Like every other person I know including the anorexic variety I too cannot sustain a ten minute conversation without talking about my or the other persons weight.
The conversation varies –
“How thin/fat (the expression of surprise is the same of course!) This top makes you look!”
“We shouldn’t eat this, look at the amount of cheese”
“I am going to start exercising tomorrow”
“OK, last time and then I’m on a diet”
“Look at her, how she can eat so much and be so thin!”
“I just haven’t found the right exercise for me”
Despite the same drab conversations day in and day out I have never really fretted about my weight. I just fantasize about how I used to look three years ago. I also earn enough to keep changing my wardrobe every six months. So I adapt.
Or so I thought.
Two years ago on New Years Eve in an expensive satin plunging neckline number I was congratulated on being pregnant. I thought empire necklines were for us, the ones who suddenly, out of the blue developed things called love handles.
Things that the boyfriend called something to hold and the friend called the onset of an era that has no return.
I didn’t know how to react to the drunk thirty something slob on calling me pregnant. I swore never to wear that dress again. Or anything that spelled empire line.
I was wrong of course, half of the clothes in my wardrobe are now empire line. The things called love handles have only increased and well, weren’t empire lines invented for fat pregnant women?
I was adapting. Changing and accepting till a couple of days back when I went to buy jeans.
Have I ever mentioned how difficult it is for Indian women to find a pair of jeans?
Do the jeans makers realize that Indian women are like amoeba? They change shape depending on age, clothes, time of the day and region (ever wondered why the north easterners are so bloody thin and us punjus are well…. Whatever!!)
So I browse through 15 shops on hill road and there is NOTHING in any one of those 15 stores that can fit a normal Indian woman.
The ones that are thin till the waist and then God just moved on to the next one and forgot to finish the remaining part.
What do these ones do???
I don’t know how to adapt anymore! People have started shying and calling me,-
‘Healthy and happy’ and started saying, “just don’t put on anymore weight, you’re perfect”.
I can’t change when the stores are flooded with skinny jeans meant for non existent anorexic women or very fat aunties who don’t have mirrors in their homes.
I can’t accept that I have crossed the thin line between thin and healthy. The very thin line that defines our daily lives, whether the day will be happy or sad, whether we will feel good or crappy.
Disappointed I sit in a rickshaw and go to linking road.
This street loves me. This street has shoe shops.
Shoes are loyal. They love me. They never make me feel crappy about eating that chocolate pastry.
They don’t want me to change, accept and adapt.
Shoes just fit.
Shoes let me indulge.
Shoes are my best friends; they are always there to tell me that despite what happens to my waist size, they will never change size.
And suddenly everything just seems better.