Thursday, October 2, 2008

The Equation of XYZ

There is this girl, let’s call her X. And there is this boy, let’s call him the sonofabitchwhostoodherup, conveniently shortened to Y for the purpose of this post. And then there’s this friend of X, let’s call her Z. The story goes like this: X is supposed to meet Z for a movie and a chat and some good ol bitchy girl talk – something X hasn’t had for a really long time. And then Y calls up X the night before and asks her to meet him for lunch, and because Y’s fantastically busy all the time and it’s an extremely rare and unusual occasion when he does decide to grace her with his presence, X says yes, only to be stood up by Y who fell asleep cuz he’s too fuck-faced to give a shit.

As a consolation price, Y matter-of-factly tells X to not sweat the small stuff and why don’t they just meet in the evening instead because of course Y gets up just in time for his impossibly important event so whenever that’s done – oh around five-ish but it may get stretched to say, 2011? – they can meet. What happens at that meeting is another story involving a psycho X, two-psycho sidekicks, a chainsaw and a castration device that looks alarmingly like my grandmother’s nutcracker.

Which brings me to the point of this post... why do women all around the world insist on selling themselves short? And also, where can I find a suitably rusty nutcracker?

I am at that stage where all my single and working female friends are not so single any more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for free kalyaanam sapad, but I really wonder if there is some secret 1984esque brainwashing club that they’re all required to subscribe to. Or maybe it’s some sort of married-womens-manifesto that gets handed down to every new member of the ol ball-and-chains club. Is all that new-bride-glow really because of good sex, or is it some form of mind-altering substance that mother-in-laws all over the world are mixing into their bahu’s milk? Whatever it is, what I’d like to know is, when one becomes two, why does the protocol for social interaction between the sexes change?

Specifically, what the fuck is wrong with X?!

Strangely enough, this perplexing phenomenon is not confined to the married masses. X’s all over the world that’ve found a Y to share an ‘it’s complicated’ with on facebook are exhibiting this trend. On behalf of Z’s all over the world who are right now sitting with a tub of unbuttered popcorn and a look of confused disappointment while enduring the horrible cacophonic catastrophe known as Mamma Mia: the 90-minute musical that will make you want to rip your arm off and poke yourself in the eye with, I’ve got a message for all the X’s out there: Child, if he says you’re a priority but continues to stand you up for his work, his male-bonding-time, his haircut appointment, his third cousin’s wife’s brother who is getting a facial and needs him there in his hour of knead... wake up and smell the degree kapi. He’s promising you the mooncake and giving you crumbs. You shouldn’t be spending evenings dressed up and waiting by the phone when you can be giving your one-armed popcorn-popping friend company and a much needed helping hand. Meryl Streep or no Meryl Streep, Mamma Mia is after all the sort of calamity best encountered with a pair of eyeshades, heavy-duty ear plugs and preferably a frontal lobotomy.

Which brings me to the topic of Ys.


Maybe it’s just my slow Mamma Mia- addled brain, but I mean really, why? If someone is a priority in your life, stop telling her that mothafucka and put your money where your mouth is. Somewhere between the 1467th and 2769th time that you’ve promised to meet her and then cancelled cuz agent 006 and agent 008 were both busy tripping to Abba songs and therefore it was up to you to save the world from a 90f-oot Godzilla, who incidentally turned out to be just a menopausal marsupial experiencing a hot-flash, there is someone out there waiting for your call and marking the dates in her phone and keeping herself free and giving up geriatric Abba warblers and looking forward to spending a popcorn-free afternoon with you, minus 90-foot city-crushing lizards.

If you’ve made a commitment, honour it. If she means a lot to you, show her. If you love her, then love her. Really. We all love our house of cards, but when your carefully constructed illusions collapse somewhere between the Queen and the Joker, even the most staunch X can turn into an ex. Verbal assurances can only go so far. And when empty words stop becoming isolated incidents and turn into an inkling of a more disturbing pattern, even a dorky Scandinavian band in bodysuits can’t put humpty dumpty together again.

And X darling... don’t go wasting your emotion. Lay all your love on you.