Monday, December 20, 2010

The Search Begins...

Would it make sense if I said that I’ve always been paranoid but have had no real trust issues? I guess not, but since I’m not exactly known to be a very sensible and coherent woman, do excuse me.
I’ve always been more than just a little scared of your average man on the street. And staying alone in a city like Delhi does not help matters much. I’m scared of cab drivers, policemen, security guards, bosses, colleagues and the trash collector (what do you know, they have something in common after all). But the fear strangely vanishes into thin air if they make conversation with me (sorry, cat-calls at a woman walking on the street does not qualify as a conversation, pervert).
As soon as a man engages me in a chat, no matter how boring or pointless, a very irritating part of me that will definitely get me in trouble someday suddenly decides to see the inherent goodness I believe all human beings bury beneath those sneers.
This leads me to believe that I’m your average bimbette who is clueless about what people are really like (oh come on, you didn’t expect God to give me beauty AND brains, did you?)
Oh by the way, did I tell you that I’m also the worst judge of character you will ever come across? No, really. You need to meet my friends if you don’t believe me. We’re all just a bunch of no-good losers who need to keep hearing those 3 words in repeat mode – You’re the Best! We call it positive reinforcement and we don’t care what you want to call it.
I’m not really in a self-deprecating mood, you know. I’m just very very very scared right now. And I have good reason to be – my family wants me to get married.
I know I’m going to be 30 in another year and a month and I know it’s probably a good idea to take the plunge and I know that a couple of years from now the options will start dwindling. But I also know that I don’t know a thing about what marriage or commitment or all that crap is about.
I mean, if you could get inside my head you’d see I’m not more than 15 years old. My mood swings are totally dependent on the food I eat. My priorities are Mommy and Daddy. My favorite TV show is still Tom & Jerry. My favorite book is Jughead Jones Double Digest. I still think a guy who is amazingly hot can not be a bad man. And I think bad men need to look the part.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind getting married. But how can I share my room with somebody? Especially a man! And I haven’t mentioned the scary part yet. All that sex that is bound to happen! I mean how do you say no when you don’t want to do it? And what’s the whole deal with sex anyway? Can’t we just kiss and stuff and be done with it? I have a strong feeling I should not publish this particular post on my blog, for the sake of any “suitable alliances” who might stumble upon it. But they should know what they’re getting into.
And that’s my other beef. What the fuck is it with men who want to know every teensy-weensy detail about your past? I mean, isn’t it good enough that I’m with YOU right now? You probably slept around with half a dozen women and I’m not asking you statistics about your usage and behavior. I don’t want to know why you broke up with whoever you were with. I don’t care how wild she was in bed. And most importantly- I DON’T want to know what endearing names she called you by and how hard it was for you to get over that particular relationship. Shit happens, okay?
I have to say one thing. Men these days are worse than little whiny girls you’ve just snatched their teddy bears from. I’m not a feminist, honest. I love men. Hell, I love them too much to settle down with one.
My best friends are men. But you guys are really all a bunch of whiny, over-sensitive, insecure babies who constantly need someone to pull you through your respective jumbled up affairs. And I’m sorry, but I’m just too sorted to let a man come into my life and mess things up. I’m not up to playing babysitter for a grown up man.
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the family wants me to get married.
Since I’m not even remotely in love, the only other route that’s left for me to take is either Matrimonial websites/Matrimonial Classifieds/Matrimonial Aunties (pick one).
So Mommy dearest (in cohorts with my elder sister-ditcher!) decided to take matters in her hand and today forwarded me the profiles of two such “suitable” men. She called me at work (really, Mum!) to tell me to check those profiles and see if I think any are to my liking. So I did.
One of them was your typical babu-type man who I can just imagine driving an LML-Vespa scooter to work. He had attached 3 photographs- all taken in different part of the US of A which he had conveniently titled his photographs as (really, mister, a babu-type is a babu-type even when standing in front of the Statue of Liberty). This was enough for me to shake my head in disapproval. Of course, had those pictures been taken in a Las Vegas casino with him surrounded by chips, I might have considered.
The other man in question was undoubtedly nice looking. So I clicked on his biodata (why the fuck do they still call it that?) and I couldn’t find anything I could use as an excuse to say no for. But you know how it is with men like that, right? He probably will scrunch up his nose when the family sends my pictures (which reminds me, I don’t have one decent snap and I’d rather die than get all made up and get one clicked for this particular purpose). So in all probability, he’ll refuse (my ‘biodata’ will probably scare him off as well) and I shall have more time on my hands to rant about men in general.
And if he gives it the green signal too, well, that is where the paranoia I was earlier talking of will kick in.
Since I noticed that not many women write about their search via matrimonial websites, I’ve decided to keep you all updated about how the search goes and the twists and turns an average bimbette’s mind takes while on that route.
You guessed right. I have entirely too much time on my hands. Hey, Boss, give me some work to do!

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Growing Young-The Digital Way!

You know how they say life always comes a full circle? I’m beginning to think they knew what they were talking about when they coined that phrase.
And since ‘they’ are usually talking through their respective hats, it brings me to believe that I’m growing old (of course that’s completely untrue, given my incredibly gorgeous reflection in the mirror and the fact that I’m barely 29 years old).
But let’s not wander too far from the topic at hand. Life always comes a full circle. Mostly around the waist.
And now might be a good time to update my blog about my life.
It’s been a month since I started working (again). This time in a digital advertising agency. Initially, I was nervous, skeptical and tried to curb my enthusiasm about it all. I still remember how utterly disappointed my enthusiasm was the last time around. But that’s one thing that refuses to stay in chains for too long. And so here I am hyperventilating about everything that’s remotely related to the digital arm of the advertising business.
This new place I’m working at is very different from the old one. The old one was cold, impersonal, overdosing on protocol and oh-so-corporately-correct. The new one is more now. Sure they follow protocol too. But it ends soon as you punch in your presence at 10 a.m. (a rule all companies all over the world should collectively abolish). The hierarchical structure is flatter, more transparent and every person is accountable for the tasks they handle (of course, that’s the worst thing that can happen to you if you are a slacker). I actually have meetings with the CEO of the company! Me! Can you beat that? I mean I don’t know a thing and there I am sitting across a man who is the founder of the company and answering a question like, “So what do you think about it?” The first time he asked me that I actually felt he was mocking me in a sadistic sort of way. But when the realization that he was serious hit me right between my eyes, I was so taken aback I just sat there like a zombie with my mouth hanging open and nothing coming out. So I just mumbled something in an incoherent manner and weaseled out of the situation. Of course, he knew what was happening because he let an amused smirk slip. But when has any smirk/smile/sneer ever escaped my eyes? Okay, lots of times but this one didn’t.
Anyhow, what I was trying to tell you is that this new place has a great working environment. I know I said that about the last company as well. But this one is better. Seriously.

Okay now an update about my non-professional life.
I’m turning 29 in less than a month, remember? I need to give myself some frantic blog posts in my last month as a 28 year old. You know how they keep saying that age is just a number? They are wrong. If age was just a number, why would it keep incrementing year after year without anyone bothering to do the math? Now don’t give me crap about the math involved when you take the present year and subtract your birth year from it to arrive at the number that’s your age. You know I’m only making a point here so don’t go all Aryabhatta on me.
So anyway, yours truly is turning 29 soon (6th January, if you please). You know who I can’t stand? Stupid 22 year olds who keep whining about how old they are now that they are going be 23 soon. Of course, my whining would probably extract the same emotions from a 50 year old, but 50 is really old, okay?

You know, there are reasons why I’ve not been writing as often as I used to. Firstly, I sort of lost faith in my ability to write even remotely well when I started working in the Marketing Division of a Digital Agency. Especially when I was so gung-ho about making it big as a copywriter. But then when I thought about it, I realized that none of the great writers started off as copywriters. And maybe that’s a rule. You let all the creativity vent up and then pour it all in a great book in one go. I sure don’t want to write tag lines and body copy and win an award for it (Oh who am I kidding?). But I do want to write a book that’ll make people sit up and take notice. And they will. Someday.

The other reason for my prolonged absence from the blog has been my perpetual presence on Twitter. I made my Twitter account sometime early last year but started actively using it just a couple of months ago. It’s so addictive now that it’s scary. But of course, this addiction will soon be replaced by the next big thing. Just like Orkut was replaced by Facebook and Facebook by Twitter (no, not according to statistics, just my personal usage).
I have met (virtually, of course) a whole lot of interesting people on Twitter. It’s a great way for people to interact, network, showcase their wit and generally rant. Though I strongly feel that most of the active Twitter users are single quirky-alones like me, who want company but only at a distance and on our own terms. Unless, of course, you’re a marketer or a bot (and there’s an extremely thin diminishing line separating the two).
I have met people on Twitter who think like me, talk like me but just are not as fabulous as me (this is what we call unashamed self-pimping in Twitter terms).
Retweet is the new copy paste. Follow is the new “You’re awesome” and Unfollow is the new “Shut up, already.” Of course, block is still block and is self-explanatory.
See that little widget on the right hand side of this page just above the “About me” section? Click on that, follow me, and see what the hype is all about.
Yes, that digital agency is not paying me enough to hire people to do my PR for me.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

It's a miracle!

We all have a talent we are proud of. Singing, writing, dancing, art, counselling, loving, sports...they all qualify.
We're all creators of our own masterpiece. And this creation may or may not have a tangible form. A tune, a poem, a winning goal, a child, a feeling...
All it needs is a little passion. A small pulse. A tiny power. A life of its own.
And life is a mystery.
Most of the time, it whizzes past us in a blur. Some days I wake up happy. Some nights I go to bed feeling miserable. But most of the time, I'm somewhere in between the two.
Just like everybody else, I have problems. But I never have to worry about food, water, clothes, a roof over my head or a family to call my own.
Ever since I was a child, I've wanted to witness a miracle.
Like every little girl, I waited for a fairy with translucent wings and a shimmering white dress to touch me with her magic wand. Call it an overdose of Enid Blyton's books in my early years, but I really did believe in pixies and goblins. For a long time, that's all I thought miracles could be made of.
It's strange how the definition of a single word changes at different stages in an individual's life.
When I was a teenager, a miracle no longer meant an encounter with my fairy Godmother who'd turn a pumpkin into a stagecoach for me. When you're 17, a miracle in an average teenage girl's life means making it back home before the curfew time your Dad's set for you. And believe me, Cinderella had nothing to lose in comparison! 
Now that I'm older (not wiser, just older), the parameters of a miracle have changed again.
For a long time, I thought it'd be a miracle if the ideal job offer would come through. But it did. A good job. A good boss. A good workplace. And as soon as it all came together, it ceased being a miracle.
I've never felt that meeting the perfect man would be a miracle. I've met men who've been more than perfect to me. I've met the other kind too, but let's leave that for another time.
My miracles meet fulfillment. And no, I don't aim low at all.
And maybe that's where my talent lies. In recognizing the music around me without being able to play or sing a single note. In appreciating art without being able to tell the colors apart. In appreciating a photograph without  being able to tell the correct position of the lens.
And in loving life, without being able to understand any part of it. And that is my very own miracle.