So well it’s been a pretty good weekend and it better have been after the torturous week I had.The weekend was spend buzzed or asleep or both. Three whole Sundays after the b-school Sentosa escapade, I spent a good part of Sunday on the beach doing absolutely nothing. I even traded the corona for a girly lychee margherita served in a plastic cup!
I did so in my new highly conservative brown floral tankini – it does nothing to conceal my thighs which I am certain have a life of their own. Okay so I am in a fat phase or a realising I am fat phase. All my photos from my saturday night, in my orange dress, make me look positively enormous. You could fry up enough chicken nuggets for the children of a medium-sized third world country with the fat in just my thighs. My thighs were the original inspiration for Jack and the beanstalk, ya know what i’m saying? My arms are not far behind. In fact, I think I shouldn’t swim in the ocean for a while for fear that dugongs may want to mate with me. I think this gives the term “sea-cow” a whole new meaning and a rather unfortunate one at that. It kills me to think I’ll be in Bombay in 2 weeks and pigging out like nobody’s business, with no work and no physical activity (unless sleeping and feeding yourself count as strenuous physical activity). I’ll be piling on pounds and pounds. And they don’t even use “I can’t believe it’s not butter” butter at my folks’. That does make me wonder how my body is capable of turning fibre, vegetables, fruits, proteins, juice and water into mounds and mounds of unadulterated blubber. I call this remarkable process “fatto-synthesis”. Those scientist types should be spinning my DNA in teensy weensy tubes and stick it under a microscope and scribbling “Whoa, that’s fucked up!”
I have a new haircut- it’s shorter and curlier. The salon guy cut it with a knife- yes a knife! I’ve been told by two boys that I look fresh. They didn’t notice that I had had a haircut but I’m positive it had something to do with it. I am most certain that I am not infact a giant pitcher of lemonade. Having said that, I looked positively UGLY on Saturday night. I wish I knew why. Ugliness was all around. At the beach however, my hair looked great because I guess cute hair and thighs the size of auto-rickshaws are not related. I ran into Donnie at the beach- again- and he says “I did not recognise you..you look so Monte Carlo style!” I can only hope that he meant I look like a tanned European Goddess and not like the city itself.
And speaking of Europe, I have to take solace in knowing that I looked absolutely adorable (and strangely not that fat) in all the pictures of my European holiday. The weather makes my hair look amazing, happiness makes me look good and the all-too-cute coats and sweaters and boots obviously add to the appeal. In short, the more I cover up, the less visible blubber there is to be disgusted by. But wearing trenchcoats is not an option here, not matter how cute they may be. Therefore, I have decided to move permanently bag and baggage to Finland. If anyone asks, I’ll be in igloo #328. (Yes I know there are no fucking igloos in Finland. Sod off.)
I guess on days like this, it helps to know that I have a semblance of wit and intelligence. I wouldn’t want to be ‘all of the above ‘ in the short, stupid, fat and dull categories. Although I must say I don’t really want to be classified as “physically repulsive wannabe stand-up comedian with high IQ” either. Never heard of any guys who would choose smart and funny over long legs and tiny waist, you see.