Once upon a pretty time, I wrote about colour on my face here.
Rant alert, again, but no face attached this time. Just a few size tags. Why?
People are obsessed with weight. But why they remain more obsessed with another’s weight, especially if the other scores lower on the weighing machine, continues a mystery. To some, you have to be in that perfect theek of health - which means a certain circumference of arms, legs, waistline and ahem, which suits the diameter of their heads. If not, then according to their expert fatty acids you are too thin, too weak, too skinny and too irresponsibly used anorexic. My dimensions get me a lot of attention from some women folk around (Mister says he’s certain men folk too are attentive but he does not like to think about it). Now, getting attention is good, and must be enjoyed at all costs, all 360 degrees and 50 shades of it. Here is my way of doing just that.
From school to marriage, I was petite. On the rajgaddi of the wedding day, some joked I would fly away with the hail storm that graced the occasion. Others wondered if I was 18 yet. And a few worried that I will starve the head-geared boy sitting next to me, consuming him with my passion for “dieting” habits - habits which my sweet tooth had not the courage to acquire, or the need to form! Never understood the ‘Oh! Figure conscious?’ thrown at me every time I refused a second helping of what tasted like burnt onions, by belles who seem happily full – with food and snide remarks, both.
Then, 3 trimesters later, I heard ‘You are not putting on enough weight. You only have a belly. Your child will be too weak’, even as I ate right, exercised right, felt sexy and enjoyed my baby bump thoroughly. Out came the baby and in went the mummy tummy – both jacha bacha weighing fit-and-fine. But who could stop them? 'Girls these days' and 'At least think of the suckling baby' snugly fit in one very long sentence said in ear shot every time I refused to drink a glass of ghee (I liked the ‘girls’ bit).
Most recently I heard, with eyes stuck on my thighs – ‘You had become theek in the middle, but now …’ and I had a hearty laugh before I let her complete. I had got my affirmation from a different shape that I had finally reached the exact shape that I wanted to enjoy for all times to come. Perhaps, my college time skinny jeans, which welcomed my legs with full arms, were spreading indigestion in her tummy? Or maybe, it was just the burnt onions.
But do I care, especially when I make no remarks about other’s girth, not even in times of drunken mirth?
I am a size somewhere between 8 and 10. It suits me and those I love. If you are not my size, that suits me too, because your waist-line is none of my business, just like my hip size isn’t yours. Of course, the size of the brain is independent of it all, with a proclivity for wardrobe malfunction when rudely picking on other people’s sizes. Thanks to my political connections with Mendel – the Father of genetics, along with a little discipline thrown in, I plan to remain a size 8. But would the Mothers of Jean-etics understand? Maybe, if they stop eating the grapes which the fox could not reach. The last I heard they were sour enough to be very unhealthy - both for the body and the mind.
Remember the word GIGO from school-time computers? Garbage in Garbage out! Thank God for 2 ears, and a pen to write it all down.