So just when the funk hits me, he sends me a book all the way from America that I’ve been dying, literally dying to read. And it is special because it’s an autobiography. And my first ever autobiography discounting the institutional tales by Gandhi about not lying and not lying down with a woman and all that sort of thing.
This is the deal – some men are better as exes. Like the first ever man I shagged. He’s more apologetic and polite and generally well-behaved (if a bit of a cunt-tease) now. And God, the hell he’d put me through all the five hundred years of our infamous on/off relationship! And GK, though first husband, is definitely better as an ex-husband. So he sends me via courier Dear Fatty by Dawn French! Just like that.
And since it’s the third continuous night of mighty insomnia, I finish it in less than 12 hours. Simply and utterly unputdownable. And oh how I laughed and cried and laughed and cried and everything. I should have been a comedienne but I lost out on the timing.
Because I have been thinking about what I want to do with the rest of my young life. You’d think by now I’d want to go out there and join all the rats, race off, and all that. Not quite. I surprise myself. Really I do. Because as a rule for the past 11 years if I didn’t keep myself busy earning money, I felt I was wasting away. And now, nothing.
Nearly a month of lying in bed waiting for sleep to come and then finally dozing off in the wee hours of morning, reading books, dabbling at writing (but mostly just saying ‘oh, I’m writing’ because it sounds so posh), facebooking incessantly, (that, hasn’t changed – I do have to satisfy the fans) travelling to Mallu land and getting breasts ogled at, and dancing in strange costume (I genuinely thought it was all fine – red, purple fine colours both – put them together and absolutely fabulous, sweetie darlings, really!) that leads to uncomfortable hatred by Best Boyfriend Forever (thereby jeopardising a long distance relationship) and best friend and sternest critic to comment ‘Was it a costume party? How the fuck can you go dressed like that!’, and spending money like water (but taking a ferry for INR 2.50 instead of an auto for INR 250 – thereby saving debilitating funds to a large extent) should have tired even me. Or at least bored the wits out of me.
Only it really hasn’t.
And I honestly, haven’t been so happy in a long, long time – continued shaglessness notwithstanding. It’s damn tough to find men. It’s damn tough to find men who make you all fluttery and foolish and who aren’t respectably gay. It’s double damn tough to find men who aren’t just cunt teases. And double double damn tough to find men who have balls. So really alarming state of affairs there.
But I am still happy.
And so, getting back to my idle chatter – and VK, sorry if you are reading this, but I found it damn entertaining – this self-professed Life Coach (LC) approaches me on Facebook and asks me what I want from life. I reply that I want to continue living the life of the idle rich because in my head idle rich is a concept and has nothing to do with money, really, simply because I don’t have any. And so he says, ‘How do you plan to do that?’ To which I reply very tongue-in-cheek, ‘Become a life coach.’ He doesn’t get it but he types a customary LOL. So since I had nothing very important to do like sleep, may be, I ask him if he had suggestions. And boy, did he!
That’s the thing about being a corporate trainer I absolutely hated – the acronyms. Like random stuff LIFE – Live it fully – everything. Some such shit. I could never remember them and many is the time I’ve blessed Powerpoint. And in the training room I’d hurriedly rush by such things because frankly it’s damn embarrassing. It’s like we are all half-wits.
So LC (Life Coach – what a remarkably asinine job profile) tells me all about earning enough to retire in five years (not how, mind you, just that I should), working smart – not hard, following your dreams, what is it you want out of life – tell me, tell me. And so I tell him that I want to really say goodbye and toodles to him like right here right now. Very Van Halen of me, I thought, and he finally buggered off.
I suffer fools even less gladly than I used to before. I think I will be a batty old lady everyone fears and respects in equal measure by the time I hit my 50s. Awesome!
Who trains a trainer? Really?
I mean I did. But that was me. Have you seen me on stage or any kind of dais?
Scintillating wit as a teacher once told me in school.
And I don’t dole out clichés ten to a dozen and allow the audience to have a light snooze. And pretend that when I say ‘Sun rises in the East’, I’m revealing hitherto unknown but very impressive fact of life. And look smug. That’s why I can’t do an MBA ever. That, and of course, the fact that I simply cannot do any sort of Mathematics – so crucial for getting through the entrance exams.
And this sort of stuff is what always, always happens in the corporate world. That’s my reason not to hurry back into the corporate world – that and the numbers. I simply don’t know how to read impressive numbers like 123456.78 PVs in two days or whatever. I just cannot read them. They mean nothing to me. What convention do I follow? Do I go all Brit? Or American? Where should I place the commas? How in the bloody buggering world do I read this, really? So I never do. I say, ‘And you can see some of the impressive numbers we’ve achieved for yourself.’ Total con. But not really.
But if I don’t get back into this world, what really am I to do?
Stage is an alluring option but I will have to start from scratch. And I have become totally lazy. Besides I’m not sure I can memorize anything except The Wasteland by T. S. Eliot and while that’s a great monologue, who really will pay to listen to it day in and day out?
I could work smart and hard and finish that damn book and send it off to some publisher with a postscript saying ‘Willing to offer sexual favours in return for publication’ but I’m not sure that’s the way to go. Too many scruples.
So I happily decide to listen to Husband 2 (not to be confused with Husband 3 – for house and other real-estate properties, or Husband 4 – for words) whom I really married for love who asked me to just chillax (this is his way of annoying me – using words like this and saying ‘da’ in a German accent. So foolish, really! But men, what can you do?!) and enjoy the break a bit longer. I shamelessly assume that I anyway have lots of his money to fall back on.
And that’s the beauty of this break and the book. I’m feeling very lucky to have in my life the people I do have. It’s all about people at the end of the day, right? You have to read the book, really. Expect to take sharp, sudden, delighted intakes of breath, letting the air out on irrepressible giggles or full on waist-clutching laughs; have tears streaming effortlessly down your cheeks. And always, always feeling love.
Dear Fatty is just like my relationships with my men and a few special ladies, really.
And I am thoroughly gobsmacked by how well and truly Husband X – GK knows me. So here I am tonight (well, technically morning, but not if you haven’t slept in three consecutive nights) feeling as best friend and sternest critic has advised me to feel – positive, positive, positive.
So positive, in fact, I’m bouncing off any surface I sit on. With joy. Or it could just be because Husband 2 also shared this song along with his advice. And I haven’t stopped listening to it even though it’s honestly not ‘that’ great. But it’s Enrique and he’s one man I’ll gladly take to my bed and I love the way he says, fuck. Absolutely fabulous.
P. S. Damn! I almost forgot the most important message of all.
If you are ultra rich (not the coffee powder, I just bought that, thank you – read swimming in money) and have something that passes as spine/balls, and are single looking to marry a classy, tasteful, witty, charming woman with magnificent bosoms, please do get in touch with me before I start the job-hunt in earnest. Because I’m in the mood to say yes and continue this idle rich life-style of mine.
Quick! Snap me up before I get all career woman on you!
Her Royal Highness,