Some two weeks ago, I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on a whim. And I ended up reading the entire HP series like an obsessed person. Re-living my childhood is something, but the more I read it, the more fascinated I was of JKR's writing. I just can not describe how perplexing it is for me to take note of how an intricate plot falls in place across SEVEN books. As it happens, I have been itching to write some kind of serious fiction for a while now. And my plot somehow never sustains. So I thought maybe I should read a few series of books and that would give me an idea about plot-structuring.
Once I was done with the Harry Potter series, my fingers inched towards the paper-backs in my book shelf, like they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was thumbing through Confession of a Shopaholic, and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and Shopaholic Ties the Knot and... (you get the picture).
.... but the Shopaholic series is not meant to be "studied". That would be just unnatural. Like giving your dad a petrol allowance or shaking someone's left hand. Rebecca Bloomwood is not to be studied in a framework of novel-writing rules. Because one can't study oneself that way. The reader becomes Becky Bloomwood. Chick lit is like that. Before long, I was Rebecca Bloomwood and every two minutes I was thinking "Why don't I have a Louis Vuitton handbag?" or "God, I need a new pair of shoes".
I mean, here I am, doing this awesome internship and getting paid bucket-loads (It's bucket-loads because I've promised myself not to buy any more books until I finish all that I already have). And what am I doing with my money? Nothing. I bought a pair of contact lenses and that's going to last a year. I went to movie and bought lots of cake. So basically, nothing.
I mean, I'm Becky Bloomwood. How can I not have anything to wear? How can I not have a TV career? How come my boyfriend isn't Luke Brandon? Oh, come on!
So paramount was my craving that I finally put my book down and went out. Out, to a shoe shop. I said to myself "Screw functional! I am NOT buying anything in black!" and I march right down, try every pair of sandals on display, I almost buy a pair of yellow pumps with cute little bows on them. But I settle for something colourful in green and blue and whatnot. I am so proud of myself that I march up to the guy and say "I'm gonna buy these". So he wraps them up and puts them in a neat little box and hands it over the counter. The moment my fingers wrap around the cords, a whoosh of joy sweeps down my stomach. It's all mine! I just have to hand in a few bits of paper and it's all mine, mine, MINE!
So I look up expectantly at him and ask "How much?"
"Three-fifty" he says flatly.
I'm gobsmacked! Will I never. 350? That's all? I mean, I thought I'd bought shoes that would come up to some 1199.00 or some such fancy figure. I mean I really wanted to SPEND money on MYSELF. It just didn't seem fair!
So in a daze, I hand over his three-fifty. And in two seconds, he's thrusting thirty bucks back in my hands. I look up to him startled, and he says "Discount, ma'am. Just for you".
And I just want to PUNCH HIS FACE. I mean, who gives a goddamn discount to a person who isn't even bargaining? The entire point of my shopping trip was gone. Poof. Just like that!
But still, I had a new pair of shoes. I come back home and I put them away carefully. Then I start up my computer. While it's booting, I'm thinking of boots, and then shoes and then my brand new pumps. So I take them out and try them on. And then I check my e-mail for a bit. It's junk, junk, spa discount!, junk, horoscope, I-ching oracle, junk, e-mail from office... Hmm. The e-mail from office must be important right? So I open that first and to my surprise, I spot a smiley-face (which is rare for my manager). As I read it, I realize that it's an invitation to a dinner party. I RSVP immediately and I'm suddenly on party girl mode. I want to be in a Vera Wang cocktail dress all of a sudden, with glittery heels and everything. Except... I don't have a Vera Wang dress. And no glittery heels either.
So I'm planning my outfit when somebody pings me on FB and tells me how great I look in my DP. Genius! I could go with THAT outfit. And I pick out my freshly washed light blue jeans (with Swarovski crystals on the back pockets) and a plain green cotton top that hugs my body in just all the right places. And, wait for it, my new shoes would go perfectly well with it! So I put my clothes down with a little glow of satisfaction. I'm being Becky Bloomwood at last, aren't I? Maybe I'm a little short on the Luke Brandon part. My boyfriend doesn't own a multi-million pound, successful PR agency exactly and we don't go to the country for long weekends. But that's ok! All that matters is that I had a party the next day and I was so prepared!
Then I experimentally try on some make-up. There are two boxes of eye shadow that I never use. So I open them first. There's a tiny brush in the box with a small sponge-thingy on the other end. I really don't know how to go about it but I bravely put on some glittery stuff on my closed eye, and then on to the other. Now my eyes look all glittery and sparkly. And it's a kind of maroonish/brownish thing that looks great on me. Then I pick up an eyeliner and do my eyes. There's a HUGE tube of mascara. By now I feel really brave so I shut my eye and apply it vigourously. And then I stop. And look.
Oh God, I look horrible. Make-up is not one of my skills at all. It looks more like a paint job, to be honest.
So I put away all my make-up in my little orange bag and with a flump, fall into my bed.
So the next day (which is today), I take my time to get ready. I wash my hair and give it a blow dry. I feel all fresh and happy. I make a big drama out of dressing. I wear my jeans and admire the sparkle on my bum, I wear my top, yada yada. And when I'm all done (even the mascara, and it didn't look bad at all!), I look at myself in the mirror and there is a little glow of satisfaction. My eye make up hasn't blurred my contact lenses or anything. I put on my blue Vera Wang jacket. It makes me look a little bit like Nancy Drew. And that's alright. I wasn't going for biker chick, anyway.
My ride to the office is a black-exhaust filled floaty dream of sorts. And when I get there, I don't really work. I watch the telly a little, I play a bit of Criminal Case, I pick an argument with my boyfriend (so not Luke Brandon), and I jot down a couple of points for my report. Casually, I pick up my phone and I have a new message. I frown. I don't want it to be my boyfriend again. But when I open it, I'm completely flabbergasted.
"I was too shy to mention it, but you look really great today" it says. I look up shocked, and that person is sitting right across me. And nammappanaanegu (swear on my father, I say) he had such a poker straight face, my God! I could hardly believe it was the same person who sent that borderline flirty text to me.
I sit back and relax. He just paid me a compliment, that's all. I'm going to say Thank you and leave it at that.
The couple of people sitting around me get up and leave for a bit and then it's just that person and me.
"Is that a new watch?" he asks me all of a sudden and reaches out to my hand and examines it.
"Um.." I say, not knowing what to tell him.
And very bravely, he traces his fingers down from my wrist to my fingertips and cracks one of my knuckles.
I withdraw my hand (quite sharply).
"Is something the matter?" he asks.
"Just don't do that" I say and walk away.
Before I know it, my helmet is swinging on my arm and I just want to go home! To make matters worse, it began raining.
I get back into the office and find myself a quiet corner. I sit down, head in my hands and gather my thoughts.
About half an hour before that, my boyfriend had said to me "You're too nice to say anything to anyone. No wonder guys think you want them to get all over you." And how vehemently I argued, only I know. I was so cross at being labelled "easy". Well, I wasn't was I? Hadn't I just walked out on someone?
A Luke Brandon-ish someone, a small voice says in my head.
Suddenly, my whole fairy-tale crap-trap collapses around me. I want to get into a baggy gray T-shirt and tie my hair up in a messy bun. That's exactly what I want to do. I don't want my two coats of mascara and three inches of Broadway Bronze lip gloss any more.
I was SO SURE that nobody eyed me up that way. Not after wearing the same bloody gray T-shirts day after fucking day. I was the girl people pointed at and said "she doesn't look like a girl from any angle". And now I couldn't be a girl without someone wanting to hold my hand.
Confused and half-way angry, I wondered, does it really take a glittery bum and an underwired bra for someone to realize that they were in the presence of a woman? Is it me or are men just being men? Do the other girls get felt up every day (cuz believe me, they're hot as burning hell!)?
Wait. Pause. Rewind.
Ok. I'm not Becky Bloomwood, am I? I'm that nerd with no fashion sense with my nose stuck in a book. I'm a... BIBLIOHOLIC, ok? Not a shopaholic. And I'm not going to meet any Luke Brandon. I'm just going to argue away to glory with my existing boyfriend and read books. And not look nice. Exactly. I'll never look nice again. It's not what I should ever do in life- looking nice... and stuff.
I mean, I'm the same bloody person even when I wear lopsided glasses and big gray t-shirts (that I mostly nick from my boyfriend). And I happen to be a damn nice person too. I don't have to look nice to be nice, do I? And if someone doesn't bother to notice me on a non-dressy day, they've got no right to spew their testosterone all over me when I'm dressed up.
It stopped raining after a while and I just upped and left. I get a million phone calls from my friends asking me where I am and why I haven't shown up at the party. One of them is really quite distraught and threatens to end our friendship unless I show up. But I just put one foot in front of the other and walk over to my bike. I get mud all over my new shoes. I really liked my shoes but all people had the time to notice were.... Well, my boobs, actually.
I really don't feel like a party girl any more. And I'm definitely not in the mood for a Vera Wang cocktail dress and glittery heels. In fact, I remember, my legs are just about as hairy as my dad's at the moment. I'm just a girl who wears the right kind of bras, at the most. Yep. That's about all the credit I get under "fashion".
I head back home, thinking about "cognitive dissonance". And that, folks is the Daily Gyaan for today.
"Cognitive Dissonance" is that awkward moment when you think how sick his stubby fingers look on your arm but your body is developing involuntary goosebumps. It is that difference between your ideals and your reality that makes your life all the more shittier.
That's all folks.
Once I was done with the Harry Potter series, my fingers inched towards the paper-backs in my book shelf, like they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was thumbing through Confession of a Shopaholic, and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and Shopaholic Ties the Knot and... (you get the picture).
.... but the Shopaholic series is not meant to be "studied". That would be just unnatural. Like giving your dad a petrol allowance or shaking someone's left hand. Rebecca Bloomwood is not to be studied in a framework of novel-writing rules. Because one can't study oneself that way. The reader becomes Becky Bloomwood. Chick lit is like that. Before long, I was Rebecca Bloomwood and every two minutes I was thinking "Why don't I have a Louis Vuitton handbag?" or "God, I need a new pair of shoes".
I mean, here I am, doing this awesome internship and getting paid bucket-loads (It's bucket-loads because I've promised myself not to buy any more books until I finish all that I already have). And what am I doing with my money? Nothing. I bought a pair of contact lenses and that's going to last a year. I went to movie and bought lots of cake. So basically, nothing.
I mean, I'm Becky Bloomwood. How can I not have anything to wear? How can I not have a TV career? How come my boyfriend isn't Luke Brandon? Oh, come on!
So paramount was my craving that I finally put my book down and went out. Out, to a shoe shop. I said to myself "Screw functional! I am NOT buying anything in black!" and I march right down, try every pair of sandals on display, I almost buy a pair of yellow pumps with cute little bows on them. But I settle for something colourful in green and blue and whatnot. I am so proud of myself that I march up to the guy and say "I'm gonna buy these". So he wraps them up and puts them in a neat little box and hands it over the counter. The moment my fingers wrap around the cords, a whoosh of joy sweeps down my stomach. It's all mine! I just have to hand in a few bits of paper and it's all mine, mine, MINE!
So I look up expectantly at him and ask "How much?"
"Three-fifty" he says flatly.
I'm gobsmacked! Will I never. 350? That's all? I mean, I thought I'd bought shoes that would come up to some 1199.00 or some such fancy figure. I mean I really wanted to SPEND money on MYSELF. It just didn't seem fair!
So in a daze, I hand over his three-fifty. And in two seconds, he's thrusting thirty bucks back in my hands. I look up to him startled, and he says "Discount, ma'am. Just for you".
And I just want to PUNCH HIS FACE. I mean, who gives a goddamn discount to a person who isn't even bargaining? The entire point of my shopping trip was gone. Poof. Just like that!
But still, I had a new pair of shoes. I come back home and I put them away carefully. Then I start up my computer. While it's booting, I'm thinking of boots, and then shoes and then my brand new pumps. So I take them out and try them on. And then I check my e-mail for a bit. It's junk, junk, spa discount!, junk, horoscope, I-ching oracle, junk, e-mail from office... Hmm. The e-mail from office must be important right? So I open that first and to my surprise, I spot a smiley-face (which is rare for my manager). As I read it, I realize that it's an invitation to a dinner party. I RSVP immediately and I'm suddenly on party girl mode. I want to be in a Vera Wang cocktail dress all of a sudden, with glittery heels and everything. Except... I don't have a Vera Wang dress. And no glittery heels either.
So I'm planning my outfit when somebody pings me on FB and tells me how great I look in my DP. Genius! I could go with THAT outfit. And I pick out my freshly washed light blue jeans (with Swarovski crystals on the back pockets) and a plain green cotton top that hugs my body in just all the right places. And, wait for it, my new shoes would go perfectly well with it! So I put my clothes down with a little glow of satisfaction. I'm being Becky Bloomwood at last, aren't I? Maybe I'm a little short on the Luke Brandon part. My boyfriend doesn't own a multi-million pound, successful PR agency exactly and we don't go to the country for long weekends. But that's ok! All that matters is that I had a party the next day and I was so prepared!
Then I experimentally try on some make-up. There are two boxes of eye shadow that I never use. So I open them first. There's a tiny brush in the box with a small sponge-thingy on the other end. I really don't know how to go about it but I bravely put on some glittery stuff on my closed eye, and then on to the other. Now my eyes look all glittery and sparkly. And it's a kind of maroonish/brownish thing that looks great on me. Then I pick up an eyeliner and do my eyes. There's a HUGE tube of mascara. By now I feel really brave so I shut my eye and apply it vigourously. And then I stop. And look.
Oh God, I look horrible. Make-up is not one of my skills at all. It looks more like a paint job, to be honest.
So I put away all my make-up in my little orange bag and with a flump, fall into my bed.
So the next day (which is today), I take my time to get ready. I wash my hair and give it a blow dry. I feel all fresh and happy. I make a big drama out of dressing. I wear my jeans and admire the sparkle on my bum, I wear my top, yada yada. And when I'm all done (even the mascara, and it didn't look bad at all!), I look at myself in the mirror and there is a little glow of satisfaction. My eye make up hasn't blurred my contact lenses or anything. I put on my blue Vera Wang jacket. It makes me look a little bit like Nancy Drew. And that's alright. I wasn't going for biker chick, anyway.
My ride to the office is a black-exhaust filled floaty dream of sorts. And when I get there, I don't really work. I watch the telly a little, I play a bit of Criminal Case, I pick an argument with my boyfriend (so not Luke Brandon), and I jot down a couple of points for my report. Casually, I pick up my phone and I have a new message. I frown. I don't want it to be my boyfriend again. But when I open it, I'm completely flabbergasted.
"I was too shy to mention it, but you look really great today" it says. I look up shocked, and that person is sitting right across me. And nammappanaanegu (swear on my father, I say) he had such a poker straight face, my God! I could hardly believe it was the same person who sent that borderline flirty text to me.
I sit back and relax. He just paid me a compliment, that's all. I'm going to say Thank you and leave it at that.
The couple of people sitting around me get up and leave for a bit and then it's just that person and me.
"Is that a new watch?" he asks me all of a sudden and reaches out to my hand and examines it.
"Um.." I say, not knowing what to tell him.
And very bravely, he traces his fingers down from my wrist to my fingertips and cracks one of my knuckles.
I withdraw my hand (quite sharply).
"Is something the matter?" he asks.
"Just don't do that" I say and walk away.
Before I know it, my helmet is swinging on my arm and I just want to go home! To make matters worse, it began raining.
I get back into the office and find myself a quiet corner. I sit down, head in my hands and gather my thoughts.
About half an hour before that, my boyfriend had said to me "You're too nice to say anything to anyone. No wonder guys think you want them to get all over you." And how vehemently I argued, only I know. I was so cross at being labelled "easy". Well, I wasn't was I? Hadn't I just walked out on someone?
A Luke Brandon-ish someone, a small voice says in my head.
Suddenly, my whole fairy-tale crap-trap collapses around me. I want to get into a baggy gray T-shirt and tie my hair up in a messy bun. That's exactly what I want to do. I don't want my two coats of mascara and three inches of Broadway Bronze lip gloss any more.
I was SO SURE that nobody eyed me up that way. Not after wearing the same bloody gray T-shirts day after fucking day. I was the girl people pointed at and said "she doesn't look like a girl from any angle". And now I couldn't be a girl without someone wanting to hold my hand.
Confused and half-way angry, I wondered, does it really take a glittery bum and an underwired bra for someone to realize that they were in the presence of a woman? Is it me or are men just being men? Do the other girls get felt up every day (cuz believe me, they're hot as burning hell!)?
Wait. Pause. Rewind.
Ok. I'm not Becky Bloomwood, am I? I'm that nerd with no fashion sense with my nose stuck in a book. I'm a... BIBLIOHOLIC, ok? Not a shopaholic. And I'm not going to meet any Luke Brandon. I'm just going to argue away to glory with my existing boyfriend and read books. And not look nice. Exactly. I'll never look nice again. It's not what I should ever do in life- looking nice... and stuff.
I mean, I'm the same bloody person even when I wear lopsided glasses and big gray t-shirts (that I mostly nick from my boyfriend). And I happen to be a damn nice person too. I don't have to look nice to be nice, do I? And if someone doesn't bother to notice me on a non-dressy day, they've got no right to spew their testosterone all over me when I'm dressed up.
It stopped raining after a while and I just upped and left. I get a million phone calls from my friends asking me where I am and why I haven't shown up at the party. One of them is really quite distraught and threatens to end our friendship unless I show up. But I just put one foot in front of the other and walk over to my bike. I get mud all over my new shoes. I really liked my shoes but all people had the time to notice were.... Well, my boobs, actually.
I really don't feel like a party girl any more. And I'm definitely not in the mood for a Vera Wang cocktail dress and glittery heels. In fact, I remember, my legs are just about as hairy as my dad's at the moment. I'm just a girl who wears the right kind of bras, at the most. Yep. That's about all the credit I get under "fashion".
I head back home, thinking about "cognitive dissonance". And that, folks is the Daily Gyaan for today.
"Cognitive Dissonance" is that awkward moment when you think how sick his stubby fingers look on your arm but your body is developing involuntary goosebumps. It is that difference between your ideals and your reality that makes your life all the more shittier.
That's all folks.
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