Kitten Hopes

“Flashing eyes, no, feline eyes, no better still panther eyes”, I flashed a smile to the mirror to match up with my own description of my eyes which I hoped was at least feline if not panther. But the reflection in the mirror, let’s face it, was more like a raccoon, with the white pan caked face appearing whiter with the heavily mascaraed and kohled eyes .Grimacing at myself to see if I could at least pass for an exotic looking geisha. 

“No can do”. Instead, I stepped out of the bathroom, checking once more for hidden lines and wrinkles.”Maybe I ought to try that new product guaranteed to diminish wrinkles. Papa, do you think I have wrinkles?” “Yes, you are looking like an old hag with every passing day. Now hurry up or we’ll be late” Papa was of course lounged on the bed in front of the TV fully dressed and munching on a salami sandwich.”We are going for a party and you are eating right before that?” “Yeah, so what?” Hubby dear belches, farts and digging into his deep nasal tunnel for booger treasure.

I want to scream yet again at him. Not for the comment on my wrinkles or the belching and farting of course. I am not so low. But the incessant search for dried mucus droppings into the nose really gets my goat. What is it with men and the nose excavations? I mean it can’t be for health or hygiene reasons. If that were the case then all men would be taking baths everyday and not doing the “3 seconds under the shower and I’m out” thing. They would be not be killing all the mosquitoes, flies, germs, bacteria in every room by fumigating it with the most gagging toots from the bum. So why this obsessive cleaning of the nasal cavity? Anyways, I didn’t dare shout of course, lest my mask of foundation, blusher, concealer, eye shadow, highlighter and other 20 make up items shatters into pieces.

Of course all my plans to go fully made up were laid waste by the higher powers to be – or rather higher power. He decided to go poop at precisely the moment we are about to set out. The entire rigmarole of taking off a 3 year old's pants, switching on the fan,”blue light” (not comfortable pooping without that), waiting for him to finish (which took another 15 minutes as he decided to take breaks in between to wash his hands) and then cleaning him and then washing the bathroom, wiped away in 20 minutes flat, my toil of 2 hours.

No longer feline eyes or geisha or even vibrant, my car mirror told me I looked haggard and old. The makeup revealed rather than hide the tiredness that I felt in every pore of my body. Why am I not able to look gorgeous like the other women of my age, in my office or acquaintance? Most of them were reed thin, taller and had more powers than even Superwoman. They could bake cakes on weekends – from scratch, decorate with icing in 3 different colors, and treat the kids to meals from 3 different cuisines - on weekdays, help the kids do homework - every day, drive them to school, and attend all the parent teacher meetings. All this while working full time, travelling out of town as when required and power dressing in killer heels and knee length skirts with razor sharp pleats. And of course to round all that up, for peace of mind, adjusting in power yoga sessions in the wee hours of morning.

I couldn’t drag myself up off the bed sooner than 7 a.m. to save my life, shouted down the entire army of 3 part time servants, hubby dear and kid much in the fashion of Hitler. After all had been dispatched to their respective destinations at 9 a.m. I would rush for my precious 2 seconds under the shower and ready in 5 minutes routine. No wonder the only thing rounded about my life was my body, all around, like a football.

“Well this will all stop”.I resolved while the car jolted over yet another crater like Mumbai pot hole .”Today, I will not fall into the misery cesspool that I usually do at the one of the Supermoms party. I will not be jealous of their 26 inch spray on jeans and halter necks.” Better said than done. The moment I entered and air kissed perhaps 10 Gucci, 5 Escada perfumes; I was berated by each of them for looking “bigger than last time”.”You couldn’t be wearing designer _________’s creation of course he doesn’t do beyond size 6 and you must be around...er... 20 my dear?” “I have PCOD and insulin resistance and type 2 diabetes. I am not able to lose weight even if I try. So, I don’t try” If I gnashed my teeth further I would grind all my teeth to fine powder and that would mean a huge dentist’s bill. That abruptly rearranged my face. So suddenly in fact that I choked on my own spittle and started coughing like an asthmatic.

 Eyes streaming, nose running, clutching my throat with one hand and my fake Fendi bag (bought off Colaba causeway) and the kid who wanted to dig into the B’day cake already, my hostess decided to deliver the coup de grace. She undulated towards me with the videographer and photographer in tow.”Darling, you made it! Click a photo please”. The two guys looked at each other with dread in their eyes .I knew what they must be looking at. The clown from the “Batman - Dark knight” movie – female incarnation. With mascara streaking, mucus making rivulets down the nose, not a pretty picture.

On the way back, I pondered on what to do. Couldn’t change a thing about my life. My profession perhaps? But if not IT than what? I used to be good at teaching but had hated that. I loved writing and fancied myself a great author but an editor had already dashed those hopes.” It’s like an insipid and watery kheer with raisins and cashews just strewn in.”Maybe I was too hasty and shouldn’t have approached a “good recipes” magazine to publish my story on romantic mushy love. I was good at shouting, but only at family. No job needed that. I hated staying at home and my cakes only came from supermarket pre-mixes. I would go mad sitting at home trying out recipes which everybody refused to eat for fear of food poisoning. I would shout at the kid so much he would refuse to study. So stay-at-home was out.

What I needed was a fresh perspective, a day at a 5 star spa, free of cost, free of kid and husband, free of planning what to cook for mother-in-law, hubby dear and kid – for breakfast and lunch which they would all definitely eat, luxurious food miraculously fat-free and guaranteed not to increase body weight by even 100 gms. I needed a God, female God, sitting up above in the clouds and looking down below who would send an angel from His, sorry; Her Department-for-harassed- working- Moms-who just can’t be Supermoms and set it all right. The husbands would emerge from their workaholism /ennui whatever keeps them glued to either work or TV. The Mothers-in-law would suddenly become Moms. The kids would transmogrify in a bizarre way from shouting screaming banshees to personifications of sainthood, who would eat veggies and not demand French fries for breakfast.

High hopes, no make that sky-high, completely unachievable wishful thinking. But still, somehow this little kittenish hope in the corner of my heart yawns and uncurls, someday, maybe, there will be a Happily ever after for me too.

Just you wait...