Its a Woman's World...If you Insist

My heels click ominously and I can feel the eyes boring down into my back..err backside. The corridor is decrepit and dingy, a red Zero watt bulb glowing at one end. I walk toward it wishing I hadn’t worn the snug pants today ( they did seem like a good investment). I enter the door, smile at the occupier of the office and probably one of the power centres of this country and gratefully sink into a sofa as he asks us to wait.
Its just another day at work and I dressed wrong for a visit to a government office. Reaching 37 is no solace, you should wear hanging clothes ( preferably gunny bags) when you visit the corridors. All those years of sitting on their backsides have equipped the endless peons with X ray vision. And the corridors are long…Anyway, the meeting starts and I enthusiastically propel forward and suddenly the man across the table winks! And I must give me credit, I continue without batting an eyelid but give him direct eye contact for another 30 seconds. And only women can empathise with this, your instinct tells you to get up and slap the jerk but you somehow miraculously finish making your point without losing your composure. So I then turn to the subordinate. He is a quintessential government servant, middle aged, paunchy and smug with bad English but continues to ramble on. And of course, he lives up to reputation. So he will not make eye contact..rather my chest seems to be the focal point. It’s a nice sensible cotton shirt and the saleswoman promised me that the buttonholes were slip proof so I steamroll. But you know, wishing that I could just quickly glance downward to see if ‘All is well’. I continue bravely despite a wink and a heave and the only relief is that it doesn’t rattle me anymore. (I later realized that the ‘gentleman’ in question was not staring at any ‘assets’ but just uncomfortable making eye contact with a woman!). We finish the meeting and I need a loo, I have a long drive ahead. It takes me 15 minutes to find one. It reminds me of my Granddad’s loo 30 years ago and I swear it had a chain!
I have never felt disadvantaged being a woman at work. First job had its sarkari overtones but I would charmingly smile my way with all the officers and even ensure that production orders were included after deadlines. I didn’t hesitate ever to use a smile..after all I could hardly back slap with the boss. And I refused to join them for a drink. I was teased about the inherent advantage but I would accept it as a strength. But I didn’t ever cross the line.
Fortunately 2 back to back pregnancies ensured that I was treated respectably and so it goes. It also helps to be a natural team player and ability to develop instant comfort with strangers. But last 3- 4 years have been an eye opener and the glass ceiling looms threateningly. The wrong heels, the tattoo showing and a genuine smile may suddenly interfere with you being perceived as competent. Suddenly, it seems sensible(and safer) to ask another woman where the toilet is and emotions at work are dangerous. You see when men can raise their voices they are only asserting themselves but women shouting or asserting is ‘Oh must be that time of the month again’.
It’s a constant dilemma and juggling of work and home life that we manage. And coupled with the fact that we live in an era of ‘lets make everything perfect’. I know that this is a hackneyed theme and feminist, been written about a countless number of times but the reality of it hits you only when you are in it. At the end of each day, I feel bone tired and wonder at the amount of pending items that I have closed but it still doesn’t seem enough. When will it be enough? Will the ‘Oh she is a woman’ tag always be a liability in the conference room? Or is it something that I must always work with and need to go the extra mile.
Parents brought us 2 sisters up never making us feel we were disadvantaged though Mom being Mom, would always sternly tell us to ‘sit properly’. As Mimi plays in the park without a care and I ask Mom to regularly courier bloomers ( they’re available only in small cities nowadays) so that she can be a free bird, it ‘s a daily dilemma I go through. What is the reality? Can she and I ever free ourselves of our gender and march onwards. Or is it a fine line? Or is it a myth?

And Running it shall be

I consider myself a graceful woman. I may have a big err.. derriere but it has its advantages. I’m reasonably tall by Indian standards and mostly other women envy me for my height. And I can throw my head back and laugh, with ease …generally I’m cool. I’m not being arrogant. I can recall the countless times I have faded into oblivion at a party wishing that the earth would swallow me. Why did the Mom have to choose such ugly spectacle frames, doesn’t God realize how oily skin and big backsides can permanently mar a budding teenager’s confidence ( you gotta realize 20 years later that lack of confidence is a given!). You wish your Mom knew how to buy smart clothes for you, you wish your Dad had more money so that you could buy those ‘ Lose 5 kgs in 5 days’ pills ( so what if you passed out a couple of times), you wish that girls didn’t buzz to you coz you had good looking boy cousins and therefore demonstrated how exceptions make the rule..blah blah blah. But now I’m cool with who, what I am. Really..Ok my thighs can do with some urgent surgery which wont need to be too fine coz there is a lot of fat that can be hacked away by even a butcher, some bigger assets and some smaller ones will make the perfect picture. I wish I had a hubby who earned so much that I could get a liposuction without guilt. And some lazer and some princess cut solitaires. Ok ..I digress, lets get back to the point.
Obviously weight has been a ‘decising’ factor in my life.But being on an endless diet has somewhat achieved results. No matter what the magazines say, its diet and NOT a lifestyle change. I still could gobble half a dozen Snickers in one go, eat some cheesecake and gobble some buttered toast in a jiffy..no lifestyle change will let you do it. As recommended and as per fashion, I am a generally regular exerciser. Aerobics, gymming etc . But when you reach THIRTY SEVEN years of age , for some goddamn reason you want to challenge yourself. Which basically translated into endless nagging of the Lord to sign up for marathon running classes. So that I could tag along. And he, mind you, is quite content and smug about his growing paunch..how I envy him. But nevertheless, he cooperated.
So we embarked and I took off. At aerobics, I always got the rhythm..the mirror in the hall didn’t scare me. Cardio at the gym was flattering and running on the treadmill is a self controlled activity so its easy to press the ‘down’ button if the panting gets too much. But when you sign up for a running class with other accomplished people ( who in their right mind would ever run 100 km in one go???) you are painfully reminded of all awkward and ‘let dharti mata please eat me up’ moments in one go. Coz its easy to start off ..for precisely 150 m. Then the throat starts parching and the tongue drops out as ungracefully as it can. So you remember the tips on breathing and decide to inhale deeply. And that makes you further lose your breath and you give the patiently running hubby a dirty glare. I’ll figure out later why but its gotta be his fault, right? So he slows down so that you can walk and empathetically tells you to ‘do whatever feels comfortable’. So you stop midway ( grateful that he has goofed up yet again but for once at the right time) and in a ‘only for the hubby tone’ which is controlled and sharper than a butcher’s knife challenge him “ So you think I can’t do it? You Iyengars are so arrogant”. He fumbles and responds “ I just want you to be OK”. Me “ I would be OK if you could encourage and be a positive influence in my life”. He “ baby, Of course you can do it”. Me “Harrmmmffff”. Run off.
150 m later ( a marathon is 42000 m only), me “ Lord, I think my flat foot’s a problem” He, sighing gratefully, “ yes of course..thts it..else you would have finished by now”.
Walk for 50 m , then get embarrassed that I will not fit into my mind’s super woman, so I start running, actually jogging..no err doing the filmi run to your hero in slow motion kind of desperate movement. Arms flay around helplessly, feet drag ( Melvin the instructor has told me that I must land on the balls of my feet when I run). At this point I could tell him a thing or two about balls and how they can be crushed and give pain a new meaning. But nevertheless, my Mama told me that hard work pays off. So I drag feet further and I inhale and hence the lord gets even dirtier looks. He finally slinks away running as fast as his feet can carry him ensuring that I cant catch up. Harrmmmfff. Never mind, I shall not give you the pleasure by divorcing you. He will stay with me and be subjected to everyday torture just like I have to endure in this ridiculous running class.
And as you drag yourself to the finishing line and the others cheer you ( I’m a trainer..I know cheering is only for losers, you …losers) you smile and inhale. Oxygen precludes you and the head is pounding and the knees don’t hold you up and you collapse with your derriere et height. Grace is not happening. Running is not happening. The Lord is praying to Tirupati Balaji fervently.

The author is proud to report that she ran 3.2 km this morning stopping every 20 m. That is an improvement from last week’s ‘Stopping at every 10 m’. My Mama taught me perseverance.