Pearls of wisdom that haunt me till today

My mother- Fall in love with a clean looking guy.

She said so at a wedding.

THAT groom, she said to me, is not ugly. He is clean looking. She took a large sip of vodka and sighed, Beta, fall in love with a clean looking guy.

I didn’t know what she meant by this statement back then anymore than I do now. I think it had something to do with the kind of boys I was falling in love with at that time. My mother’s standards always intimidated me, you see, because they were so much higher than mine. And everyone else’s. They did not just include the predictable disapproval of hippies and crazies.

Moreover, her admirable standards belittled and trifled love. They were MONUMENTAL and could not possibly be bothered by stupid things like that. Fall in love with a clean looking guy, she repeated through all those years. Or better still scout him out, marry him and then fall in love by and by.

I am in love again, but I’m afraid she might see it as a sign of weakness.

My father- Never ride at the back of motorcycles

After some mighty scarring in his teenage years, my father followed the old-age idiom of prevention is better than cure and gave me my life’s most important advice. “Paro”, and I cringe as I quote this verbatim but I’m a fan of authenticity, “you’re a big girl now, going to live alone in Chennai. Sweetheart, you gotta keep your head straight and focus. Eyes on the prize like Arjuna would have said in Mahabharatha. No alcohol and cigarettes. (No drugs, he would have also said but I doubt he thinks I know of their existence).

And please, PLEASE, never sit at the back of motorcycles.”

And so, the thought of doing something as outrageous as THAT, still makes my knees quake.

A friend, “Bitches bite girls in short skirts.”

I know now, that the words were said in jest and possible snootiness. Yes, I am well aware of that NOW. But that does not mean that every time I wear a short skirt I don’t look around at the slightest sound, grabbing my skirt with both hands and yanking it down considerably so that the bitches don’t maul my legs.

Your body is your temple.

Lets unlearn what you've learnt. The dark ages of body fat are gone, this is ENLIGHTENMENT. The body, a temple? How orthodox! How 1990s! - We here, ma'am, are completely and fashionably atheist. We believe in machines and worship them. Here let me just grab your side tyre and show you what we are talking about. 29%- do you realise how close that is to being OBESE???? And an obese body, as we all know, is NOT a temple. Figuratively yeah, but spiritually well..you get the drift. This my dear friend is the RENNAISSANCE of fat- we have bikinis now, if we starve you enough you might grow packs- don't look so baffled my dear, a pack is, well lets just call it a limb. If Darwin were here he'd talk about the elimination of all those who don't have it. Decimate the flabbies!-he'd say. Aye aye! Repeat after me, "Survival of the FITTEST".

You need help. Yes you might DIE. I KNOW you are not really overweight, you're BMI says you're okay, but you and I both know that the BMI LIES! ALL the time. You could die of heart disease, when, why I believe right now, at this very moment! It is written right here in your folds of fat.

Don't gape at me, you know what that is, that is FAT. You are fat. The digital weighing machine has pronounced its verdict. You are guilty of fatness!. All the boys who laughed at you when you were a pudgy child, all the fancy schmancy showroom attendents who sniggered behind your back while you weeped inside locked changing rooms- THANK those people. Go down on your knees! You wouldn't be here if it weren't for them.

Welcome to our gym. Here is your membership ID. You are not fat anymore. You are ENLIGHTENED.

Resolutions Smechzolutions

Once again I vow, solemnly, dolefully, resolutely and one-last-day-before-I-get-to-it-ly: I WILL lose weight. Yes that's right. I finished a big fat burger, half a box of dark chocolates, and a rava masala dosa and let me tell you that I am cured of all my left-over depression and am satisfied with a capital S.

The biryani I had 45 minutes ago is the last high carb dish I will ever touch for the next one month.