Rambling, again

Is it too weird the movie, "Cocktail", upset me so much that I put a ban on all its songs in my car - effective immediately? Listening to "Angrezi Beat" made me feel as guilty as Diana Penty's character in the movie would have felt if she'd, God Forbid, had pre-marital sex with the douchy Saif character. I fought with my colleagues over this, reminding them of their Journalistic Responsibility - I mean, seriously, if there were to ever be a version of the "Hippocratic Oath" for entertainment journalists, feminism and defending fat people would be vital elements.

Even my MOTHER, had a WTF expression on her face when Saif went on and on about how he wanted a woman who would cook rotis for him.

More on that later.

Let's get skinny
I reconnected with an old, old friend after a long, long time - over Long Island Iced Teas, in a bar I fondly call my "Vodka Dungeon". She reminded me of a life where the only thing I aspired towards was becoming a rom-com heroine - quirky and beautiful in high heels and pencil skirts. Am I glad that phase is over? Is it bad that I was a little wistful when it came up?

We talked about that girl. You know, the girl who was "perfect" in that world and now she's somebody I only think about when listening to Bob Dylan's Like A Rolling Stone.

We said, 'Let's get skinny', like we always do. And then ordered a plate of french fries, like we always do.

We spoke about growing up, growing apart, growing into each other. It didn't even come up, yet she made me feel okay about coming home. I've felt like a failure for far too long. I failed at adapting to Bombay's rain-drenched cobbled streets, to its people (an odd mixture of smug and friendly that I just couldn't stomach), the workplace which had too many free cups of coffee but barely anyone to talk to), to my apartment (where I could bear the mice, but not the depression) - if everybody made it, survived it and grew to love it, why couldn't I?

Coming home was even harder. Everybody had moved on, and oddly so had I. I spent days of self-loathing. Minus the school friends, college friends, colony friends, Bombay friends, Chennai friends - I had nobody to hang out with but me (and my mom). And I hated me, the familiarity - now that me and I were forced to interact in that pink-and-purple room alone - bred even more contempt. I could barely tolerate myself as a teen but at 24 - I hated everything about me. Not just my ass and my muffin top, my whole personality. Coward, Selfish, Unloveable, Talentless - I berated myself.

A lot of things happened. If I were to chronicalise briefly it would go somewhat like this - work laurels, work friends, new TV shows to watch, re:falling in love, zombie obsession. I am fine now. The pink and purple room is bearable, and so am I.

But still I keep finding lost parts of me. That's what I did sitting in the Vodka Dungeon that night.

The drunk me is less apologetic and more sharing when it comes to french fries. The drunk me giggles more, regrets less. The drunk me looks less at the watch, hardly worries about getting home, sleeping on time. The drunk me loves more, buries the hatchets in glasses of LITs.

I could grow to love me, after all.