The other day, I was thinking of the other side. As in, wherever I was, what it would be to be on the other side. And then, I was listening to the Simon & Garfunkel song and wondered what it would be like to be on the other side. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?
Anyways, as I was thinking about it, I realised that I was already on the other side of many things.
Like, I always imagined what it would be like to have a really cool touch phone. Now I have it. And it hasn’t done jack shit to how I live my life.
Again, always imagined how it would be like to live away from home, in a place of my own, living alone and all that jazz. Nothing life altering has come out of this too. Except the realisation that there are a lot of conveniences and luxuries that you need to give up on. Say, internet that you don’t pay for; a house you don’t sweep; a bed that you don’t make; food that you don’t have to wait for; water that just comes automatically once the can is about to get over; electricity bills; letters and couriers you never bothered about; plumbing; electrical problems; toilets that are clean always; bathrooms tiles that never required your attention; buckets that were always clean, buckets that you never knew could get dirty – mugs too; and so on and so forth. Not very exciting now, is it?
Another thing that has been bothering me of late is guilt. Guilt of what and for what, I have no idea. But then, have you – yes, you, the one who is reading these exact lines now, I am talking to you – ever felt so guilty that you were not even able to talk to someone over the phone? Call them up and wish them on New Years? And since you didn’t, rather couldn’t get yourself to call them the guilt just keeps escalating to a point where you feel really small every time you think about it?
Yes, I have become bigger, physically, in the past 3-4 years. It all started with my ex who found my then just-in-the-beginning-stages-of-a-paunch – the exact words used by her and I am not exaggerating, mind you – “cute”. If only she had told me to get rid of it then, I might have done something about it. But then, no. She found it cute. So I decided to make it cuter. And after her, I just stopped bothering.
Now, since I don’t look at myself, I am just not bothered about it. In fact, I don’t even realise how huge I really am. Result: broken chairs in office.
I am however reminded of this fact very often these days. Here are some of the things that have made me realise I am FAT now. And I need to do something about it.
Actually, people really don’t mind if you are anaemic or really, really fat. They comment only when you are in the in-between stages of somewhere between a little overweight and a little less obese. This stage is particularly characterised by the occurrence of moobs (Male bOOBS), fat ass, double chin, triple chin, etc.
So the other day, G, G’s brother G and I went to a really nice Chinese place to have beer+lunch. Usually, the typical portions in these Chinese restaurants are more than sufficient for two average eaters. But then, we were 3 of us. So, while ordering the food, I asked the waiter (slipper me for doing that) if 2 portions would be sufficient for the three of us. The waiter stared long and hard at us and said, “You are all hefty. So, I think it would be a little less.” What. The. Fuck.
The next sign came when my boss asked me one day, “Are you, or are you not a fat bastard?”
The third sign comes every time I go out shopping. Strangely enough, I have enough and more of female DNA in me. I like shopping. And like I said, I don’t realise that I have become huge. And how huge I have actually become. So I just pick up t-shirts without trying them on counting on my brain to mentally approve the size – the brain that still believes that I am a fit stud whose body resembles a Greek God. But only after I go home and wear it the next day does it dawn up on me that the t-shirt actually fit me perfectly – perfectly if I were trying on a sports bra instead of a t-shirt.
So from the next time on, I decided to buy t-shirts of the same size that I was wearing while shopping. Magically enough, the size t-shirts that I own that fit me don’t fit me when I buy the same size off the shelf. I mean, how do I magically become 2 sizes bigger every other time I buy a new t-shirt?
So then I decided to ask the shop keeper to tell me if it would fit me or not before trying them out. And every shirt/t-shirt that I touch is invariably followed by this unwavering statement from the disinterested salesman, “Sir, that is slim fit. That and all is not for you. Won’t fit.” He says this so nonchalantly and disapprovingly that I am not even left with the confidence to touch another t-shirt.
Finally, this time when I went shopping with G, I spent 2 full hours in the shop, squirming like a girl in a crowd of frustu-desperate men who are mentally undressing her. And manage to find 2 t-shirts that fit me.
I have finally come to a realisation now – They have stopped making clothes for me. Period.
What do I say, grapes are sour after all. Sigh.






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