I hate looking at myself in the mirror these days. Yet, it comes in my way when I have to either pick up my brush and toothpaste on the shelf beside it (morning greetings.. NOT!) or feel like snacking on the cookies in the box in the shelf below (subtle warning, eh?) or when I stretch (horror of horrors) to get the books down from the uppermost shelf. Before I get the fat-is-healthy-too gyaan (note to self: someone’s gotta read the blog to give you gyaan, don’t you think?), here are things that are really bogging me down the last few days:
– Whoever decided to invent the weighing scale was evil, I’m convinced. Whoever decided to put the damn thing in places like railway stations (there IS a connection between railway stations and vacations and plans to binge on good food and alcohol, geddit?) and malls (please!! people go to these holy shrines to shop and try to squeeze into those little skimpy nothings!!) was Satan, to say the least. Coming back to the point, I last hopped onto the weighing scale, all thrilled for a vacation that promised virgin forests, beer-and-butter-chicken bonfires and pretty treehouses, at a railway station about one and a half months back and saw the fluffy state of denial that I had concocted painstakingly to avoid the signs of disaster in the baggy-then-snug-now jeans and the you’re-kidding-me?-this-can’t-be-size-L act in trial rooms getting blown to shreds. Well, quantitatively speaking, the absolute increase in this chagrin-inducing adipose over the last 7 years has been 12 kilos, over the last 4 years – 7 kilos and over the last two years – 5 kilos!! At a vertically-challenged height-mein-fight 5 feet tall (5-feet “tall” has never sounded right to me really), it was bad enough to have lived a life of being called “pocket transistor” or “little girl” or “gravity victim” but I now that it gets worse when the same people pinch my cheeks and politely modify said remark to “chubby little girl” or the rather no-nonsense “fatty shortie”. At my end, what’s sad is that I was keener to be the lean mean fighting machine at 50 kilos, jogging to drop the 4 kilos that I thought kept me away from the flimsy little things that adorned my wardrobe. At 60 kilos (gasp!) though, procrastination has got the better of me. I bought new track pants last month (because I couldnt fit into the old ones, haha) and vowed to attack the beautiful field that, in an act of being a faithful reminder, lays ahead of my room’s balcony. Till date, I haven’t made it. Blame it on the snooze button, the cough and cold (I am beginning to think this was another in my mind’s various ploys to stall any form of exercise indefinitely) or the horribly-early morning class. My hopelessness needs a kick in the butt, and A has been making an attempt at it rather meekly when I slip into shorts or when the old business suit looks like skinny jeans. But some people just aren’t quitters, and you can count moi among them. That takes me to another subject. Girls are so effective at this mutual waist-watching. I remember how during college days, a classmate telling me I look “fuller” after summer vacation was enough for me to skip the evening snack and start walking the otherwise rickshaw-able distance from college to the bus-stop. Sigh! Life looks rather gloomy now 😦
– I have never claimed to have the best skin. Because the inappropriate forehead pimple before farewell day or the perpetual winter-red-nose or the occasional summer rash was a part of life, for as long as I can remember. But my skin still played resilient in the face of Delhi’s scalding summers or harsh winters. Though I was never the blooming daisy, the slight dab of mositurizer, a few drops of sunscreen lotion and a little bit of lip balm was all I needed to go through a day without looking like a muted version of Tom Hanks in Cast Away, at the end of it. But life stands redefined on this front too. My skin looks flaky, laugh lines have become prominent and no amount of Garnier’s night cream, Olay’s day cream and even olive oil (Ugh!! I know!! Someone suggested it, and I tried that too) can prevent it from turning dry and lifeless again in a couple of hours. Wait, why am I sounding like those “before” stage damsels in distress that appear in all the ads! Gawd!!
– My hair!! I am not going to be modest. The one thing that I loved about my appearance, the one thing that got me compliments, the one thing that never gave me any trouble has also gone to the dogs. Dry, frumpy and dandruff-ridden, it’s becoming an oil-glutton and yet, I can’t seem to restore the straight mane that used to fall in place without much effort.
My rant and my bout of the much repressed shallowness is over. But really, I am overmuch depressed. For godssake, I am just 24 and have things other than the religious visit to the beauty salon on my mind and my calendar as of now. It doesn’t help to know that me and my boyfriend are wearing the same-sized tees 😦