Monday morning, 11.30 AM, I am writing my medley for the day instead of living. This is the inertia that comes after a festival weekend. The kid’s off to school and there are documents on my back burner that need fairly urgent attending to. Plus a bunch of personal stuff to take care of, including a visit to the parlour for a much needed pedicure – the drop in temperature, associated with the dry weather, which is unusual for this season, brings with it, heel cracks, and no matter how much care I give it at home, it needs periodic anointment with holy goo by a professional.
The Diwali sweet-gorging compounded by the hormonal see-saw, makes me “feel fat” – the kurtha I bought recently to displace the old, worn out, faded, tearing one, which my family claimed made me look like a beggar, is a little smaller than my usual size, which is not helping the “feel fat” illusion (illusion?). I am seriously thinking of going on a diet. Nothing fancy with names such as Paleo and Atkins, but a bit on the calorie counting side. I don’t take diets too well – I get very crabby when I am hungry, and diets leave me hungry all the time, which, my family swears, is psychosomatic. They also assert that my need to sleep eight hours every day is psychosomatic. Perhaps they are right, but is there a cure for psychosomatic maladies?
When my hormones go out of whack, my dreams get scary. Last night, among other dreams was one of a relative dying, and I, not knowing what else to do, putting him in a coffin and attempting to bury him in my dining room. Macabre. The superstition in this side of the world is that if you dream of someone dying, the person would be blessed with extra years of life. I hope that is true. That and other dreams, which included one of my school classmates I used to be terrified of, getting married, left me groggier than usual when I awoke.
The North East Monsoon seems rather constipated. While the temperature has fallen considerably (and by that, I mean we are not roasted like we were a couple of weeks back, but merely scrambled), and there were a few showers over the past nights, it is no where like the monsoon rains, the worst of which flooded our city last year. I love monsoon in my city – it is messy, no doubt, and creepy crawlies are flooded out of their subterranean abodes, but the weather is lovely, and the sound of lashing rains is strangely comforting.
On the philosophical side: My head is full of thoughts all the time. I know it is not possible to live without thinking, and a wise man once told me that there are two types of thinking – functional thinking and reactive thinking – the former is ok, the latter not so much. The more I think about it (would that be functional?), the more I realise that my reactive thinking is closely linked to my functional thinking – for example, thinking about what to cook, is functional, but that is almost always associated with “what the eff” kind of reactive thinking. I need to delink one from the other before I go completely beserk.
Dang. Half the day is gone.