Guilty? ME?

It’s 8.10 am and my head is buzzing with last night’s Blue Label. I don’t get hangovers but after untimely meals and two serious liver infections my alter ego (who’s my quasi mother, part sister and my imaginary gay best friend, Joe) – says I should know better.



In an attempt to tune her out I turn to System of a Down’s Chopsuey when I tell myself that working for 12 hours, I don’t need an explanation to nobody, not even me.



I mutter something about how Rihanna’s S&M is also about how’ being bad is so good’ when the other side of me blares like the horn on a Ashok Leyland tempo cornering a Nano ‘Oh now you’re following rock stars at 25? ‘Coz you didn’t do so when you were 16?’



An hour later, I stand there in my towel; I browse through my cupboard promising to re-arrange it the coming weekend. If the cupboard could snort to retort, it would.



There stands an outfit I remember taking 20 minutes for, in the changing room of a namelessly pricey showroom .I remembered checking me adorning the dress in question from so many angles that only a photographer indulges in when paid a filthy amount. If that wasn’t enough, I needed my friends to say “Work it girl”, when I asked “Are you sure?” but also my Joe to snap his fingers and say “Girlfriend, if you got it, you got to show it”.



Straight out of Scrubs, its Joe’s sequence to tell me stuff I know only my mom agrees with. “Girls would kill to have a body like that- and you don’t even work out- but please join a yoga class, this is about your health.” Oh jeez, I say to myself when I take a deep breath, look at the clock, swear and bravely grab the hangar like it’s the shield of Achilles.



So there it is- I have always been thin, without personal trainers or green tea- I knew about suryanamaskars when Kareena Kapoor was eating potato balls and didn’t know how to use a computer. And as I step into my car and Eminem’s raps Recovery I talk without saying a word.



I never used it to lose weight, look radiant or to have an ass trainers’ rant about-maybe some ex-boyfriends but I’d never go back to ask. As per my worldly knowledge, it’s not just the opposite sex (who doesn’t need an excuse to get their early morning wood up and burning whenever they see a girl) but overworked, undersexed and never paid women with a potential of killing a real basilisk with a fleeting look.



“Screw them” Joe duly says. “Did you get your bitch on or not?” Course I did.



Progressing towards destination bitchland I decide to wear my shady sunglasses combined with a look I have been trained in, thanks to work.



Strut, strut, defence mode: on Auto mode and I arrive at my work station. 3 hours pass- new deadlines, to-do lists and neon green post it’s dominate my mind while other half of me and defence mode are on snooze.



It’s 1 pm and Ms. Fake-it-all decides to order cheesy and meaty from The Big Chill Café. While the crease on my forehead hinted at “nobody asked me” I have never been eager to eat at work, on time. Mom would be so happy.



As I am a quarter past my meal, the not-so- secret society of fuglies have graced the table with their presence and enquire the reason behind this tête-à-tête- something they must have done 30 minutes ago.



“It looks like they have emptied half a pint of olive oil in our order” Oh now it comes, I think to myself “but it wouldn’t really bother you, would it?”



“Give it back to her now” is a chorus in my head from the cast of Glee.

“No, it wouldn’t but then not all of us are lucky are they? Why don’t you try the caesarean salad?”



Even though I receive a standing ovation in my head, I decide to stay away from the only thing that makes me moan like a man- a slice of New York decadent cake.