full of up moments and down. One minute you're floating above the clouds, starry-eyed and all strawberry shortcake. The next, you're free-falling like an ugly bird, shot through the heart and headed straight for the sewers.
The day before. Sweet, oldish lady I was meeting for the first time. "So my dear, which college are you studying in?"
My mental response, "I love you! Can I adopt you as my grandmom?"
Yesterday. Man-friend I was meeting after two months. "Ho-ho! So are we expecting baby number three?"
My mental response, "Miserable vermin, you should talk. You look like you're the living Arnold Schwarzenneger Junior experiment!"
This morning I experienced two more blow-me-up-like-a-balloon-only-to-let-out-the-fart-sounds moments again. I seem to be on a roll...
After dropping my EO off to school, I took my Daddy Dearest to the market for fish hunting and vegetable picking. Yes, I use those words on purpose for that is what the retired Bengali male does...he hunts for the perfect specimen of fish to lovingly hand over to his wedded wife who will, in return, lovingly turn the offering into the famous maacher jhol that the whole of India seems to associate with the Bengali palate. He also spends whole minutes ruminating over the colour, size, firmness and smell of each and every piece of vegetable that he picks up. Wars will start and end, but a retired Bengali man's vegetable choosing will go on for lifetimes.
Besides the point. So, I walked like a good daughter along with him to help him pick and choose and carry, and also to shorten the entire process, if possible. I had a baby waiting for me back home, not to mention a husband who needed to be cajoled out of bed so that he could go out and earn a living. From one side, I heard someone calling out to me to come and inspect his wares..."Oh didi!" Elder sister.
Good, good. Really good. Normally reserved for college going girls and unmarried PYTs. Yes, I felt two inches taller and 20 ks lighter!
A few steps later, another sobji-wallah calls out. "Oh boudi!!" Bhaabi.
Bad, bad. All bad. Usually reserved for fat aunty types with rolls of fat, trying to negotiate their way through the slippery, fish-scale strewn floor, theila in one hand and sari pleats in the other. I felt 2 feet shorter and 20 kgs heavier!
There's no escaping it. Jeans or not; sari or not, I am a fat auntyji. A boudi type!