The title is inspired by this book by Kundera. Do read in case you get an opportunity - its a fascinating read. The kinds that I would love to write some day. May be book 5 or 6. Dont know which one. Anyhow, coming back to the task at hand, it is NOT easy being me. There are multiple dimensions to it. But let me talk about one in particular - The way I dress up.
There are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who love the way I dress. And the ones who hate the way I dress. The former is an exclusive club where I think the sum total of all members is about 1. The later, well, it unites everyone like no other religion has ever united men and women - they come together in their hatred for how I dress.
But of course I dont understand the malice. I mean, what's wrong in wearing a pair of red shorts and bright green tee? I dont know why a pair of shoes is such an important part of your attire that you cant enter an "exclusive" club without it. I still refuse to believe that I cant spend my entire life in a pair of shorts and a white cotton tee-shirt. I mean whats wrong about it? And what is this entire thing about judging people on the basis of clothes you wear? The other day the guard at my building told me that if he dint know me by face, he wont let me enter the housing complex. I mean, really? Am I my clothes? The way I dress up?
The other piece about my dressing up is that I do not spend a lot of money on clothes - I dont feel the need. I have exactly one pair of denims, 6-7 shirts and 6-7 tees. I wear the same pair of denims to work, to parties, to meetings, to market and to all such places where you expect a man to "dress us." I do not have jackets. I do have a formal pair of trousers, reserved for super special occasions like weddings of close friends etc. Last I wore it was a year back when Gandhi got married. And next time I am going to wear it is when another super close friend / relative gets married - even if its in 2020.
So, this past weak, the only pair of denims I have, it got torn. And since I cant wear a tattered pair of clothing to work (why not?), I had to buy one. And this is where the other part of difficulty of being me came up. I can NOT shop. I am ok dying, ok with public speaking, ok with a bungee jump, I am not frightened by the prospect of asking a girl out, but I cant shop. I cant goto store, try multiple options and then choose one and come back. Its a chore. Its an unnecessary evil.
The other hard part is that I cant outsource it to someone as because my body type is unique. I have short legs, big thighs and a heavy paunch. The fit thus is like piecing together a jigsaw. And there are like handful options, that many brands, that much patience. Yesterday, I did venture out to a mall and I did try 4-5 pairs. But none fit in and I could not buy. And I feel sad about it. I feel dejected. I feel so stupid that I want to take the pledge to lose weight and fit into every available skinny fit pair of denims. Or still better, ask someone to pick a pair of denims per my waist size. Yeah! That's gonna be better. Aim for a waist size and fit into every available pair of denim for that size.
Game on, Mr. Garg.
P.S.: The other difficulties of being me, lemme talk about them as and when I get time.
P.P.S.: Good to be back to writing! This is the second day on the trot and I must continue the momentum.
So, I am writing this for the sake of writing. I want to see my fingers do that dance on the keywords. I want the words to appear magically, as if the keyboard has grown a mind of its own. I want to listen to the music made by the incessant tapping of the keyboard. Its dope. Its fast, its mesmerizing, its addictive. It gives me a rush. It puts me in the flow. Its the best damn sound ever. Almost as good as sgMS singing. Its been so long I've indulged in my favorite guilty pleaseure - the one of writing. I havent written in so many days that its a fucking crime to call myself an author.
I had plans to write more I HAVE plans to write more. I plan to retire an old man with an opinion on everything around me. And more importantly, an audience for all the opinion I peddle. Of course, today, I am a million miles away from it.
Author - lol. The first book came out in 2014 and forget the strangers, even I have forgotten that I got one of my stories out. The other day I was at a book store and I told myself that it would be so cool to see my name in print. I had forgotten that I have been there and done that. And no, I am not a one-hit wonder -- the one that I wrote isn't a hit at all.
As usual I have regular suspects to blame for it - work, health, travel. But when you are old and your spine is all but broken, the zest for life is all but gone, the infinite energy of your fading youth is no longer burning, who, what will you blame? Will it even matter? Remember why you started in the first place!
And talking of blame, I take the blame for missing deadline on multiple things that I am supposed to do. For myself. Things like Book 2, multiple attempts at writing 1000 words a day, the #lifeGoal of conquering the Everest, learning the guitar, winning the main event at the WSOP. Other less selfish things that keeping my folks happy, finding purpose, helping others, Kwan. Wait. I shall not go down the pit of self-pity. There is more to life than that. I can choose to talk about things that I am happy about. Not a lot but there are a few. Or may be I will use this post to do what I do best when I write - think out loud.
So, this urge to pour out, to talk to a stranger is a funny thing. I have friends that I know will lay down their lives for me. I know I can count on them. But I dont know if I can talk to them and explain the mess in my head (and PS, what a beautiful mess the damn head is). I need to find the cause of it. May be its the constant nagging at the back of my head about my inability to make meaning (and thus money). Or is it the release of super bundle of energy that I am?
Thing is, I do multiple things to earn my bread but I am not sure if its the best use of my time. There are days where I have a lot of work and I cant even die. And then there are extended periods of lull where I could disappear and no one would know where I went. So may be I need to pick something that keeps me busy. And busy means busy. So busy that when I go home, all I do is sleep. I dont want time for finding love, for conquering my fears. I want to be busy. I want to drown. That's when I believe I would do justice to the gift that I have. Makes sense?