Don’t get me wrong, I am happy. Actually, content would be a better word. I have never felt this content in a very long time. And so it’s all good.
But somewhere suddenly this evening, I feel a little sad. Because after the latest love/sex episode, I’ve given up on ever meeting a guy who has balls which means that I either have to turn lesbian (which I’m not sure I want to do because the women I want are all straight as an arrow – even if they are curved just right) or just stay eternally single all my life. And I was looking forward to that till everyone almost sang to me, ‘give love/at least sex a chance’. And I did and look what that did. Men with no balls. Story of all our lives, I guess. Even though Terror # 1 said that he is different and is very ballsy. And I still find that hard to believe.
I think all this introspection is because the honeymoon I’d dreamed of is irrevocably off. Nothing’s gonna come out of what I thought of as a shag fest. And honestly, the guy was nice and fun even if he had no balls. And I’m feeling all nostalgic and grown-up. It’s not quite pleasant. When I was younger, I would have dealt with this differently and ended up miserable but satisfied. I would have been stupid and done silly stuff like create a scene, have arbid fights with people, chase after something I wasn’t even sure I wanted anymore simply because it was suddenly inaccessible to me.
That’s what I would have done with the self-proclaimed mama’s boy whom I would have chased at (just like a straight man would have done) till I either had him (and then wondered – OMG! What do I do now!) or he’d have left the country unable to bear such intense pursuit. And then I’d have been miserable and written poetry. But now that I’m older, I’ve just decided to stay friends. Because with great age comes great responsibility and the knowledge of consequences. Which is, frankly, such a bummer. So I just behave and act all decorous and friendly and distant when I really want to throw a tantrum and cry like a three and a half-year old who wants something he can’t have does. Like Deepu, my neighbour does.
I feel alone. Like an island. Not in a lonely, pathetic way but more in a I-have-to-be-responsible-for-myself-from-now-on way which is just the pits, you know. Though it doesn’t really make sense because I did acquire Husband Number 3 recently. For his house. And his study. I fell in love with his house. And so I had to marry him. After you have two husbands you’ve married for love, I think it’s perfectly fine to get all materialistic and marry for house. Besides, Husband Number 2 refuses to take my advice and invest in property. So I’m quite pleased that I’m back to being all polygamous and everything. Only it’s not enough. I want something more. I brewed my own cup of tea in Husband Number 3’s house. That sort of thing immediately funks me out.
I like waking up and announcing to the world – ‘Hello, I’m up. I’m hungry.’ And have someone get me my breakfast and cup of morning tea. I miss being pampered. That is it. And now I’m missing my men so damn much because they are all way too far and in different time zones and way too busy to pamper me. I don’t blame them.
And this is not really a post. I just want it documented that I wish I’d written this song because it’s so perfect and fits in so well with my mood now which is not really blue but more like a sort of purplish blue as it were. Like when the sun sets and all the bright colours disappear and just before the indigo blue of twilight begins. I’m there. Yes, that’s where I am. In between an in between. And singing this song to I don’t know whom.
The only solace I have is that just now Husband number 1 (who is actually an ex but we are still mad about each other) likened my writing to Simone DeBeavour’s more juicy quotes. Like this one – I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.
‘And I’m looking for me or anyone like me.’ (Tooh doo! and other jazz tunes…)