One of
the things that has caused me stress in recent years is the loss of short-term
memory power. Sigh.
Trouble
is, another thing that gets deactivated in menosoup is one's ability to see
accurately what the mirror is showing.
Particularly when afflicted by menocle.
In the first 'chapter' of this birthday event I mentioned the inability
to even remember it WAS a birthday. That
too, my own. Then there was the debacle
on the telephone.
{STOP! You missed it?! Go Back! March 1st post.}
Once I
had sorted out to whom I had been talking and followed the instructions given,
I was in fact ready by 6:30pm. Nothing
short of a miracle really, as at that time tying on a sari could take anything
up to 15 minutes. Waiting on the kerb
outside the cottage I got lost in thinking what a beaut-full moon it was
tonight and how gorgeous that spider web looked, all silvery reflection and
dewy. Spiderton had expanded since the
previous day and it was fascinating to observe.
No doubt you'll be reading about that again. Repetition is a symptom of menosoup. But then again so is forgetfulness.
No, let's
call it absent-mindedness. This gives
the illusion of genius.
Car draws
up, light goes on and there is Emm all poshed up to the heels and
ear-dangles. This being an April's
evening in Sydney, it was a tad chill-eh so your's truly had pulled the pallu
(sari train) round her shoulders to protect against the falling moisture. Effective covering this. Hides a multitude of sins.
We arrive
at our destination in the cultural centre of a back-city suburb where the place
is heaving with the entire sub-continental population of the greater
metropolitan area. Good news for the
promoters of visiting artist. Potential
cauldron for me. You see, I adore
Emm. She is my fellow conspirator, Bollywood sound piece and all-round good
egg. Then again, she can be a tad
critical at times. I am definitely the
dowdy one, never been a fashion plate. I
am half her height. Oh, fine, that was
over-stating it. I am two thirds her
height. But I get noticed by virtue of
being in proximity. I like that. She's beautiful and some of that beauty gets
shared with me. That I lack elegance,
however, is a given. Still she does what
she can with me.
"Drop
your pallu YAM, it's hot in here. It
will look better when trailing, that's a gorgeous sari."
Now
thankfully, at that point of standing in the foyer I could honestly respond,
"Not yet, I am still cold and I forgot my shawl." Following which,
having been rushed earlier and not then taking the left turn into the toilet, I
now required to avail myself of the facilities at the hall. There was a bit of a queue and in that small
space it did become rather warm. This
being modern ladies arrangements, the establishment had a full-length mirror on
the wall beside the entrance which was being used liberally by all the
incredibly pretty women attending the function.
I couldn't get near it at that stage and didn't have the specs on, so
decided to wait until after I had visited the stall to check my pleats and fall
et cetera. Besides , have never been
that fond of being around silly young things all sniggering together.
In the
cubicle, it being necessary to make all sorts of wriggling to manage the sari
and protect if from the unfortunate looking floor, the pallu got re-draped. _ _
_. I recall, in an earlier post,
mentioning things about the ground yawing and the heart getting squeezed .
Oh yeah,
the quick witted among you will be getting the gist by now. Another thing overlooked in the half hour
dash at home was the wearing of the choli (blouse).
It's.
Not. My. Fault. Menopolysocksication is
to blame.
If I had
even put on my best new slinky black brassiere it would not have been soooo
dreadful. After all inner wear is quite
the fashion for outer wear nowadays. But
no. This was the decade-old overwashed,
overstretched, under-supportive, once-was-white all grey variety used for
slopping around at home. [Note to self - remember mother's advice on fresh
underwear.]
The
air-conditioning in the hall demanded that this little chill-eh bean keep her
pallu over shoulder the whole evening.
Genius, what?
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