So I go to a Bata store and get the sales guy over there to show me Scholl's cushioned slippers (for apparently I've developed a space in my heel bones and the doctor's advised me for these. Talk about wanting space and God's funny sense of humour. You know those soft pudding like soled chappals your mums wear, in which you feel the feet sink in them to never return)
Anyhow, he's showing me patterns and I'm checking myself out in the mirror, bursting within, with some vain pride for I believe (and I'm often told) that I have the prettiest feet. Just about any footwear looks good on them. I know, still no excuse for the scores of pairs I have. So many that the poor shoe drawer is now already mercilessly stuffed and I have to hoard the new ones in big bags and keep them away from the husband's glare, so much that even I often forget I have them.
Anyway, (if only I digressed less I could make so much more sense) so this almost-young and lanky sales guy is polite and friendly and excited and shows me one pair after another. And then suddenly the unthinkable happens.
He begins to talk in Punjabi.
IN PUNJABI!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!!
(Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not a racist. Trust me. I love Punjabi songs. Okay, that didn't come out right. Goddamn it, I'm a Punjabi myself ~ you know the love for chicken-shicken, dj-sheejay ka music, over dressing and always suggesting someone single spotted to get married...you get the drift)
But then I've grown up tagging along with mommy to stores and noticed that shopkeepers only talk to you in punjabi when they think you belong to the older age bracket that would understand it and be more comfortable in it (read that as beguiled by some stupid false sense of religious sentiment)
Now I knew wearing a loose kurta with palazzos was not a good idea to move out of the house in, but then I was going for Chappal shopping, for crying out loud. Chappals. To Bata. Please don't make me wear my short skirts now for such errands by giving me the old age complex. I'm coming in jeans next time, hmphf.
Almost wanted to scream "Ay, Tu jaanta nahi mein Kaun hoon. People call me gorgeous, lovely, stunner on Facebook". But then I kept quiet remembering they call every non-gorgeous, non-lovely and non-stunner the same. I have even stopped saying "Nice dp" to a couple of 'pretty in-twenties somethings' because they replied "thank you aunty". AUNTY!!! Aunty hoge tere ma!
When you're past your third decade on the planet, suddenly omg-my-skin and staying young becomes bloody important. It's like signs of ageing are viewing you as the next potential customer to make home in. Shoo. Since a couple of months, I've been splashing, drowning, flooding my face with creams that I have stayed away from all my life. Not even a moisturiser or sunscreen (Not that pimples allowed me).
And till last year, facials happened only twice annually, right before a supposed holiday (yes, not just our soul but even our skin gets hyper excited at the prospective of a holiday and now you know why. Skin: Finally she notices I exist). So now in the aftermath of good sense prevailing, I have taken to this dheet policy of every day making my skin eat dollops of cream (kha beta kha) like I make Seeya have milk daily.
The idea is - Peete raho, it's good for you. Dheere dheere (read that as kabhi Toh) aadat padh jaayege. And there goes a spoonful of lauki in Seeya's mouth and a palmful of a face cream that's straight out of a magazine, thoopoed on my bewildered face. Voilà, sweet sixteen, here we come.
Yes, stupidity can catch you even this late in life!
Anyhow, he's showing me patterns and I'm checking myself out in the mirror, bursting within, with some vain pride for I believe (and I'm often told) that I have the prettiest feet. Just about any footwear looks good on them. I know, still no excuse for the scores of pairs I have. So many that the poor shoe drawer is now already mercilessly stuffed and I have to hoard the new ones in big bags and keep them away from the husband's glare, so much that even I often forget I have them.
Anyway, (if only I digressed less I could make so much more sense) so this almost-young and lanky sales guy is polite and friendly and excited and shows me one pair after another. And then suddenly the unthinkable happens.
He begins to talk in Punjabi.
IN PUNJABI!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!!
(Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not a racist. Trust me. I love Punjabi songs. Okay, that didn't come out right. Goddamn it, I'm a Punjabi myself ~ you know the love for chicken-shicken, dj-sheejay ka music, over dressing and always suggesting someone single spotted to get married...you get the drift)
But then I've grown up tagging along with mommy to stores and noticed that shopkeepers only talk to you in punjabi when they think you belong to the older age bracket that would understand it and be more comfortable in it (read that as beguiled by some stupid false sense of religious sentiment)
Now I knew wearing a loose kurta with palazzos was not a good idea to move out of the house in, but then I was going for Chappal shopping, for crying out loud. Chappals. To Bata. Please don't make me wear my short skirts now for such errands by giving me the old age complex. I'm coming in jeans next time, hmphf.
Almost wanted to scream "Ay, Tu jaanta nahi mein Kaun hoon. People call me gorgeous, lovely, stunner on Facebook". But then I kept quiet remembering they call every non-gorgeous, non-lovely and non-stunner the same. I have even stopped saying "Nice dp" to a couple of 'pretty in-twenties somethings' because they replied "thank you aunty". AUNTY!!! Aunty hoge tere ma!
When you're past your third decade on the planet, suddenly omg-my-skin and staying young becomes bloody important. It's like signs of ageing are viewing you as the next potential customer to make home in. Shoo. Since a couple of months, I've been splashing, drowning, flooding my face with creams that I have stayed away from all my life. Not even a moisturiser or sunscreen (Not that pimples allowed me).
And till last year, facials happened only twice annually, right before a supposed holiday (yes, not just our soul but even our skin gets hyper excited at the prospective of a holiday and now you know why. Skin: Finally she notices I exist). So now in the aftermath of good sense prevailing, I have taken to this dheet policy of every day making my skin eat dollops of cream (kha beta kha) like I make Seeya have milk daily.
The idea is - Peete raho, it's good for you. Dheere dheere (read that as kabhi Toh) aadat padh jaayege. And there goes a spoonful of lauki in Seeya's mouth and a palmful of a face cream that's straight out of a magazine, thoopoed on my bewildered face. Voilà, sweet sixteen, here we come.
Yes, stupidity can catch you even this late in life!
3 comments:
Ha!Ha! I couldn't help laugh while reading this post :-) I am a shoe-holic as well!
This incident reminded me of the time when kids migrated from calling me "Didi" to "Aunty" - I still cringe at that!! **shudders**
That was the first time I actually felt that I had become old *sigh*
Hahaha ! You know what a recently married girl who is only six years younger than me calls me aunty! AUNTY !!! Go call your MIL that I want to say, every time. Oh wait. I'm sorry I am that loser who is smart only on her blog and other people's blogs and a bloody coward in real life :-/
I think we should just chill and enjoy this phase rather than be another year older and stupider ;-) But Suruchi, why do you even need face creams !!! This makes me wonder if any creams exist for people like me !
oye hello hello .. Kidaaan Ki hal chal ...
Long time no see .
I have started to accept "UNCLE" now .. getting old .. and by the way where did you learn if someone talks in punjabi it means one is old.. oin punjab everyone talks in punjabi :)
Bikram's
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