly is a collective responsibility, something that they will all get together to set right. And I love men for this.
Women on the other hand are ruthless. They believe that pretending it didn’t happen is the best punishment. I am sad to report that yours truly is sometimes guilty of the aforementioned.
Man hits on woman. Man scores. Man is a player.
Man hits on woman. Man doesn’t score. Man is a loser.
Man hits on woman. Man doesn’t know if he scored. Woman is a bitch.
Woman hits on man. Woman scores. Woman is a man-eater.
Woman hits on man. Woman doesn’t score. Woman is desperate.
Woman hits on man. Woman doesn’t know if she scored. Man is a player.
Man gets wasted at a party. Man is wasted.
Woman gets wasted at a party. Woman is embarrassing.
I didn’t make these rules. Neither have I heard anyone articulate it. But it’s all out there, under the thin veil of sexual politics, where nothing is said and everything is understood.
I find it amusing that most of these rules are made by women, but the men aren’t complaining. May be, because as a race, they are more forgiving, have lower benchmarks for behaviour, and will largely give the benefit of doubt to the woman (whether or not they are interested in her). Because, in a man’s mind, a woman can do no wrong. So there are no rules for them. With their own kind, there are plenty. “Don’t get in my space. Don’t make eye contact more than necessary. Don’t interrupt me when I am talking to my woman. Don’t tell me what to do unless I ask you. And don’t deprive me of a good fight.”
Women on the other hand are governed by rules — whether it is for our own sex or the opposite. We are also constantly asking for rules to be defined whenever we are in a situation we haven’t been in before. And are forever articulating and modifying them depending on our state of mind and the company we keep. For men, it’s all very simple. “Mess with me and I’ll mess with you. Mess with my woman (wife, girlfriend, sister, friend) and I’ll mess with you. Apart from that, I don’t really care if you are a serial killer or a nudist.”
Which is why men let women get away with a lot more, while they are not forgiving of their own race. At a recent party, a woman mixed a drink too many and spent the rest of the evening pole dancing and lap dancing. Except that the poles and laps were real people. The men wanted to help her, but didn’t know how. The women, for the most part were embarrassed and stayed away.
Had it been a man, the menfolk would have discreetly huddled, bundled him into a cab, and disposed off his remains for the day. To them, a man is a collective. He stands for them. So any man who behaves badly is a collective responsibility, something that they will all get together to set right. And I love men for this.
Women on the other hand are ruthless. They believe that pretending it didn’t happen is the best punishment. I am sad to report that yours truly is sometimes guilty of the aforementioned.
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