A Nutsy Love

I promised myself that 2012 was going to be different and I’m going to make it happen.
While the month of January was spent doing a lot of things that I’ve never done before (like walking backwards, speaking in Hindi for a whole day, asking a man out on a date, etc.), the month of February is going to be spent just being nice and overly expressive and mushy, so please bear with me.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and like most people my age, it is the day when the cynic in me comes out to play (read sit-in-a-chair-and-mock-everything-people-younger-to-me-say-or-do). But not this year. This year, I’m going to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Minus a valentine. Minus the sickening Archies-gallery-and-Hallmark products. Minus the skepticism.
It is just going to be a day of appreciation. There are a lot of people in my life who have been exceptionally nice to me and I’ve never taken the time out to let them know how much they mean to me.
That’s going to change.
Tomorrow, all the very lovely people in my life will receive an email/letter from yours truly. Not a lengthy, sappy letter. Just a small note telling them that they are appreciated.
It’s time to give back.
Sadly, I realized that I don’t have mail addresses for all these very nice people. So the element of surprise will be missing because I’m asking them for mail ids. If you read this, and if I know you, and if you’ve been remotely nice to me, please send me your mail address.
The notes are going to be personalized and not copy-pasted.
Make my day. I promise I’ll make yours.
Love.

You are your priority- not mine!

Two sides to a coin. The illusion of weighing the pros and cons. The classical dilemma between rationale and instinct.

The fear of losing something you don’t own. The dread that comes with the possibility of owning something you don’t even want.

Welcome to my mind. Let me take you on a tour through the world I’ve built for myself in the world that you call yours.

Before you begin your journey, there are rules you must abide by.

1)      You may judge.

2)      You may criticize.

3)      You may make fun.

4)      You may be biased.

5)      You may relate.

6)      You may stop reading at any instant of time. This moment qualifies.

7)      You must not question.

8)      You must not debate.

9)      You must not interrupt.

10)   You must not try to gain a residency status in my world.

Let me begin by answering a question that people love to ask- What are the priorities in your life?

Family, career. I don’t have a third priority. Yes, I probably do not have a life according to the rules of your world but this is my world we’re talking about. I believe in the concept of friends just as much as I believe in the concept of the tooth fairy. The purest non-familial love is touch and go. Money is a necessary evil but not worthy of being a priority.

First up, my family.

Satisfaction level: 10 out of 10. They are so perfect I don’t have to think. Touchwood.

I have been writing a lot about marriage lately and so I must clear the doubts that have been consequentially raised.

I love the concept of marriage. I think it’s beautiful that you find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with and then you both make a world together, where there are no secrets and you are never alone and you don’t have a moment to spare for yourself and you have a new set of relatives overnight and you can’t go out for a drive alone because you feel like getting away from everyone and you see that the man you married has put on weight and you are stuck with him and he farts and belches and makes a mess of your bathroom and he wants to have sex every night and suddenly there is someone telling you what color does not suit you and that you would look better with your hair longer and you have to cook for him and you have to socialize with people you detest and suddenly someone is stalking you and he is what they call a husband. EEEEYAAARRRGGGHH!!!

Who am I kidding? I began writing about how nice it would be and I can’t even lie about how horrendous it sounds. As I said, welcome to my mind. This is what I think about getting married.

Current satisfaction level: 9 out of 10. Currently content with the single status.

Next up, my so-called career.

So, yeah. Qualifications: 3 years of electrical engineering, 4 years of computer science engineering, 2 years of MBA with Marketing and Sales as a specialization and an additional year of MBA with Marketing & IT specialization, currently pursuing a long distance course of script writing from London School of Journalism.

Currently working as an Associate Editor of an online tech magazine. Previously dabbled in advertising and digital media.

Perpetually torn between creativity and logic.

Perpetually trying to come up with hare-brained entrepreneurial schemes that bite the dust when I try to work out the business models for each.

Satisfaction level: 4 out of 10. Don’t know what I want or where I belong.               

There aren’t any more priorities. There are wants, but there are no needs.

The mind does not adhere to the norms of convention and the heart does not want to talk about it.

There is this constant nagging sense of insecurity and uncertainty that the mind creates whenever it gets a moment to itself. And that makes me wonder.

·         Do I love what I do?

·         Do I know what I want?

People tell me that I am wise and not a stupid fool. Why doesn’t it feel that way?

Why do people expect me to talk to them when talking irritates me? I don’t mind communication, but I hate phones. You can’t just pick up your phone and dial my number and expect me to be free to talk to you or to reply to your texts. Why is that so difficult to understand?

If I’m sitting in a café and quietly reading a book and drinking my coffee, why do people feel the compulsion to make small talk? Yes, I know the author of the book is good. No, I haven’t read his other books. No, I don’t want to tell you where I work. No, I’m not carrying my business card. And no, I do NOT want to network with a complete stranger. And I know how to put a bloody charger into the wall socket so you do NOT have to assist me. I can pick up the tissue that fell from my table so do NOT help me.

I always thought I was one of the optimists and if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s cynicism based on whim. But living alone has made me fiercely possessive about my space. Not just at a café but also at work, at home and even on the road.

So you can imagine what happens when the mind starts thinking too much about one person in particular. It obsesses one moment and then it distances itself in the next moment.

So, now that you know about my priorities and know that you are not one of them, feel free to ignore me. You’ll be doing me a favor.

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!