The Seven Ages of Woman.

All the world's a battlefield,
And the women are subtle warriors,
They're armed with Atkins and Chanel,
And they mean business,
Which they transact in seven ways. As an an infant,
Armed only with limpid eyes and gurgling laugh,
Twisting bearded daddies around their little finger.
Then, the pig tailed schoolgirl with satchel,
Polly pocket in hand, an occasional misfit
Wielding a cricket bat. And then, the teenager
With private agonies in the form of a blemish,
Lakme, quick, before Boyfriend sees. Then, the threshold,
Slinking gracefully from school to work, juggling
Men and perfecting, thanks to them, the art of woe.
And then the wife, but this is the twenty first century,
Banner bearing the last name that is her own,
Unlike Madame Bovary [who was a fool]. Menopause.
Declaring war on impending age with needles and corsets,
While bellied husband slips between secretary's sheets.
Retirement. With partner perhaps, or without,
Swaying on humped camels, or sitting by broken blinds,
Wondering whether it really ends as ingloriously as this.
A grandmother now, as dimpled as the
Hope clutched to her sagging breast. And finally, at last,
laying down a lifetime decided by Art, interrupted by
Varicose Veins, tinned eyelashes drift down.
The Unknown Soldier deserved not such a sleep.

I'm not complaining. But.

Picture a desert at noon in the height of summer and then picture a city filled with cows and flies built on that desert. That's what I'm living in. Baths are no help because the sun is so strong the heat seeps through the tank and does a better job than any geyser I've come across.

Also, I'm in the middle of exams and I've forgotten what seven hours of straight sleep feels like. Or even four.

Also, I went to buy water today because the PG water is too salty. A bird flew into me. It flew into me, beak first, feathers not far behind, into my right arm.

I have a right to complain. 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1384592/Muslim-religious-leaders-told-leave-U-S-domestic-flight-pilot-refuses-aboard.html

This makes me so wildly, furiously angry.

How do you get the world to stop putting people in boxes? 

Why you* should snap me up.

*You, in this context, is very specific and only applies to a minuscule number of the human population who may or may not exist. (Most women I've come across lean towards the 'may not'.) 

Because my exams are around the corner, I spent the evening watching the Bridget Jones movies. (An important relaxation technique as everyone knows which will only serve to enhance my performance in the examination room.) Some of my friends have often told me that when it comes to my love life, I am like her. Heaven forbid.

I do not read self help books (fine, I did read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, and I did subscribe to the rubber band theory for quite a few years but that was a minor teenage blip), I do not let my decisions be ruled by the doom and gloom of friends, I do not freak out if a boyfriend goes 24 hours without being in touch (although post that, I do start obsessively checking my phone but whatever), and I am not worried about dying a spinster though not a sexless one as a life without sex does seem quite bleak. In fact, come to think about it, I am wonderful and easy going and I am going to list the reasons on this blog so if ever a good looking, intelligent, sophisticated man (tough luck, Dhruv) reads this...

Well. Ahem. 

1. I am neither clingy nor needy, demanding communication at all hours of the day/night, needing to be told I'm beautiful, perfect, loved, and other sickening things.

2. I am not insecure about other girls, even if they have long hair, breasts the size (and shape) of melons, willowy waists, legs starting from their neck, can speak in five different languages, etc etc. 

3. I would not expect my boyfriend to give me expensive clothes, jewellery, etc etc (yes Diya Ghosh, I am talking to you) 

4. If my boyfriend wanted to have nights out with his male friends (poker games, binge drinking, strip clubs - although I might draw the line at a lap dance), I would not kick up a fuss. In fact, I would encourage him to do that (occasionally) instead of sitting at home painting my toenails for me or some such similar thing (I'm talking to you this time, Min). 

5. I would not expect my boyfriend to remember our anniversary which is a ridiculous concept anyway unless you're married (man, I'm awesome). Although I would be annoyed if my birthday was forgotten but that is understandable. 

6. I do not nag. Much. 

7. After a fight, once I've cooled down, if I'm in the wrong, I apologise with great sincerity. (It's not my fault if I'm hardly ever wrong.) Also, I do not hold grudges, constantly bringing up fights that occurred months ago. 

8. Although I don't watch much sport on television (Wimbledon and Cricket World Cups excluded), I do follow them in the papers and sports analyses do not bore me especially if they take place in sports bars with lots of beer. And I'm awesome at Tekkan. And Warcraft, despite what some of my male friends claim. 

9. I'm a terrible cook, but I make awesome sandwiches. Although if a boyfriend ever told me to "go make (him) a sammich", I would hit him on the head with a frying pan. 

10. I could go on and on about how calm, confident, and poised I am(inner poise in this case since I can't walk across a carpet without tripping), but since I know when to stop, I will stop. Another plus point to me. 

Really, what an introspective post this has been.

PS I should warn interested personnel that my affections are currently engaged by somebody who better appreciate this post should they happen to chance upon it. 

Sex and art. (Fat women take heart.)

From The Visual Arts: A History. [The words are not my own.]

The little figure of a woman, only four and a half inches high, was found at Willendorf in Austria and is one of the earliest works of art being about 25,000 to 30,000 years old. It's carved out of limestone, and seems originally to have been covered with pigments, of which traces remain.

The exaggerated rotundity of the body has a yielding fleshliness, felt ratherthan seen. The hands resting on the breasts, the arms and the lower legs are no more than sketchily indicated and the woman has no face. Tiny curls of hair cover the entire head. There can be little doubt that she was carved as an image of fertility. Other female figures which are dated slightly later (in millennial terms!) similarly emphasise the breasts, belly and buttocks.

From these figures, there can be little doubt, that the shape most admired in women was one that was soft, rotund, and full, for these shapes were considered the most fertile, and therefore the most sexually appealing.

What's the point? I'm going to fail. 

And fail ingloriously.