How does one know when one hits the dreaded m-l c? I mean, the movies tell me that I should be out, right now, buying a Red Porsche, and finding the bimbo-est bimbo to cross the oceans to hang off my arm. But the problem with that is that, lets say, theoretically, for the sake of argument, that a R.P. hit me on the head. Or even, gently tickled my toes. I would NOT recognise it. I wouldn't. It might register in my head as a 'Red Car' with 'Four Wheels' and that would be it. So thats out. I am not into bimbos any more so thats out. But I think I have said crisis, its only a matter of proving it. Getting to the QED.
So I was riding the bus this morning (note: I can tell a bus apart from a car, my knowledge of automobiles extends to that). We were a few minutes late stepping out the door and so I did not get my ritual window seat on the bus. So I sat next to an aunty. See on these buses (they are not city buses, they only operate within our campus), the left hand side is reserved for the Ladies, while the right is for Men. This is important I suppose. In other words, I think its ridiculous and absurd. But its a rule.
This rule is followed fairly well. The men don't muscle into the ladies seats. They dont get close and pinch tummies or whatever. They don't poke. They calmly go and sit in their right hand seats. Else they stand, if the seats are all taken. They face their eyes and faces away from the left hand side, which is redolent with the morning scents of jasmine, Vatika hair oil, school ribbons, and aunties. I inhale the bouquet deeply and squish in, my laptop bag and handbag and sundry books arranged about myself, and glasses perched on my head, and add my own scents to the atmosphere.
Today, when I entered the bus, many of the left hand side seats were taken. A few remained, but it could have been a situation wherein I would have entered the bus and no seats meant for ladies would have been empty. The question is, in that case, would I sit on the guys side? Would I? Should I? Could I? (I could; and probably should, being all weak and a lady and all that, but I would not). There, I just would not.
We had a real nice run this Saturday. Ludwig tried his best to act all wilt-y and so on but persevered nevertheless. So we are passing what, in the normal time of day serves as my office building, and on the other side was a platoon of pot-bellied, loud men, presumably earning their chutney calories via gentle sauntering (If you ask me, their vocal chord usage could burn more than the amble, but hey, what do I know, I am a left hand side of the bus, I ought to look ahead and gently tug at my pallu to hide my tummy). We are running, nothing crazy, just a gentle pace, three of us, two guys and yours truly. The men go (at ear-splitting decibels) - "Nowadays LADIES are also doing this, saar, see there."
Doing what? I did not understand. If they meant jungle love (ha!), there is nothing new in that. Ladies have been participating in jungle love for ever. And, more often than not, with men, ever since a Darwinian mutation led to the first male (initially considered a freak, but later ID-ed as the next best thing to sliced bread) being born on this bountiful planet, earlier filled almost entirely with ladies (don't sue me, Doris, in The Cleft, I am aware of it). So, no, not that.
Do they mean jobs? Do they mean wearing pants? Do they mean driving cars? Scooters? Jumping? Looking people in the eye? Carrying mobile phones? Getting college degrees? What?
Running. Oh yeah, the dorks meant me, for my running (dressed most demurely in my black and black nike shorts and dryfit tee and well supported as always). Imagine! Running! Wearing Shorts! And Shoes! And with two guys at that! Shiva Shiva! On the other land, as the most supportive people I was running with said, I might now have single handedly inspired a bunch of middle-aged (!) men to run, holding on to their bellies to prevent jiggling. Yeah, full marks to Kenny. Good job girl.