Tuesday, January 06, 2015

36-24-36 My big fat @$$

I really wish who ever began writing the Bible; Genesis, in particular had a camera. I so want to know how the first man and more importantly, the woman looked. If only the bible had the exact picture of the first woman, it would be clear whether God made her in the 36-24-36 ratio or, was that just the maker of Barbie doll playing a wicked trick. I have hardly met anyone with that exact ratio. It's amazing how girls, more than the boys fantasize 36-24-36.

It all started when I wanted to wear something very casual yet, look better than the usual. A simple knit and a pair of denim. And when I wanted to really dress well and look special. Also, on the night when I wanted to wear my little black dress or, that first Sunday when I wanted to wear a white skirt. Plus the thousand other days that involved a thousand other dresses ranging in styles and fit. Every time I wore something my ex, my present and the future man of my life has been asked, "Do I look fat in this?" But even after centuries of interrogation, he has never come up with a satisfactory answer. I cajole. I plead. He clears his throat and makes a polite noise. I insist but he dare not tell the truth for he fears a mahabharat that would take place.

Thank you for the image Princes of Plump
How many times has your wife asked you if her bum looks big in that dress? And how many times have you guiltily lied, "Fat! Are you kidding me?" Husbands can't help but lie. Bitter experience teaches them that the truth will cost them a week of zero sex. They know for a fact that the wife isn't really asking the question the way it sounds. She just needs someone who will lie to her. And lie till she is satisfied of hearing what she wants to hear. Imagine telling your wife, "Those cellulite filled clapping ass look so happy as they jiggle like jelly with every step you take"! She has a mirror and a measuring tape. Of course, she knows what they look like. What she really wants is the security that you still love her, despite the gigantic bum or, the multi-tiers comfortably resting where her waist once was.

Women have it bad. We love to eat but we rather starve. We huff and puff on the treadmill, join aerobic classes yet the weighing scale shows no decline. And the torture to see your man, sit with a jar full of ice cream right after dinner. While you chew on boiled vegetables, he sits right across you with juicy steaks in his plate and flaunts his six packs. As hu(man) as the wo(man) is, she craves. How long can you deprive yourself? You begin fantasizing about food. Deep fried food. Sugary food. The bakery. The chat wala. Biryani. You agonize - should I? Should I not. No no no you tell yourself patting yourself on the back when suddenly Satan stands grinning on your left shoulder telling you, just one bite. And without your knowledge you sink those teeth of yours into that red velvet cake and oh! heaven. It feels so good. It feels so so so good but, your mind is shouting - Stop. Run. There is still time. You hurry and glob it down because you can't stay deaf to that voice and before you know it, you have wiped the plate clean and asked for two more helpings.

You hide the guilt from your face but soon, it shows else where. You have sinned and now you shall pay for your sins. Your body feels like home to the sugar, the butter and everything you wiped clean including that grease on your finger you licked, that they cling to on to you. And that is when you realize your body is a fruit market. If you are an apple, you need a new bra. If you are a pear, they tend to be saying a humble good bye to your body and there, they notice your butt and decide never to leave.

It's an unfair life where I live with a guy I married because of his sexy body. The friends don't help either. Especially when I find myself hanging around a foodie who enjoys eating everything and looses it all by simply imaging the fat drain out of his body and that skinny girl who is incapable of looking anything but a french bean no matter which manure she is fed on. 

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