Thursday, May 13, 2010

They're on to us or Bawl, baby, bawl



There are certain things that should have remained in the domain they were intended to, but have found their way across the gender divide to shake up things as we know (and prefer) them. Like checked shirts worn by Marlboro-ish wannabes. I admit I gave them a test drive in the 90s when I was into this weird college-dressing revolt thing of mine. But then I moved on and began investing in slimming blacks and flattering reds and have not looked back since, thank the Lord. 

And what's with men and phone charms? Wrap a locket on a chain or a bobbing Hanuman on your rear-view mirror and be done with it, now. Why must we have to endure the harsh glare of that diamond encrusted alphabet hanging off your phone along with the one playing peek-a-boo from underneath your baniyan, all on top of that annoying Bollywood ringtone? Ever been startled awake at six in the morning, while travelling in a train from India's Wild East to the tune of Altaf Raja begging someone to please answer their goddamn phone? It ain't pretty.

But I guess we can make our peace with that. Boys will be boys and all that. But what feels like a direct assault on all that's good about this division of assets is when boys want to be girls. I am referring to men crying in public. As if Baby Sreesanth was not enough, we now have more live emotainment from that other playground favoured by Indians: politics.        

It appears that the Madhya Pradesh state Assembly Speaker, not knowing what to do about protesting Congressmen who have been holding a parallel assembly session, which he has no control over, wept daintily into his bushy moustache. Like, shed actual tears. Caught-on-camera tears. Why? Because those mean boys taunted a lady from the lotus-eaters' party for being late, blaming it on a visit to the beauty parlour. Well, I had warned about this enslavement to vanity in an earlier post, people. And look how even a harmless mention of that neighbourhood temple of makeovers has come to bite us in the behind.  

I guess it's payback time, and we should have seen it coming. We never should have left the warm comfort of the hearth to slow-drive our way to the office, wearing pleated trousers. Or tried to bend it like Becks. Should have continued to  quietly spend it like Posh. What a mess we've made of things.

As if taunting us with paternity leave was not enough, they went ahead and started waxing their chests, before moving on to pink shirts and pedicures -- facials even! And look at this, they're crying openly now. Where does it end? It's war. Looting and pillage. What will they take away from us next?

I just hope it is not my sparkly Saturday flip-flops! They don't do too well with toe hair. Oh, but they're into waxing them now. Time to wave the white flag and surrender. Sigh. Enjoy your bubble bath, you weepy little bugger. I'm off to share a frosted one with my buddies.

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