One fine night after dinner as I wrestled a large Pyrex dish into the dishwasher my husband turned to me and cheerfully asked,
“Do you want to watch some porn before we do it?”
His suggestion did not surprise me, clearly he had run out of imaginary sexual situations with which to fantasize, but it did make me a little uncomfortable.
Don’t get me wrong, I like porn, but I am old school in my consumption of it. I prefer to be alone in a partially lit room with my pants around my ankles and a hot-water bottle between my knees. The last time I watched porn with other people I was as a 16 year old, the other people were my girlfriends and afterwards we didn’t have to have sex with one another, we went back to our respective parents homes and locked ourselves in the bathroom for several hours, so naturally I had a few of questions.
By age 14 I knew that athletes were the coolest people on earth. My father had presented me with ‘The Wills Book of Olympics’ (a picture book sponsored by a cigarette company) that I was obsessed with. I knew as much as a knock-kneed girl deprived of athletic talent could possibly know about Jesse Owens, Valerie Briscoe Hooks, Emil Zatopeck, and Nadia Comaneci. While I was unable to devote any time to conjugating French verbs or sorting out algebra I spent hours trying to memorize all ten sporting events that made up the Decathlon.
I worshipped all these super humans but I was partial to sprinters and I was a major fan of both Florence Griffith Joyner and Edwin Moses. I wanted to be either one of them – muscular, graceful, beautiful and world-famous. My new ambition coincided with the annual inter-house athletics competition and I decided that I would throw myself into preparing my body for it. With nothing but air in my head I set about choosing an event. What would I dedicate myself to? It was obvious that I would need to pick something I had an actual chance of winning and after mulling over the possibilities I had the nerve to settle on the 110 meter hurdle race. I based this decision on the fact that I had always been slightly taller than the average girl my age and in my tiny mind that was the talent one needed to compete in an event that, as far as I was concerned, involved jumping over several fence posts. While not as glamorous as winning the 100 meter dash Flo-Jo style it was Edwin Moses’ main event and so it would do.
I would like the reader to know that this was not my first athletic endeavor. I was a proud member of the inter-level hockey team (granted I was on it mostly for my ability to get along well with everyone) and I considered myself to be in peak physical shape. It was with this optimistic frame of mind that I approached my first training day.
It was a standard mid-April morning up in the Nilgiri Hills – clear, crisp, and sunny. The athletic ground was called Top Flats; a huge field with bleachers on two sides for the fans (or non-athletes as I liked to call them). I made way to Top Flats in the company of A* – the best athlete in my age group and possibly the entire school. The girl did not run, she flew, and was part of a group of students whose athletic training was overseen by Mr. Boppiah and Mr. Bharathan – our coaches. I was not part of this elite group but A happened to be going to Top Flats a little early to ‘warm-up’ and so I would be able to pretend we were peers. Just walking with her was inspiring and by the time I got there I knew that today was the day that school would be introduced to yet another gifted athlete.
With A by my side it did not occur to me that one day of preparation would be supremely inadequate, instead my mind was filled with the screams of all the fans as they saw me, the under-dog, the wild card, the unexpected conqueror defeat the other competitors. Who knew maybe the 100 meter dash – the holiest of holy grails – was next.
The ‘warm-up’ felt more like an all-out sprint to me but I hung in there. Since the hurdles were already set up in anticipation of the first round of heats that were to be held the following afternoon A suggested we do a quick ‘warm-up’ run down the 110 meter hurdle track. A went first and as I collected myself and my breath I watched her carefully because I knew I would need to replicate everything she did. She crouched at the starting line (the way sprinters do) and then she was off – soaring over each hurdle in perfect form. She finished and jogged back to me.
Now it was my turn. I could hear the fans going nuts in the bleachers – but I would tune them out. I needed to focus. All that mattered was finishing without making any errors. I simulated A’s starting crouch.
“GO!” Yelled A and off I went.
As I charged towards the first hurdle I saw myself, gazelle-like, leaping in to the air, effortlessly clearing one obstacle after another. With the theme song from Flashdance (What a Feeling by Irene Cara)playing in my head I sailed over the first hurdle and the next thing I knew I was face-down in a cloud of dust wishing I were dead.
“Oh my God – Radhika – are you OK?!”
Blood was gushing from a deep gash in my knee but I didn’t even notice, I was too busy contemplating the fact that my athletic career was not to be.
On seeing my knee A suggested we go to the hospital, she even offered to come with me but it was too late because the rest of the athletes were beginning to gather and she would have to join them.
I had no intention of going to the hospital. I knew I would get a tetanus injection and there was no way that was happening, of all the things that I am afraid of air-craft toilets and needles are right up there. Instead I limped back to the dorms washed my injury, stuck a band-aid on it and went about my life. A few days later the cut was properly infected and the following Sunday I nervously made my way to the hospital.
My knee hurt and I knew a Tetanus injection was a sure thing. As I entered the first aid room my misery immediately gave way to fear because there seated behind the desk and reading her morning newspaper was the Duty Nurse – Sister Peggy Ricketts.
The school hospital was Sister Ricketts’ fiefdom, she ruled the roost and no one (not even the Doctor) dared cross her. A large, plump woman, Sister Ricketts was always a vision in white. Dressed in a spotless white calf-length dress, stockings, flat shoes , cardigan and, sitting on her head like a little crown, a white nurses hat. Her pink cheeks and light eyes had once, very long ago misled me to believe she was a kind Florence-Nightingale type person whose only joy was found in making people feel better. How wrong I was!
My last experience with Sister Ricketts was from three years ago. I was sent to the hospital because I had the flu. I was housed with five other sickos in the girls ward. Dinner was served promptly at seven and it was a rule that we ate every last morsel put in front of us. The firm upholder of this rule was Sister Ricketts. The meal consisted of rice kanji, a gruel that defies description, and a cup of milk. I hated milk and so I decided that I would dispose of it. The long story less long let us just say that Sister Ricketts caught me red-handed as I was pouring my milk down the toilet sink. I had not heard her sneak up behind me.
“RADHIKA VAZ! What do you think you are doing?” All 200 pounds of Sister Ricketts bawled at me.
“In the dining room now!”
I scuttled off to the dining room with Sister Ricketts in pursuit. I was shitting myself by now. I knew she was old-school and a big believer in beatings, smackings and slappings. Plus it was clear that she wanted to make an example out of me. The other patients all sat there white faced as she yelled at all of us.
“Do you think this is a joke?” She screamed – her face and both chins a disturbing shade of crimson.
“Do you think throwing your milk away is funny? How do you expect to get better? No – you don’t want to get better, you want to sit here sick and weak and irritate me – that is all you children are good for.”
She then picked a sturdy wooden spatula off the table and, much to the horror and intense amusement of the others and myself, proceeded to give the palms of my dainty little hands a sound walloping. Ever since then when Sister Ricketts saw my parents, she would let them know in no uncertain terms that they should have raised me with an iron hand, that I was a smart mouth without any of the required smarts and that one day I would get my comeuppance. Clearly that day had come. I was completely at her mercy and I was sure she was going to kill me.
Now that I am older and a smidge wiser I realize two things. Working on a Sunday stinks and seeing a client that you think is a worthless oaf on that Sunday stinks even harder.
“Radhika Vaz! What are you doing here?” She bellowed.
“I fell on Top Flats and cut my knee.” I quivered back.
On uncovering what was now a disgusting, septic looking wound Sister Peggy’s eyes almost popped out of her head and I knew I was in big trouble.
“When did this happen?” Why was she still shouting? I was standing right by her!
“A few days ago.” I mumbled vaguely.
“WHEN EXACTLY?”
“Last week.” I said trembling like a leaf.
“What idiot sits quietly with this for one week? This is terrible – you might need stitches!”
I started to cry immediately.
“Please Sister! Please don’t give me stitches. Anything except stitches.”
My wailing and Sister Peggy’s normal speaking voice brought Sister Anamma to the First Aid Room.
“So loudly this girl is crying! What happened? Someone is dead or what?”
Sister Anamma was second in command. Tall, thin, dark-skinned and always wrapped in a pristine white sari, she was the physical opposite of Sister Ricketts. But other than that they were two peas in a pod, bonded together in their common distaste for bratty, sick kids. My nightmare was getting worse.
“This fool had gone and fallen LAST WEEK somewhere-or- the- other doing God-only-knows-what. It’s infected and now she comes crying ‘Oh Sister please help me’”.
They spent the next few minutes debating the need for stitches, my incredible stupidity, and the fact that they were both having such a nice, quiet morning until now. They finally decided it was too late for stitches, that I would require a Tetanus injection, but before any of that they would have to clean up my knee which – due to my limited intelligence – was now a cesspool and was definitely going to hurt like hell.
With anyone else I would have wept and wailed and acted like a complete jack-ass. But With Sister Ricketts I sat there without making a sound, one hand clenching the bed and the other one wrapped around Sister Anamma’s boney arm. Knowing full well what would happen to me if I cried or made a fuss Sister Anamma tried to distract me. We chatted mainly about boys and my sad-sack love life seemed to amuse both nurses greatly. Because I am easily encouraged by laughter I started to think that these two women were my new BFFs and I was about to start on a new storey when Sister Peggy announced she was done with my knee, was fed-up and wanted to get some tea so would Sister Anamma please administer the injection.
Besides being crushed that she wasn’t in to my story I was horrified that I would not have anyone to cling to in my darkest hour. It was probably the look of desperation on my face that kept her there and as Sister Anamma got ready to skewer me Sister Ricketts held my hand – the very same one she had battered three years ago.
I have always been attracted to men and women who have style. Most of my friends are hip, cool, stylish people. Needless to say there are a few exceptions who have crept by (they know who they are) but in general my friends look good, have nice things and know how to put it all together. And while I am fully capable of recognizing style in other people I myself appear to be devoid of it. And here is why – I am frugal, lazy and afraid of taking a risk. It is possible to sustain a sense of style if you happen to be afflicted by any one of these qualities – but all three together are the kiss of death.
If you ever call me ‘cheap’ not one of my near and dear will leap to my defense. Fair enough – I am loath to spend any money on clothing and prefer to wait until someone is getting ready to throw out their old stuff. Or I shop at The Gap. I am unwilling to give any thought to what I put on – it is simply too time consuming and I believe that exercising 4 times a week is about as much as I can put in to my appearance. And last but not least as a fan of the beaten path I stick to the old way of doing things which in my case is throwing on a pair of jeans and calling it a day.
And so I went through life thinking that style was something I was born without, like big tits it just wasn’t meant to be. Then a few months ago I was set right by my sister-in-law Heidi. She pointed out that even the worst dressed human has style. It may be shitty style but is still a style of some sort.
I am a lesbian grandfather. She announced.
How do you know that? I asked.
Well if you are a woman with really short hair, wear jeans and trousers a lot, and own more than one article of clothing that is made of tweed or a tweed-like material then you are a lesbian grandfather.
Needless to say Heidi is neither a lesbian nor a grandfather but she had certainly zeroed in on her style and by doing so I noticed she had managed to hone it to a point where it actually flattered her. This was an eye opener! All I had to do was really identify my style (now that I was convinced one existed) and then work it to the point where it was the best it could possibly be. Not to over-do the ‘tits’ analogy – but it would be like putting a padded, push-up bra on very small boobies.
But how was I to identify my style? Like all the great mysteries of life I was convinced it would ‘come’ to me. And it did.
Three weeks ago I made the three hour journey from New York City to the Sivananda Yoga Ashram in Woodbourne – a beautiful little town in the Catskills. I had signed up for a ‘yoga weekend’ which meant that I could either do absolutely nothing or I could participate in the yoga and meditation sessions that took place twice a day. I arrived on Friday at noon. The ashram sent a car to fetch me and one other New Yorker from the bus station. We were chauffeured to the ashram by Richard who wore a wide brimmed straw hat, knew everything about the ashram and was clearly some sort of institution himself. Like me he was a performer (in his case a musician) and so we bonded a little. After he checked us in I gave him my card and encouraged him to check out my blog.
I then went along to check out my room. The living area was a no-shoe-zone and so we had to leave our shoes in a shoe-rack at the front door. As I divested myself of my beloved green Crocs I realized that I was amongst my people. Clearly Crocs and similar clog shaped shoes were the foot-wear of choice around here. I was already beginning to love this place.
I checked in to my room and decided to take a short nap before the 4pm yoga session. At 645pm I heard a tentative knock on my door. It was my New York friend who was afraid I would miss dinner and had come to wake me.
Still submerged in sleep I rushed to the dining area and grabbed what little food was left. I then sat self-consciously in a corner hoping no one would notice that I had not had the decency to wash my face or brush my hair. Nobody cared. This place was even better than I imagined. After dinner I had a full hour to kill before the meditation session and so I strolled along to the yoga boutique.
Like all women I enjoy shopping for exercise clothing – I consider it a necessity rather than an extravagance. But this boutique was not Lulu Lemon. Instead it was stocked with the most unfashionable pajama-type pants known to man. I loved all of it. The shop was managed by Vyasa – a white man who had taken an Indian name. Vyasa was the most Zen looking person I had ever seen and I was getting to see a lot of them that evening. He sat there like a big Buddha, large and in-charge. After much deliberation, and with Vyasa’s help, I decided on a pair of fuchsia cotton pajamas that were shaped like track-pants from the 80’s, with the little cuffs at the ankles and everything.
I decided that the pajamas would be more comfortable than my jeans for a two hour meditation and chanting session and so I asked Vyasa if I could wear them out of the shop. He said I most certainly could and added that he thought I had made the right choice as far as color was concerned.
Up to that point I was dressed in my usual clothes – a beige and white cowl-neck sweater that is a little big for me but very comfortable and warm, jeans, striped socks and green Crocs. This combo is something most of my friends would not be caught dead in. As I swapped my jeans for the fuchsia pajamas I wondered what they would think after they had finished vomiting.
I exited the stores to a barrage of compliments from Vyasa and headed to the meditation room. I found myself a spot at the back and sat cross-legged on a cushion. Damn these pants were bloody comfortable.
Ohhh look she bought the pants! They look amazing!
The voice belonged to Gowrie who had checked me in earlier that day and who was sporting a similar pair in green. In fact almost everyone there was dressed in some variation of what I had on.
And I llllllllove your shirt! Said Gowrie’s friend, referring to my beige shroud that my husband hates.
As I accepted this out-pouring of kindness it hit me – I was Yoga Ashram girl! That was my style. I was thrilled with this discovery and the next two hours flew by as I chanted, sang and chanted some more.
The next morning Richard found me after breakfast.
I read your blog. Very raunchy, very funny! He has read about my distaste for blow jobs.
Thank you. I preened.
Tell me something – do you like guys?
I will admit that his question took me by surprise and my response may have sounded a little shrill.
Yes! Ofcourse! I like them very much I’m even married to one.
OK. He nodded. Then it is really funny. I mean if you didn’t like men then it would have been kinda funny but if you are married then it is really funny.
With that he shuffled off leaving me with a fairly comprehensive idea of what my style was. I was Lesbian-Yoga Lady. Yep. That is what it was.
Now I just had to figure out how to make it the best it could be.
These were the words uttered by my dearly beloved, rather conservative dentist, Doctor Kaminski who was in the habit of asking me what I thought of liberal people and their stance on life. He usually did this while standing over me holding a syringe of pain-killer that he was about to insert in to my gums to numb the consequences of a root canal. As he hung over my open mouth getting ready to administer the anesthetic I would always swear I thought ‘they’ were a bunch of idiots. On one such dental visit, as he idly scanned my oral cavity, he informed me that I gnash my teeth in my sleep.
Obviously I was doing this quite vigorously because he seemed to think it was only a matter of time before I wore down the enamel on my molars which according to him would be disastrous to my dental health. The usual cause of this affliction is stress and if one can get rid of the stress then the grinding goes away – but that would probably involve extensive psychotherapy and so Doc Kaminski gave me a much cheaper and more immediate solution. I was to wear a mouth guard to bed.
A mouth guard is a contraption made of soft, transparent plastic. It is shaped to fit snugly around the teeth on either the upper or lower jaw acting as a protective sleeve. These must be slipped in to position before bedtime on a nightly basis. While it will certainly not stop the grinding it will protect the teeth from its consequences. I signed up for a fitting immediately.
Up on hearing about this my mother consulted her own dentist in Bangalore. Doctor Kincha, my mother’s most favorite doctor, scoffed at the mouth guard saying, ‘The cure in this case must be mental, not dental.’ My mother, a counselor by trade, repeated this little rhyme to me with the greatest conviction. While I am aware that he is probably right I needed a quick fix.
I received mine a week later. It came in a small mauve container – a color I chose – that would house it during the day. I was very excited about my mouth guard and could not wait for night fall. After my nightly ablutions I grabbed my little mauve container and with much fan fare inserted the guard in to my gob which is how I found out that the mouth guard is also an uglification device.
When held in the palm of my hand it did not appear to be large (it is shaped like a set of teeth after all) but once I put it in my mouth it seemed to expand. As a child I had braces put in to correct a distressingly hideous over-bite but I think they may have been removed too soon and the remnants of the over-bite still exist. I have spent my life trying to smile, laugh and be photographed in a manner that brings as little attention to my teeth as possible so I was suitably horrified to discover that my mouth guard magnified this facial flaw.
I peered at myself for a few minutes, I adjusted the mirrors so I could examine both profiles, and I came to the conclusion that the mouth guard looked like something I could quite easily add to Halloween costume for maximum effect. The thought that I would have to wear this thing to my marital bed on a nightly basis bothered me. Eventually I was able to curl my upper lip over the protruding guard, and thinking no one would notice I exited the bathroom.
‘Oh my God!’ These were the words uttered by my husband.
‘Is it that bad?’ I asked, and by doing so unfurled my lip thereby displaying the mouth guard in all its glory. Why I needed confirmation I do not know.
‘OH MY GOD!!’ He looked positively afraid now.
Eventually he went from fear to making fun of them to finally accepting their existence.
Then one day I came home to find him looking rather distressed. It seems he had been to visit Doctor Kaminski’s colleague, Doctor Kafko, who had diagnosed him as a grinder and prescribed a mouth guard effective immediately. I was thrilled. A week later his arrived in a blue container. I went through the motions of insulting and humiliating him the way he had done to me quite recently, settling in to acceptance when I got bored.
Today the hideous mouth guard has become a part of life. We call them our ‘Teeth’.
‘Babe can you get the teeth please.’ And whoever is last to bed brings out both containers.
‘I can’t fucking believe it! You got your teeth and left mine there.’ The hurt reproach of whoever jumped in to bed and forgot to remind the other to get the Teeth.
Once settled with teeth at the ready we read for a bit, turn off our bed-side lamps, and turning away from one another discreetly slip the Teeth in to position. We then bid one another a lispy good-night.
The Teeth have become a signal that love is in the air. Or not.
‘So I suppose I’m not getting lucky tonight.’ My husband will note if I grab my mouth guard with conviction.
I used to fear old age – losing my teeth, my hair, my breasts. But I am less afraid now because I have realized that we humans can get used to literally anything.
By the age of 13 I had concluded that I was going to grow up to be a man. What led me to this conclusion was the fact that unlike the rest of my female class-mates I had not experienced my first period. While my friends blossomed in to women who menstruated with great regularity I lay awake at night nervously knowing that it was only a matter of time before my voice broke and my balls dropped. As far as I was concerned this was a major handicap and as with all handicaps there were reminders of it everywhere.
Every other morning one of my dorm mates would wake up and gasp that her period had started. We referred to the monthly cycle as ‘chums’ and someone or other was always going on about their ‘chums’ and the accompanying ‘chum cramps’. They would merrily interrupt hockey practice to inform us of how bad it was, holding their sides and doubling over with pain. All the other girls would be most sympathetic because they all knew what it felt like. As everyone crowded around offering advice on how best to deal with the situation I would try to be part of the gang nodding my head and parroting anything that the other girls said.
Why don’t you sit down Nancy you’ll feel better.
Yes Nancy sit down – sit down at once. I chirped.
Is it your second day? That’s always the worst.
Yes the second day – the second day is the worst, the very worst! This was news to me but I wasn’t going to let on.
Does anyone have an Asprin or a Disprin?
Why any of us would be carrying pharmaceutical drugs to hockey practice was beyond me but the girl asking had big tits and probably started her chums at the age of 4 so I followed her lead.
Yes god damn it does anyone have any Asprin or Disprin – can’t you see Nancy is in pain?! Help us please!
Oh how I longed to be one of them! How I longed for the cramps and aches and pains and bloating and all the other inconveniences that went along with having my chums. I was so curious about it all – how bad would these ‘chum cramps’ be? Would I be able to handle the pain? What did the whole thing feel like? And most important of all why was I being singled out? WHY?
Eventually I turned to God. I promised her that if she granted me the gift of my chums, unlike the weak-minded ninnies I was surrounded by, I wouldn’t complain about any of it, I would bear my womanhood with pride.
Then there was the other thing about having your period – the boobs. All I ever wanted for Christmas or my birthday were big boobs. I had wanted these since I saw Gloria Gaynor on the cover of one of my dad’s LPs. I knew that somehow my missing period and boobs were connected. During bath time I would gaze admiringly (and as covertly as possible) at the girls who had breasts. I would compare how their towels would lift gloriously where mine fell flat. I would be rudely jolted out of my reverie by the sharp voice of one of the seniors I had been staring at.
Radhika Vaz! Eyes off deck!
I would mumble an apology and then skulk away to contemplate my poor, flat-chested, immature frame in private.
My curiosity soon turned in to a full-time obsession and I could think of little else. In math class as Miss Sharada waxed on and on about integers and rational numbers and polynomials I wondered if perhaps she had her period. She certainly had breasts that she kept hidden from view by wearing three cardigans and then wrapping her sari around her like a cape.
Radhika Vaz! Look at her – sitting there staring in to space, day-dreaming as usual and not listening to one word I have said! You will fail your test again. Stupid, lazy, insolent girl. Go stand outside.
And so it went.
I finally decided to end my unhappy state of affairs by doing what I usually did when I wanted something and couldn’t have it. I began pretending I had my period. I had done this all my life – pretending to have brothers, sisters, friends from foreign lands, exotic pets – so why not pretend I had my period. I set about the task of picking the dates of the month I had my period on and I would make it a point to visit the toilet a few extra times during those days just because that was the right thing to do. This got boring after a bit and pretending to myself was no longer enough. I needed to somehow make it clear to the rest of my peers that I was one of them. But I had one major problem – I had none of the accoutrements that went with womanhood, namely the sanitary towel or STs as they were referred to by those in the know.
Most girls in my age range had a package of these things that their mothers had given them ‘just in case’. My mother probably took one look at me and knew I would never get my period and so she had not bothered with this. Thus I didn’t even have a package with which to pretend. I thought about putting some of my precious pocket money towards the purchase of some STs but it was a massive investment and I needed my money for food. Things were looking decidedly bleak until one fine day my friend Preeti informed me that she needed to store some things in my suitcase. She was going on a week-long trip and needed her suitcase empty. One of the things she wanted to stash was a packet of Comfit Sanitary Towels.
On the totem pole of sanitary pads I knew that Comfit was the least desirable. They were the cheapest ones and the packaging was tacky and old-fashioned looking. And my mother used them. As far as I was concerned my parents were the litmus test for uncool and so anything they had or did was automatically struck off my list. I would have preferred that Preeti had relegated a packet of Stayfree or Carefree to my care – these were better brands for the modern-day woman. But I wasn’t going to be fussy so I grabbed all her stuff, told her not to worry about a thing and rushed to my dorm to stow everything in my bag. Everything except the sanitary pads, these were left on display in my locker for all to see. I will say one thing for Comfit – what it lacked in brand appeal it more than made up for in flash. Unlike its more conservative sisters – Stayfree and Carefree – the packaging was anything but subtle, bright yellow with little blue flowers, it positively begged for attention.
Much to my disappointment no one paid any heed. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Did people congratulate you if you had your period? Or was there some kind of secret hand-shake or password that one was given after you came of age? I was hoping for some kind of acknowledgement but none was forthcoming. I spent the next few weeks inspecting the pads, the accompanying belt to keep them in place and the diagrammatic instructions on how they were to be worn. Eventually I used the pads during one of my pretend periods. Lucky for me Preeti never asked about them and that was that.
The term ended and I went back home. My holidays passed uneventfully and soon it was time to go back to school. At the time my parents lived in a far flung, incredibly remote place called Hashimara and so my dad was given the task of escorting me to Calcutta which was where I would board the Coromandel Express for a three day trip to school with all the other kids who lived in the North-Eastern part of the country. It was on our arrival at Calcutta’s Dum Dum Airport that I discovered I would not be growing a penis. Yes dear reader – I had started my first chums!
I knew of girls who had wept with fright at the sight of their first period but I was positively jubilant. I was relieved and excited and giddy with joy when suddenly it dawned up on me that the only person I had to share this good news with was my dad. With no STs and no money of my own I was going to have to enlist his assistance. The horror of this realization quickly turned to fury against my stupid mother. It was all her fault. Unlike the other mothers who had clearly thought all this out mine had basically left me hanging out there to fend for myself. Damn her I thought darkly, damn her to hell. I sat there with my undies around my ankles plotting my next move.
First I had to stem the flow as it were and so I made do with a pile of toilet tissue the height of the Eiffel Tower. Then I shuffled back to the terminal hoping that by the time I came face to face with my father I would have some idea of how I was going to broach the whole business. When I got there my dad was leafing through a newspaper with one hand and stuffing a mutton samosa in to his face with the other.
Pa.
There you are – where the hell were you? I got hungry.
My – periods have started.
A long silence ensued as my father thought about this while simultaneously consuming the rest of the samosa.
Did your mother tell you anything about this?
No but I know everything I just need pads.
My father has a face that is either incredibly expressive or incredibly dead-pan. Today he was dead-pan.
Excellent – then come with me there is a chemists somewhere around here.
We went along to the chemists where he nodded to me indicating that I should pick out whatever I needed. This was the moment I was actually glad I was with my father and not my budget conscious, bore of a mother. She would have surely forced those disgusting Comfit STs upon me. But with my dad I was free to choose and so I went with Stayfree. Two packages please.
I spent the next few weeks in a state of unimaginable ecstasy. My body had taken a big step in the right direction. I discovered that I was one of those girls who never suffered chum cramps or bloating and not just that but my chest showed some signs of swelling – very, very tiny signs for sure but signs nonetheless. Life was good! But as with everything in life the moment something starts to go well you can be sure something will happen to balance it all out and I realized one side effect of my chums I had not accounted for. Body hair. The stuff had been coming in for a few years but now it was getting positively luxuriant. And to my horror this was probably one area in which I was far ahead of my class-girls – and some class-boys as well. This realization brought me right back to square one – was I a man after all?
My one woman show ‘Unladylike: The pifalls of propriety’ will debut in New York City on September 9, 2010. For those of you in New York and its surrounding areas (yes New Jersey you too) here are the details:
Unladylike: The pitfalls of propriety.
Written And Performed by Radhika Vaz.
Some women just don’t have the mind, heart or body to be a lady. Come watch Radhika defend her right to nag, masturbate and avoid giving blow-jobs. This is one un-lady you don’t want to miss.
Sept 9, 10, 11
8pm
The Producers Club, 358 W 44th Street (b/w 8 & 9 Ave) NYC
For $10 tickets go to http://unladylike.eventbrite.com/
Or it’s $12 at the door.
For my beloved Indian fan-base we should have the India tour dates sorted out soon – so don’t panic you will get to see me. And for those of you in other countries fear not, Miss Vaz will get to you eventually– especially if you can find a sponsor to fly me in.
Up to now I have managed to remain un-pregnant. This was by design because motherhood wasn’t something I considered for myself, I did not see it as necessary to my happiness, and I never experienced any sort of maternal urges. It’s not that I don’t like kids it’s just that I find they need a lot of work and so I haven’t been terribly keen on having one around on a permanent basis.
But all that is beginning to change. At 37 I have been forced to think about my future. For reasons I am unable to articulate I am certain that my husband will be delivered to heaven before I. I envision a massive coronary striking him dead and at the funeral people will say things like ‘My God he was a fitness freak – how did this happen?’ and others will say ‘It happens to runners all the time – on the outside they look great but their insides are a mess.’ Anyway the point is he would be gone which means that I would have to fend for myself. The thought of a nursing home is seriously depressing and so I have decided I would rather live out my golden years in the home of a young family that feels obliged to take care of me when I can no longer wipe my own ass.
In an ideal world I would have preferred to cultivate four or five of these families thus providing myself with an array of options. Variety being the spice of life I could have flitted from one home to another, the change in décor, menu and strain of marijuana keeping me young at heart. And being Indian I have no doubt that at least one of my brood would have found its way to the USA thus granting me access to Naturalizer and Aerosoles until my dying day. But alas having stalled the baby-making process until middle age I will be lucky if I can provide myself with at least one, healthy option. Still this will be better than nothing. And on the bright side – the older I am when I give birth the less time I will have to wait until it’s my turn to be taken care of!
Now assuming I have just this one child here is how I am hoping it all plays out. Because everyone keeps saying that children are the BEST thing that can ever happen to anyone I came up with my ‘best’ case scenario. My pregnancy will be a breeze – something like Heidi Klum’s. I will crave only healthy foods and have an urge to exercise daily. My gynecologist will ask me to participate in a study about women who do not develop striae gravidarum (scientific name for stretch marks) during pregnancy. And instead of getting hairy my body will become egg-shell smooth.
I will admit that I have given absolutely no thought to actual child-birth and the subsequent child-rearing but I do have plans for it as soon as it turns 21 (at which time I will be close to 60). First of all this child will be a boy. Why? Because I have decided that I would like to raise one man who will not make women cry. I have decided that if he makes a woman cry – for any reason – I will beat him within an inch of his life.
My son will be fabulously wealthy because he will marry in to the first family of alternative energy (I am realistic enough to know that while he will not make women cry it is unlikely he will be smart enough to actually create a billion dollar idea himself). He will love me dearly (despite the character building beatings) and will see to it that my every need and want is satisfied. After all I sacrificed my body and hours of sleep just to create him. And let’s not forget the weed I was forced to stop smoking, the wine I was forced to stop drinking and the endless quantities of shit, piss and puke I had to wipe up all for this one person. Yes – my son will be the poster child for grateful, faithful children everywhere.
It is a fact that one can be beautiful yet possess zero sex appeal. Aishwarya Rai leaps to mind. I think she is pretty (in that conventional, insipid sort of way) but I would not have sex with her. I know, I know – I’m not a man but I am a straight woman and if there is one thing we can identify it’s another woman’s sexual allure. Sex appeal has little to do with good bone structure, flawless skin or toned abdominal muscles. It has to do with heat – that inexplicable quality that separates good old Jennifer Aniston from Angelina Jolie. Both women are lovely looking but only one of them looks like she would give good head. And yes – as a straight woman I know which one that is.
I can see it from miles away and I pay attention to it because as a female I view all other females as competition. It’s not personal, it’s biological and I have not evolved to the point where this type of thing no longer matters. I am a sad, sick little human and this malady manifests itself in several ways.
First: I am loath to admit (out loud) to another woman’s hotness. I am fully prepared to compliment a woman on her sense of style, her intelligence and her culinary capabilities but I choke at the thought of admitting that she’s hot. The only time I am willing to verbally acknowledge it is if the woman in question is a close friend, a lesbian or Angelina Jolie. Why? I’m never jealous of my close friends, lesbians don’t fish in the same pond, and Angelina Jolie is imaginary.
Second: If I do throw the hotness compliment at someone who does not fall in to one of the previously mentioned categories then it is more than likely that she isn’t that hot to begin with. I know I am being a big fat fraud but apparently I am not alone. I was flipping through the latest GQ magazine and came upon a letter from a woman who had written in thanking the editor for having Tina Fey on a recent cover. She went on to say that Ms.Fey was the sexiest thing on earth and that she was the only woman that her husband was allowed to have a crush on. It makes complete sense. For all the brains, beauty and body Ms.Fey packs she lacks heat. It’s like allowing your husband to have a crush on your mother. I like this woman – her insecurity reminds me of me.
Lastly: If my husband and I are walking through Union Square (aka The Square of Hotness) and he casually and very stupidly mentions that a passing blond is a babe I tend to respond with one of several stand-by comments.
She’s definitely psycho – did you see her eyes?
She needs a bath – did you see how filthy her hair was?
And if she is really amazing then I go for the jugular.
Oh please – who wears flip flops without bothering to get a pedicure?
For a long time I believed that pointing out a woman’s imagined mental instability, grubbiness, and lack of good grooming would shame him in to changing his mind. Now I know I’m just saying these things to make myself feel better – if only for a moment.
There was a time in my life when I was a thong girl, a time when I looked down upon full-coverage underwear. They were Granny Panties for Grannies. There was way too much fabric, they had a tendency to bunch up, and they gave me visible panty-lines. But more than anything Granny Panties were unsexy. Let’s be honest, a thong says “I’m up for a shag”, full-coverage says “Leave me the fuck alone, I’m tired”.
But as I glide away from my youth I have put comfort before looks and embraced the Granny Panty. My Granny Panties are not like my mothers. They are modern, they come in a variety of fun, youthful colors and they are made by Lulu Lemon and the Gap. But they are similar to mummy’s in one regard – they are large and in-charge.
I love my flag-sized under-garments for I find that there is nothing more comfortable. Whatever it was I previously objected to now seem to be the very reason for my being attracted to them. Plenty of fabric, hence plenty of room and more absorbent than a thong (oh stop acting like that upset you!). Plus have you ever tried to gently treat a bad case of piles (or some equally despicable ailment) wearing a thong? No – you must have soft, non-invasive underwear for that type of thing.
And for all you Spanx devotees – if you think about it the GP was the pre-cursor to the all-encompassing, ‘slimming intimates’. When pulled all the way up (just a few inches under the boob-line) the GP acts as a girdle – providing the wearer with a feeling of security, security that your stomach and ass are being held together in a big sling. It’s nice to have this security as I gradually lose muscle tone in those areas.
The only time I hate my GPs are when I’m folding them in the laundry room and a male human walks in. It’s the only time I am ashamed of my GPs and wish I had something sexier that said “I am the mysterious woman from down thehall who wears lacey undies”, instead my GP says “My arse has fallen.”
This word is not bitch. Or whore. Or slut. Most of us can ignore these words – they are silly words that may cause momentary anger but there is no long lasting effect. We do not allow these words to define us.
But there is one word that really gets our goat and that word is nag. We don’t like it.
It’s a word that men use to insult, upset and annoy any female they are in a long-term relationship with. When a man calls a woman a nag what we hear is this: You are old, cranky and thoroughly un-fuckable. He might as well be telling you that you remind him of his mother.
It’s a bad, bad word.
But it’s time for us to get over it. We need to stop looking at nag as an insult. It’s precisely what men want us to think so we stop nagging. And here is the thing -we never will. No matter how hard we try. Because we women like to have the last word and sometimes that means going on and on and on about something until we do. So instead of getting mad let’s get better at it. Let’s embrace our inner nag, the little lady with the pointy hat.
The first step in that direction is to understand that we always have a good reason to nag. We do it because (1) most men have a listening problem. If they listened the first time we wouldn’t have to nag, and (2) we just don’t find them that cute anymore. It’s true; we never nag in the beginning of a relationship it usually starts around the time his shine wears off. Your man really shouldn’t be all that surprised by it but he is. So educate him.
The second step is to understand that ALL women do it and I have proof. I came across this information in a book titled What in the Word by etymologist Charles Harrington Elster.
Xanthippe (zan-TIP-ee) a henpecking shrew.
Xanthippe was the wife of Socrates and she has gone down in history as a quarrelsome, ill-tempered, nagging brow-beater. But what most people do not know about this contentious couple is that Socrates was an ugly, arrogant runt who had it coming to him. As one etymologist put it, he “was so unconventional as to tax the patience of any woman.”
If Socrates’ wife was doing it then everyone is. The only women who can claim they do not nag are single women or women who do not live with their mate. Anyone else claiming this is a bloody liar and you can stab her in her lying eye for me.
And last but not least seek out strong role models. Women who have been around so long that they just do not give a fuck about what men think. I was lucky to have had this exposure early in my life. Ages ago I was at lunch at my friend Mona’s * house. Her dad, Uncle Kurien*, and I were discussing his views on religion. He is an atheist but I knew that Mona’s mother, Aunty Sara*, was a devout Syrian Christian so I asked him if he ever went to church. With a great deal of conviction he said, I will never set foot in a church. Ever.
Aunty Sara, who had been flapping around getting lunch on the table, heard this.
Well then Kurien you better hope I die before you do because otherwise you are going in to a church. Like it or not.
I assumed she was joking. After all isn’t marriage about respecting each other’s differences? Isn’t it about making room for another person’s belief system? Isn’t it about letting your loved one be who they are? But she wasn’t kidding. If Aunty Sara outlives Uncle Kurien she is going to give him the holiest send-off she can possibly envision. Anything to save his soul. And yes – anything to have the last word.
You Know what I say to Aunty Sara? YOU GO GIRL!
*Names changed to protect the privacy of my friends and their families.
