whoopie breast exam

Watching The View today, I spent about 5 minutes examining Whoopie Goldberg’s breasts.
Whoa, hold on. I don’t swing that way, though I love Whoopie.

What I was trying to do was, point out the existence of her breasts to my 6-year-old O.

This is what happened: She kept staring at Whoopie and then asked me if it was a man or a woman.

I was surprised she even had a doubt. “Woman,” I said.

“But she doesn’t have the bump like other women. Like you.”

“That’s because some have it smaller than the rest. And she is wearing a loose shirt.”

“Even then, there is that line on the bump (cleavage, I guess, is what she meant)… see the other women all have that line.”

And yes, all the other women were showing cleavage. And I was showing mine too, in my loose house coat.

To her Whoopie as a woman didn’t seem appealing, because she didn’t show off her ‘bump’.

I know I have a long road ahead of me, to explain to her that that’s not what femininity is all about. And that it doesn’t have to be on display.

I have started by asking her not to call it the ‘bump’, but ‘breasts’.

That was an easy one…

The rest of the ride is going to be ‘bumpy’!

corny but true

Age seems so not-important to me.
Birthdays are important. very. but not age.
So much so, when someone asks me how old I am, it takes me a moment or two to recall the number… not because I have such poor memory, because for me age is a ‘factor’ only for a very few things in life. like:

1. when do you enrol your child in school. I don’t believe in forcing baby geniuses into grade 1 at age 4! you need to think hard and long about the minimum age for a child to enter the school system. especially the Indian system.

2. when is it ok to start having sex. even for an adult, the first sexual encounter can turn out to be traumatic or overwhelming. so there is no way a 12 or 14-year-old is ready for it. you need to think about your age… are you quite ready to end your childhood or adolescent for crappy sex?

3. age at which to give birth to a child. you can’t be 13. you can’t be 50. though both are common. having a child is not about you alone… what role are you going to plan in the child’s life?

Barring these 3 situations, age has little or nothing to do with who you are and what you do in life.
My dad studied law when he was 50, and on retiring from a bank, began his practice at 60. At 75 he is busier than most people I know. Age for him is at best a reason to cry off social functions, and at worst an inconvenience due to frailer bones!

Still I hear 40- and 50-year-old folks talking about how old they are! About how they’re done with more than half their life.

There are people to whom I dread posing the greeting: “How are you?”
Because, what will follow is a long stream of depressing things…
“I am getting fatter, my back hurts, my boss sucks, my teenager is beyond control, did I mention I am getting fatter?, my husband doesn’t understand me, I am getting old, my life is boring…”

Give me a break, unless you are living in Darfur, there must be some joy in your life? There must be something good on TV that made you laugh? A book that got you thinking of the good things in life? A friend who makes you feel good, a dress you bought that you love…

There are people who claim to have so many ailments, they could single-handedly demonstrate Gray’s Anatomy!

Here is a tip: When someone says “How are you?”, it’s a greeting, not an invitation to complain.

My mum at 67 lives the most vibrant life. She has an ischemic heart, high BP and diabetes… but there is never a reason good enough for her to turn down a chance to socialise or travel. There is never a reason for her not to don her best cottons and a dab of max factor powder to go on a jaunt with her siblings. There is never a reason good enough for her to blame her ailments and not enjoy life. Age for her just happens to be. Masha’allah!

And then I have this dear friend. Her husband cheats on her all the time. She has a whole load of hormone-related problems, she can’t practice the trade she trained in because of allergies, she has little in terms of savings… but ask her how she is doing, and she always says “Great V! Smashing. The kids and I just returned from the beach/ we are on our way to the park…”

So during those self-indulgent moments when I wish to mope around, or worry about the future, I remind myself of all that is there to see, to experience to enjoy… and that’s when the 4th factor about age worries me… how much can I pack into this lifetime?

who the hell is that beef for?

Do you ever peep into the shopping cart of the person in front or behind you at the checkout counter?
I do. Shamelessly. But am deeply offended when my cart is being peeped into. Double standards rule.
The ‘meal-for-one’ kind of shopper is easy to figure out — bread in one hand and eggs in the other. Almost on every trip to the store, you find one or two.
Last week there was this guy ahead of me, and I knew immediately that he was in a polygamous relationship (or is really kinky), and had many daughters in addition to the badly behaved bunch of sons who were giggling into the trolley he was checking out — filled with sanitary napkins, talcum powder and perfumes. (If you think this is made up or is an exaggeration, then you haven’t obviously been to the gulf and seen men shepherd their women folk in the personals section.)
Then there are trolleys very similar to mine – bursting with skimmed milk, low fat yoghurt, whole grain bread, muesli, marzipan cake rolls, mangoes, bananas and potatoes. A struggle between the wannabe and what-i-am-now.
So today at the checkout counter, I take a curious look at the purchases of an absolutely stunning looking woman. She is tall, she is well toned, she has flawless skin – bloody perfect… and very unfair, I thought, when I saw her slap a tray of beef mince on the counter. “Red meat and perfection? And I a vegetarian who just bought a kilo of tofu!”
Then the truth slowly unravels. A box of fruits, a tray of fresh green vegetables, turkey breasts, fish fillet (she had the entire food pyramid on display), some energy drink (obviously works out), cans and cans of cat food (that explains it. no children or even a dog to take care of, and end up neglecting self. just a cat that is probably as self-obsessed as Ms Perfect Skin/Body/And All).
So as I reluctantly peel myself away from the line, having finally loaded all my food onto the cart, I decide the beef must be for the really ugly boyfriend or husband.
Then I see her meet her husband/boyfriend outside the supermarket, and there went my last hope into the trash bin… and to top it all, they were polite and helped me and my cart over a bump on the way to the parking lot.
I barely managed a thank you, forced a smile, and bit down the words on the tip of my tongue: “who the hell is that beef for?”

benefits of a work out

the main one is that in an environment of ‘working out’, you are bound to keep company with some real cuties.

so during my evening dawdle at the corniche, i take in the scenery. some real tight, fast moving scenery.

the only annoyance in such environment is that there are some undesirably skinny b*****s (excuse my french!) sharing the space too.

but i guess, you need to take the good with the bad.

i am sure it sounds a little pathetic that this needs to be an incentive to work out. but i look at it like window-shopping for stuff that i neither need nor can afford. and what’s in the wardrobe back home isn’t bad at all. it’s just the aesthetics of it, and keeping up to date!

all about impressions

tell me, is there any one of us out there who would not like to be remembered better than we actually are?
slimmer, taller, smarter, prettier, richer, wiser?
does being already famous, take away your insecurities.
the super rich, super smart Oprah, still wants to be slimmer…
Monroe wanted to be blonder that she was (why, but?!)…
Bill Gates wants a bigger empire than what he already has…
am sure the Mahatma would not have minded a healthier crop on his head…
and am sure stephen hawking wants to be remembered as more than just this amazingly brilliant scientist and visionary. and i am particularly sure that he doesn’t want all his images to be in the wheelchair. he wants the image of him weightless and flying to be splashed more often. so i refuse to carry a news image, and replace with an archive image. people think i am taking editorial freedom a little too far.
fact is, it has nothing to do with the job in hand, but the thought in my mind.
how do i want to be remembered?
physically — from my 19th year
mentally — now
emotionally — right after my daughter was born
financially — sometime in the distant future

i would make a prototype of this… and that would be me, weightless and flying in space.