Hello beer, it’s me Nandhini

This is not the life I ordered.

By this time I am supposed to have figured stuff out (at least most of it).

I should be lounging in my Manhattan loft, sipping on Cristal and making witty conversation with famous(ish) people.

I should not be bent over a computer, wiping the sweat off my face, waiting for my cup-o-noodles to be ready, all the while churning out mindless drivel for the most parts, chasing 2-bit companies for long overdue payments, so that I can pay some random bill, which would probably provide me with less-than average service.

Oh bleaaaaaaagh!!

Sitting at home, sick, when the TV is not working, and with no good book, to help tide over the malaise is not recommended.

Especially when there are 120 things to be done, plus work to finish.

I just always assumed, probably naively, that life would work itself out. Apparently there is some witticism about the best laid plans of mice and men...

And also apparently there is some cosmic miscommunication, because Universe, this is not what I asked for.

It’s a good thing I am not too convinced of the great presence out there, because then I would be forced to admit that somebody up there doesn’t like me, and there is no need to add to that list.

But let me clarify that I am an optimistic, sunshiny person.

Well maybe not today, but usually.
I don’t usually whinge so much, a tad high-maintenance perhaps, but am one of those complacent people, happy with the illusion that this is as good as it gets...but always hoping for better.

But then you have this damned epiphany one day! You wake up to another day of possibly unfulfilling work, meetings with unremarkable people, a long day of tiring conversations and meaningless obligations and you realise that the dream has passed and you have woken up to a mediocre reality. Even bad would be better, at least there’s drama, but mediocrity is the death of creativity, scratch that...mediocrity is the death of life, ideas, possibly the soul (philosophy class anyone?) because mediocrity is when you settle!

When you get by, when you cut off the dust ruffles to accommodate a yellowing quilt.

So while my train of thought gets disturbed by Vodafone-induced spam, I realise that there is never a point of no return.

Obamaesque shouts of hope aside, yes we can make the change we want.

I could (should) happily quit my job(s) that’s filling me with such vitriol, cut off the people sapping me of my will to live (off with their heads et al), move to Paris (because apparently in this hare-brained scheme money and bureaucracy and apparently reality play no part) or New York with my husband and enjoy the fine weather and finer company in by vintage Dior cocktail dress and wardrobe full of designer duds and runway makeup. I can almost see Parthib’s eyes roll at what he calls my ‘blonde ambitions’. He has loftier aspirations...of a sack of cash, never-ending supply of Old Monk (or the fancier Malibu) and a pet alligator.

Or I could just take a holiday (yesssssssssssss please), regroup, rewire, whatever.

But if life gets good, what ever will I bitch and moan about?

Damn the Cristal...where’s the Carlsberg when you need it?