THE GRAYTER GOOD

There are those random afternoons when you are suddenly hit with deep insightful thoughts and seemingly wise realizations out of nowhere, instead of those usual “is my butt too flat or is it falling” or “did I lose more hair than the tufts reluctantly left in the sink not counting the few I willfully lost while toiling in the kitchen” or that “am I simply bloated or am I just fat” monkey mind self doubting chatter. No, these slivers of sudden wisdom just appear out of nowhere leaving you to ruminate deeply and before you know it you have put all your LV and Chanel purses and shoes along with your children on sale on Offerup, you are offering random cash to the pan handler holding a sign "Begging for Beer", googling communal properties in Himalayas and wiki-piding “Zen Buddhism for Pre-menopausal Mid Life Crisis” and Prime buying “Say NO TO SILICONE” and “LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO DIE ALONE, CALL ME” stickers.

The whole saga of my impending sober enlightenment started with a single text from Gertrude (well Kahlil sorry, about time you let go of her..) 

“I found it sprouting. A single one.”

Immediately my perversely poetic mind synapsed to …Wordsworth! Well right about that time I was revisiting Ginsberg’s HOWL  since I read somewhere in the news how a school had to publicly apologize for introducing high schoolers to sexually charged HOWL…my my…castrate castrate, back to Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper)

“Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass!..

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?..”

Vale profound, Gertrude had found her first gray pube. There was a brief pause in texting space and time followed by carpet bombing. 

G - Happy Friday. When you find them grays down there, you realize life is too short. Too short for mind games. Too short for over-thinking. Too short for putting your manhood into all cookie jars. 
Mic drop!

Sharon chimed in - Good point G. I think sometimes you think WAY TOO MUCH!

Me, thinking bloody hell, that’s exactly what Wordsworth was crooning about…
“Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again…” He was referring to pubes and polygamists! A forward thinker clearly, alluding to online dating apps and the resulting bane of too many options available easily and the curse of the NEXT BEST THING syndrome! OMG, MIC DROP! 

G  - When I saw it sprouting. Beautiful. One lone gray
Me - BEHOLD HER..but how did you exactly find her??
G – Shut up! Guys this whole dating is confusing me totally, one day sleep with someone, next day coffee with another, sleep with another, tea with someone, no can’t do…monogamy that’s the operating word. MONOGRAY.
Me – have you considered total annihilation through taser I mean laser?
G – no I haven’t considered anything but “WTF”. No need for anything rash, it’s not like men are flocking to the plantation.
Sharon – (crickets)
Me – hey on the bright side, you are addressing global warming and like Norway banning deforestation.
Sharon – (crickets)
G – I mean this is how the universe is telling me not to waste time, it’s a pretty strong sign directly from God.
Me - Gorillas…we inherited Phthirus pubis from Gorillas…
Sharon – (crickets)
Me – I prefer to be bald down there. Some realities don’t need to be faced. They just need to be deferred until death. Unfortunately, my balding is un-willful when it comes to my head. G, I would recommend snipping the lone grim reaper. Before you know it, it might become the chia pet face of the last inhabitant of your virgin island?
G – hmm, still with WTF…
Me – how about you stop yoga and grow a belly like them pot-bellied men flaunting their Dad bods at 40?
G – all these men out there, seem to know what they don’t want, oh wait, correction, they want : connection, compatibility but not commitment! That was the past life mistake, now it’s lust, wanderlust, and squanderawaylovelust…bah humbug!
Sharon – Catching up! Okay, you guys know me! I planned for grey pubes PTSD by the time I turned 18. Every day I counted diligently and came up with the golden mean growth algorithm. And when I figured the growth had reached its full potential I went with researching and adopting the best eradication nuking techniques in the market back then. Sorry guys, my kitty is like a purring Sphinx cat..am currently working on Turn your Sphinx Kitty into an Albino pussycat DIY lotion…
G – MEOW!
Me – Great S! We will market that lotion to all single women in their 40’s and 50’s as part of your cult swag! 
G – I don’t know why… *I see gray people*…
Sharon – (crickets)

And thus our intellectual conversation dissipated and then struck the precise moment of temporary enlightenment. Profundity in my shallow existence strikes seldom, folks. What mirage were we all chasing after? Isn’t aging an absolute reality unless death beats you to it?  Isn’t youth a state of mind? Aren’t we all punting to get us the best deal to survive the longest, shriveled up or not? Oh wait, let’s see, the average life expectancy in the developed world is over 80 years! Aren’t we all looking to not die alone with regrets? Isn’t beauty, as relative it is, transitory? And yet it is the first visual connection and visual gratification we seek when scouting for love, intimacy and fulfilling relationships? But aren’t men more inclined and normalized to seek younger women no matter how old they themselves get? If we were all dealt with the same odds of longevity and limited life and the absolute imperative of aging, why isn’t there common ground of respect and embracing? Do relationships matter or should life be a series of encounters? Is living in the moment commonly understood as hedonism and living to self gratify only? Is true fulfillment measured only against time, and if we took away time from the equation, what are we left with? It seems like we are in this circular loop of seeking and rejecting for survival, since social conditioning has such a strong choke-hold on our abilities to break free from our own fears and cliques.

TO AGE OR NOT TO AGE

As part of the New Years’ resolution I did not take, I figured it was about time to writeup a Bindi Post. If extreme boredom is not the instigating factor, if grueling loneliness is not the catapulting factor, if the rapidly reducing single malt bottle is not the compelling factor, well, then it must be NDE (near death experiences)..

I am reminded of Roethke as I inch slowly towards mid-life..alone and brave…

What's madness but nobility of soul 
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire! 
I know the purity of pure despair, 
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall. 
That place among the rocks--is it a cave, 
Or a winding path? The edge is what I have.

The edge is exactly what I have. As I slowly turn into the crazy lady in the elevator who distracts you from your 'stare at the phone' meditation or the whimsical woman who went to North Pole to eat Thai food (also known as 'watch Asians have sex under the aurora')…the point I am trying to make is profoundly about embracing the physical signs of becoming defunct eventually.

My friend Barbie once lashed out at the world declaring out loud that she had had it with anti-aging creams. Why ‘anti’-aging? Where are the ‘pro’-aging lotions? Where is the 5K walk FOR slowly shriveling? Where is the Greenpeace anarchy against those myriad age-defying BB/CC serums, why do I not see those renegades hanging outside of Wholefoods handing out “Support Crows-feet” flyers …. as Floyd appropriately sang “we don’t need no education, we don’t need no sag control…”

Personally, I have had it with the soul sucking, confidence shattering stylists, aestheticians and plastic surgeons. I damn them as bottom-feeders just as many predatory lucrative professions out there (you know who you are, feasting on human insecurity and fears..bah). But who is asking me for my opinions? We already hit rock bottom with Trump…

So just the other day Annica and I are having this passionate discussion on “age-groups slotting”, over text. (Texting is an imperative means of debates these days, phone calls are passe, fyi, especially during work hours). Sharon, the engineer waxes philosophical (hmm.. odd) saying finding love and that perfect partner is not about the age …it’s about connection. Annica chips in …timing too. Yaya, connection, timing, laws of attraction, age is a construct..cross my heart-hope to die! But reality is reality, you go shopping and there are more pinks than blues. You go dating, well there is always the hunger for the younger.

So where does mid-life begin or end? If age groups in dating hierarchy is divided into 20 – 30 years, and then the whopping 40 plus (to infinity?)…I think that’s just BS…because you have just smooshed together the most definitive and confident years of life and forcefully grandfathered it waiting for death to arrive with a sickle….as Milton expresses succinctly “How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth..” Well, not happening.

I am still trying to wrap my head around the exciting stranger I sat next to in my almost-midlife-crisis getaway flight, who had to, absolutely know how old I was and furthermore, his vehement disbelief that I was a mom. And don't even get me started on the damnation of moms, I remember when I went with great enthusiasm to audition for an unpaid modeling gig and the cold co-ordinator's spine-chilling response "I was told you are a mom, we don't take moms, your age doesnt make the cut-off since the other models are in their 20's". I had to seek Victoria's Secret lingerie shopping therapy after that encounter. How did she know my age because I could give 20 year olds a run for their money? And what does it matter if I am a mom? Who are these fashionistas who revel in their own bubbles demeaning other women? What’s this virus that ails the minds of men and women alike? Isn’t it okay to embrace the law of diminishing returns of the body while our minds are constantly shedding skin and rejuvenating? And if our souls are timeless, what exotic European concoctions can we possibly apply to buff those rusted, conditioned thoughts? Do we really need to ask the shallow question "how old are you?" Or, "really you are a mom.."...sigh.

I say, we need more '50 shades of graying' books in the beauty aisle! I also say we need more post-botox collectible celebrity Barbie dolls of Joan Rivers or Michaela Romanini or Donatello Versace to be reminded of the existential joke when ones tries to hold on to constancy and the universe laughs a thunderous laugh in response. I say, the future lies in the silvering pussy riots for every bush has silver lining..go figure.

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning.

Maya Angelou

The Politics of #Speed #Dating, a woman's perspective

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain…”

The famous beginning lines of Eliot’s “The Waste Land”, but I would like to para-phrase that a tad bit, replace “April” with “February”, specifically for those of you spontaneously taking out your calendars to red-flag cruel months in your life’s almanac – FEBRUARY 14^TH…YES, FLAG IT.

Pursuing love in your pre-mid-life is no easy feat. It’s no flippant feat either for this post revolves around my virgin blind-dating experience, perfectly timed around Valentine’s Day (some celebrate Lamentines Day, wonder why).

I was Lucky Number 8. Was this my fortuitous evening, I thought, as I walked smugly into a dingy Comedy Club/Greek Restaurant with a “two entrée” minimum order requirement over and above the flat entrance fee, for what I could deem as my first and last rather expensive, Speed-Dating experience. 
So just the other day I was bathroom reading ‘Evolution Psychology’ – a graphic expression (doodles?) which btw, I highly recommend, and I started wondering how would speed-dating fit into this evolution? Is it because society is too impetuous now or is time running out for man? 

So I had 6 minutes, 6 whole minutes to get to the bottom of this: Are we a couple yet, love at first bite??? It's Valentine's Day for God’s sake! And so there I was, covered in “I don’t want to send any signals of sexual repression” clothing, fleece tights and a giant ring in the middle finger that screamed “she might hit you with that, if you hit on her with that” and my flamboyant open-mindedness coupled that unbridled sense of humor.

Hors D’oeuvres and the Cheese Plate

Don’t ask me why, but the guy I was paired with as my appetizer, was Maz, probably a short for Mabrouk Mujjauddin Mushidabaadi, a bald man from Bangladesh. Was it a mere coincidence that they had sent me Bangladeshi for my first bite, me coming from West Bengal? Poor guy started blabbering even before the timer had started, so I rightfully said “STOP. You can’t talk. Disqualified.”
Intimidation. He had no hair to pull out, I figured. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and settled back. Tick-tock. Ding. 6 minutes and counting.

I could hear some throat clearing and then I heard crickets. Suddenly he changed strategy, compliments started gate crashing..
”I see you have many good qualities”
“Like what”
“Your eyes for example, are very beautiful”
“My eyes are not qualities, they are genetics”
“I mean your English.. has no accent at all?”
“What kind of accent…American?”
“No, no I mean Bangla…you are from Kolkata..”
“Oh, I can put on various accents especially when I am in PMS mode ..wanna hear it..including American?”
Ding.

Next was Danny the Dwarf, no descendant of Thorin Oakenshield. He was figuratively a younger version of (for lack of a better parallel) Pres. Trump, with a trichologist approved permanent comb-over, in fact now that I think about it, he had that same kinda rodent toothed mouth. Every time he said something, I felt a nubile carrot (which I wasn’t dangling), die rapidly. He took copious notes (wth was he writing down, I want to copyright protect that). At one time I mentioned the Vagina Monologues and suddenly he got taller. Or was it his imaginary manhood giving him an extra 3 inches, I can’t tell. After that, the bell rang several times but he refused to move. Sigh. I have that effect. 

The Main Course(s)

Glen, a white dude with plenty of hair and a head bigger than Rihanna’s wouldn’t stop talking about himself. He went on and on about random irrelevant stuff. I tried to break his speed induced roll by telling him that his first name matched an alcoholic beverage's first name. His response. “I don’t BELIEVE you”. Glen-Levitt, Glen-Moray, Glen-Fiddich?? One flew over the Cuckoos nest..alas...he was lost in his own content.

Captain Mike was an erect navy guy, talking 40 looking 80. (I take back 'erect' at that age.) He was the only Giraffe in the room (I would like to clarify, there were no Elephants in the room, especially given my reference to Evolutionary Psychology previously). He spoke elaborately about the cleanliness in Germany. Later on, it turned out, (the chics compared notes), he had given the girls in the room a variable date of his upcoming retirement from the Navy…anywhere from 3 days to 3 weeks to 6 months to 5 years…hmm. Consistency Watson. I prefer locals.

Jimmy staggered on to my chair with his glass of red and sat down with a thud that measured up a 3.5 on the Richter scale. His pupils were so dilated that he could potentially see me as a fat woman singing. He saw my car keys and immediately pulled out his (keys).

“There! I am better than you”
“Er, sure, your bunch proves you are a hot mess..too many complications, nothing unlocks those trap doors eh?”
“So have you watched Captain $$&#” he cut me off, trying to make fun of my Indian name. His words felt like uninvited white entrants in an Indian spelling bee contest.
“No. Some cartoon, child?”
“No a TV series …60’s or something, not that I am that old..”
“Not at all. You seem immature enough. So what do you do?”
“I am a patent attorney. The chic before you thought I was a PET ATTORNEY”
“Ooh nice to meet you Dr Doo-legal!! “
After that, what followed was slurr, slurr and breakfast, I don’t know why he talked about breakfast so much at dinner time. I guess pot makes people hungry or perhaps it's a pet/pot attorney thing, they don't pay the attorney's fees, you have them for breakfast! Capisce?

Soon after, the cute event coordinator walked up to me and asked “How many have you talked to yet, maybe time for an intermission?”
I sputtered out loud but boldly confident… "5, feels like 10”. The girls in the room started cackling. They knew exactly what I was saying.
During the break I tried to influence the cute event guy asking him politely if he could rig the timer to 4 minutes instead of the unending 6, to save humanity. He refused. I pointed at my ring. I even flirted, he wouldn’t budge.
So I got ready to brace the next set of wannabe matches. I was reluctantly hungry for my fill, the finale. 

Desserts

I read Jose’s name as Jesse. Not because I am blind as a bat but because the room was dimly lit to keep people from nitpicking at the other person's physical flaws (or reading abilities). He yanked my chain on how I could miss “Jose”…it's California, we are everywhere!' Then we talked about Benny Hinn, the Jerry Springer of evangelism and Benny Hanna (I guess pot makes people hungry Number 2), followed by Adele which prompted me to tell him that our convo was over before time and he could move to the next table. No one likes Adele on my time. Sorry. Boundaries.

Raul was sorta decent looking with thinning gelled hair (not sure what came before, the gel induced thinning or the thinning induced gel but I can’t solve all of life’s mysteries alone) and a grey suit to hide his lack of biceps or triceps or any sorta ceps. I offered him a welcome arm wrestling match and he declined promptly. Then as soon as he found out my profession his eyes lit up and he started asking me questions and I screamed “SECURITY”. The entire room became silent for a second, but then the event guy pacified the fellow occupiers stating “It’s that mad woman, ignore her”. He was right. I pointed my ring at him again. Meanwhile Raul forced his business card on me, asking me how much I charged. While we didn't delve into the specifics of my charge rate, which is higher after hours, I pocketed his card as my reference for post traumatic writing.

Finally, Chet, a highly educated creature the creator didn’t much spend time to work upon, never been married, no kids, in a checkered jacket, sat in front of me smiling like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

“Semiconductors”. He said, smiling, revealing his sharp unfinished, colored teeth and checking in, promptly..

“You know what that means right?” Oh ya! I do. For example, the event guy right now is semi-conducting his business, because your time is up, my precious.

Concluding Coffee

So between potential serial killers and potential vagina chewers with sharp teeth, one thing was clear. These men were looking to fill their voids and had no clue as to how to broach the issue. Most of them were hard wired engineers and had done the math, time and numbers. Speed Dating provided the most probable outcome in finding love. 6 minutes. But does magic happen in any of those hard constructs?

As for me, I am a writer. I can romanticize and glorify and ridicule anything. But I have decided one thing for sure, my days of kissing toads is over. I am at my 'getting to middle age' best and I will not compromise. And perhaps die alone. 

"ESTRAGON: I can't go on like this. 

VLADIMIR: That's what you think.

ESTRAGON: If we parted? That might be better for us

VLADIMIR: We'll hang ourselves tomorrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.

ESTRAGON: And if he comes?

VLADIMIR: We'll be saved.

Vladimir takes off his hat (Lucky's), peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, knocks on the crown, puts it on again.

ESTRAGON: Well? Shall we go? 

VLADIMIR: Pull on your trousers. 

ESTRAGON: What?  

VLADIMIR: Pull on your trousers.

ESTRAGON: You want me to pull off my trousers?

VLADIMIR: Pull ON your trousers.          

ESTRAGON: (realising his trousers are down). True. 

He pulls up his trousers.

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?

ESTRAGON: Yes, let's go.” They do not move.

Excerpts, last few lines from Beckett’s masterpiece “Waiting for Godot” and that infamous RING 

What's #luv gotto do with it??

'The love song’ by 311 plays in the background. I see musicians one with the notes, the beats, the movements, synchronicity that softly brainwashes and sweeps you off your feet. Those boisterous tattoos over their arms and navels coming alive to conjoin, slowly swaying and jumping across onto others to infect, to touch, fleetingly. We are changed forever, for that one moment, the intoxication which cuts and unites the being…

“let the blue tent topple, stairs rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
In our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart”….

I can’t agree more with Plath on “Love is a parallax”, a madness that defies reasoning and logic. But ‘simple’?? I will have to drink more whiskey or kombucha to decipher simplicity in this context.

To write a post on ‘Mod Love’ is almost akin to divvying it up in a timeline construct. Perhaps the most logical way to do this is to measure abstraction against abstraction. My textbooks on ‘classical love’ are old and weary, ripping apart as I moisten my index finger with my tongue to flip through their ghost-like Erich Segal pages for wisdom. On the other hand, my new testament of love is rad touch screen and gratifies instantly, as I play fruit ninja with hearts. A rapid fast flowing gush of feelings that surges and plunges exuberant like waterfalls, unrestricted, unbridled by geographical latitudes and longitudes.
But the ‘science’ of love defines it much more dispassionately (I wonder if that is the 'simplistic' chemical breakdown which Plath alludes to)…adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin…sum up the four stages of euphoric orgasm. So I won’t bother with the feeling itself (that where did I lose my glasses, syndrome) but rather explore some intangible parameters of its ‘post-modern’ transgressions.

In a world where our interactions are a function of who we meet and date, or date and meet, within a myriad of social media choices, the dynamics of falling in love can be found on a buffet like platter served to you as breakfast in bed without having to spend much mullah. In pjs, with a ciggy or a joint dangling off the corners of our non-Marlboro mouths, unkempt hair and perhaps naked, we interact and meet potential lovers every day (hyperbole). The arms-length reach of the internet is far and beyond sight or sound and powerfully addictive. For once, repression has found an outlet with the screen savvy romantic, not guarded by religion or politics or marital status or gender biases, the world is one large melting cauldron of wants and desires that flowers into love or dies a quick death like desert ephemerals based on a click of the Block button. It’s all hunky dory until we find that virtuosity is also a cruel, wicked game of illusion and entrapment that makes loneliness more real and painful. It’s like being conscious within a nightmare without anesthesia and waking up to a reality of bruises that blacken with each passing minute. Perhaps I should call this love cancer "skinny laptops and fat fingers" ..oh sir, do you suffer from the skinny lappy fat fingers cancer?? Me too!! 

There may be many fishes in this endless expansive virtual seascape, but social dysfunction can drown one, nonetheless. Exactly what or who are we fighting? But the ghosts of our selves. When Tom Cruise grandiosely professed that ‘Every day I fall in love more with Katie Holmes’, she ran. Rightfully so.

I ran too, only this time without my laptop and phone. Catch me if you can...(love)..