The Almost-40 Crisis: Where Are My Superpowers?

Almost 40, and I feel like I'm still searching for my sword of power and my He-Man transformation moment.

To begin with, my mind and body seem to be giving up on me. Sinus attacks once every two weeks, sad, mopey thoughts almost every day, until I stuff my face with something deep-fried or sugar-coated.

I'm on a mini-vacation in Dubai with my brother and his family, and I'm in the middle of a bad sinus attack that started yesterday. That's more than 24 hours wasted in the middle of a tiny, five-day holiday.

Time and health truly wait for none. They're like the pooping pigeons and the occasional head-scratching crows you encounter in the middle of your morning walk.

But you wipe it off, or duck and keep walking.

I think my New Year's resolution is to stop being such a cribby cribber and actually take action with the two seconds of time I have left at the end of every maniacal day to do something for myself.

As always, keep thulping sugar in moderation and keep moving forward, with or without sinus attacks mixed with sad, mopey thoughts.

The Airport Is Quiet. My Child Didn't Get the Memo.

There is an odd kind of stillness in the air when it comes to early-morning flights. The occasional announcement asking a passenger to report to the boarding gate is pretty much the only thing breaking the silence. That, and mothers travelling alone with their children, providing live updates of their every move to the family back home. At full volume, obviously. Because why should the rest of us miss out on the itinerary?

And then there's my child. A 4-foot-2-inch human who believes that silence is a crime and has taken it upon himself to comment on every crying baby within a 50-metre radius. Each baby gets a review, a reaction and, occasionally, a running commentary. I am just waiting for him to start handing out ratings.

Meanwhile, the other passengers are sitting there with expressions ranging from mild anxiety to existential dread, silently wondering whether their flight will board on time, whether they have all their belongings and whether they should have just stayed in bed.

And me? I'm trying my best not to eat my lipstick while my stomach stages a full-blown protest over the lack of food. The early-morning caffeine and two dates clearly didn't cut it.

Early-morning airports are dead still. Except for the crying babies, the occasional loudspeaker announcement, mothers on phone calls, my child hosting his own podcast and my stomach threatening to join the conversation.

Peace and quiet? Clearly, I booked the wrong flight.

PCOD That Refuses to Rest

PCOD that refuses to rest,

The two injections I was jabbed with clearly did their best.

Painkillers I refuse to ingest,

Even when I feel short of breath.

A gynaecologist who refuses to put me under the knife,

For she feels my body will undergo more strife.

I wonder why October every year is bad,

With painful PCOD cramps that leave me sad.

I have no idea how to live with this constant pain,

That rules my mind and body, again and again.

PCOD that refuses to rest,

The two injections I was jabbed with clearly did their best.

(Image sourced from https://www.sakraworldhospital.com/blogs/pcod/315)

Larger Than Life, Smaller Than My Teenage Heart Could Handle

So, before — waaaay before — I turned my attention to bad-boy metal guitarists and bikers, my teenage brain and heart did multiple flip-flops over some very, very good boys: "The Backstreet Boys!" And I think most of us are mums now to one or two little villains of our own. 

How do I explain to my child that I once had a Hotmail ID called gayatrilovesnicky@hotmail.com and actually wanted to have Nick Carter's babies? No. I think I'll take that little piece of information to the grave. Some secrets are best kept buried. 

But even now, when I listen to any of the old Backstreet Boys hits, starting with "I Want It That Way", "Everybody", "As Long as You Love Me", "Shape of My Heart" and "Larger Than Life", I'm transported straight back to being that impressionable, infatuated teenager.

And oh, what pretty faces all five of them had! Nick Carter, Brian Littrell, AJ McLean, Howie Dorough and Kevin Richardson. Clearly, they were getting much better haircuts than I was. 

Pretty, pretty, preeeetty! So pretty! Pretty enough to make a teenage girl's heart melt completely inside her chest. 

Oh my God! I'm not even going to lie. I might still be infatuated, decades later, and now with a child of my own.

Once a Backstreet Boys girl, always a Backstreet Boys girl.  Some things never change. 

Image courtesy: https://www.eonline.com/photos/21933/the-90s-when-the-backstreet-boys-were-boys

Dear Monday, Meet My Chandrakala

PCOD cramps for days? Not a very satisfactory day at work? Child using you as his punching bag? Chandrakala to the rescue!

What's Chandrakala, you ask? It's a decadent, ghee-fried, juicy, moon-shaped blob stuffed with sweet khoya and soaked in sugar syrup.

One bite, and you're transported straight from Gloomy Land to Ecstatically Peaceful Land. Peace? I find it in comfort food. And when it comes to comfort food, Chandrakala is right up there on my list.

I started my evening with a strong, sugar-free filter coffee at the local café inside my colony, meandered into Sri Krishna Sweets, and accidentally picked up two big, fat, juicy Chandrakalas. I then proceeded to even more accidentally devour them faster than a hungry lion attacking its innocent prey.

The highlight of my day was Chandrakala, and I've come to realise that most of my life's problems can be solved with sugar. Sugar to the rescue, all day, every day!

Moving with ease into Tuesday now, because the worst of Monday — morning, noon and night — is finally coming to a close.

Image source - https://srikrishnasweets.com/products/chandrakala?srsltid=AU7gw4X1OX5WjF0_6MdxOAnEN2c9sFK6l3mVxWYWjgY8OaNdc8aOA2BX

Creatures of Habit

After a certain passage of time, we all become creatures of habit. Case in point: tonight, when my seven-year-old insisted that I spend the night at his grandparents’ house (aka my childhood home), everything about the house put me off. From the inhalation machine that bubbled a little too much against my face (I have a blocked head) to the choice of toothpaste to the size and shape of the pillow, nothing felt right.

I just wanted to go home — the one I’ve been living in for the past three years. “I’d be more comfortable at home” was something I kept mumbling under my breath as my not-so-tiny human clung to me from the waist down like an annoying appendage I wanted to escape from, at least for the day.

Yet, here I am, lying on my pre-teen bed, thanks to his fake tears and Oscar-worthy performance of rolling around in bed, looking utterly miserable, as though I were abandoning him.

This room has witnessed a lot of teenage angst, adulting problems and a whole lot of non-issues, now that I think about it.

Coming back to the topic at hand, we really are such creatures of habit. Our definition of comfort changes over time, and we become more set in our ways, whether we like it or not.

The Only Way Out of Pain Is Through It

“The only way out is through” or “The best way out is always through”, as Robert Frost is often quoted as saying. These have been my favourite beliefs when it comes to handling grief. I've modified the thought slightly in my head, and when I quote it to my child, it becomes, “The only way out of the pain is through it.”

So, when he cribs about school, a wound on his hands or legs, or a wobbly tooth, I throw this at him without batting an eyelid.

Pain. Real, heartbreaking, soul-crushing pain. I first experienced it in 2004, when the love of my life, otherwise known as my Appuppan, passed away. The grief was maddening. I didn't know how to process it as a 17-year-old schoolgirl.

I experienced him once in my childhood home in Trivandrum and have dreamt of him endlessly ever since.

Fast-forward to 2021, when I was thrown into that whirlpool of pain once again as my 35-year-old husband passed away. When I broke the news of his death to my college bestie, she kept repeating like a parrot, “But we just saw him for lunch two days ago!”

That's exactly how I still feel to this day. I had just seen him thulping down palak paneer with aloo paratha for lunch before going to sleep.

What is pain, really? If you analyse it critically, it's simply a consequence of situations you can't control, followed by a feeling of utter helplessness. You simply have to accept it. The process of moving on takes a lifetime; however, acceptance is something you have to embrace at some point.

That's life for you — a never-ending cycle of pain. But the good news is that happiness comes in equal measure, too. You can find it in food, people, places and memories. Treasure all of them because you never really know how much time you have on Earth.

Everything is fleeting.

So, simply accept, drop the ego and keep moving forward — every single day.

Tattoos? Bring Them On. Injections? Absolutely Not!

I've had three tattoos done in the last three years, which would roughly add up to maybe eight hours, give or take, under a needle. And even then, I'm petrified of injections and syringes in a hospital.

I just had my yearly scans done to keep a check on my PCOD and was given three injections in less than two hours. What a terrifying experience indeed!

The nurses keep saying, "Take a deep breath," "Just a small pinprick," "Finished! Finished! Finished!" and so on, which only adds to your anxiety levels.

The friendly nurse standing alongside me during my mammogram wanted to know everything about me, starting with whether I was in the middle of family planning. I sighed and replied, "Yes! Since I was 10. Unfortunately, I don't have a living husband anymore."

Hospitals are a maze, both physically and emotionally. The lifts take forever to transport you up and down the floors. Nurses and doctors bombard you with old and new information, along with a volley of questions, while the pharmacy attached to the facility resembles a fish market, with a never-ending queue of customers.

I'm ready to sleep for a solid three hours now to recover from the three injections I got today. Sigh!

Controversial Aunty Is Back: Bikes Are So 2009!

I'd like to rename myself "Controversial Aunty" now because I'm going to write another piece that won't sit well with people. But here goes nothing, as always.

My late husband absolutely hated it when I rode my Scooty Pep. The only time I ever heard him scream like a teenage girl was in 2009, when he sat behind me on my bike and we rode off to eat the juiciest burgers in Chennai at an open-air restaurant called Mash, facing Besant Nagar Beach.

A couple of months later, I broke my shoulder, underwent keyhole surgery and transformed into a very crabby, smelly Captain Haddock because I was forced into four months of bed rest, with a pin inside my right arm to fix my broken shoulder.

From that day until the day he died, he hated bikers and my love for bikes. He would call every biker on the road a "housefly" and keep saying, "See how safe our car is, Poopie? Thanks to this car, you can dress up in your Fernandes Aunty flowery dresses and keep touching up your lipstick. You're welcome!"

Now, fast-forward to sometime early this year, when I met someone for dinner. He then offered to drop me home on his bike. I was wearing a tight, flowy satin skirt, and it was just impossible to sit on that machine of his. Every time he went over a bump, I thought my child was definitely going to become an orphan that night. My hair was a mess, and my face looked like Ava Max's in "Sweet but Psycho".

Now, this chap had the audacity to tell me to wear pants the next time I met him. There was no next time because I don't wear pants, sir. Why? Because I'm a lady. I wear only tight skirts and flowy dresses of every variety.

Moving firmly on to a gigantic SUV now, to fulfil my responsibilities as a responsible parent and a midlife-crisis aunty. Bikes are so 2009.

Onto newer dreams now!

PCOD, Periods and Lava Cakes: A Love-Hate Relationship With My Body

I've had painful periods and PCOD for as long as I can remember. It was first discovered 12 years ago, when I developed acute back pain and had to be bedridden for a week. That was the first time I had an MRI scan, and cysts the size of footballs were found on both my ovaries.

The nurses at the scanning centre were horrified and enquired of my mother whether I was married and had children. That's how it all started. Needless to say, I had a very, very hard time conceiving, and by the sixth month of my pregnancy, I was bedridden because of a bleed.

I've had one surgery, produced one human being, and my PCOD is alive and kicking — quite literally! There are some months when the medication prescribed by my gynaecologist doesn't work. And once my cycle starts, it's an endless flow of the Ganges, with no sign of the cramping and sugar cravings coming to an end.

It's a disorienting recalibration and reboot of the system each time an unexpected period happens. And my gynaecologist is confused about whether to continue the medication or have me go under the knife.

The problems a woman's body puts her through are unending and relentless. We feel a complete lack of control over our minds and bodies. Top this with the usual drill of parenting and work!

After having lived with this condition for a solid 12 years and counting, my gynaecologist finally revealed that PCOD is an autoimmune disease in which the human body ceases to function the way it's supposed to.

There were moments when, as a newly married bride in my late twenties, I wondered whether I'd ever have a child. So, I count my wild, noisy blessings each day and am grateful to God for letting me have at least one mini.

For every woman who is trying to conceive and cannot, for whatever reason, it's a season of hell. I know this personally and first-hand because I experienced it for six dreadful years.

So, to all my PCOD girlies, we've got this! We can do all the clean eating and strength training in the world, but when our body wants to give up on us, it will. And in those moments, let's try not to be disheartened. Instead, let's eat kilograms of hot, gooey lava cakes with zero guilt!

Forever Gundu Bedalam

They say that once you hit your late 20s to mid-30s, you only grow sideways. For me, however, this has held true for my entire life.

From being called "Gundu Bedalam", short for "G.B.", "chubby", "plump" and "soooo cuuutte", with both the rasgullas (otherwise known as cheeks) being pulled violently on my face, I absolutely hated these nicknames.

As a child, I loved swimming and eating with equal passion. I would swim for an hour and eat for an hour without a care in the world. The waiters at Madras Gymkhana Club knew my post-swim menu by heart: butter naan or bhature, chilli chicken and one Feast or Cornetto, with one glass of bright orange, overly sweet Cricket to wash it all down.

The swim was probably just an excuse to eat. I can't really confirm.

While the girls in school ran behind all the supposedly tall football players from the boys' school, I was running to the bakery and the hole-in-the-wall shop less than 500 metres away from school to eat cakes, Boomer bubble gums and an iced juice shaped like a long stick inside a flimsy plastic wrapping.

I watched all that puppy romance happening around me while stuffing my face with food and waiting for either the army school bus to leave or for the seniors in the higher classes to finish their respective romances, so that we could go home in Daddy's personal chauffeur-driven army car.

Summer vacations with my grandparents, gorgeous cousins and sibling also panned out something like this. I would eat endlessly at Ammumma's dining table along with my tall, lassy cousin, and my dad would walk into the room and say, "You stop eating and you continue eating."

No prizes for guessing who each piece of advice was thrown at.

As a young adult, my parents would look at little round girls and say, "Oh look, a sweet little girl who looks just like Gayatri did as a baby."

Sigh!

Perhaps my self-respect, my ego and my sense of self took a beating, because my adulthood has been dedicated to vigorous cardio, weight training and bouts of starvation whenever the weighing scale starts ringing alarm bells.

Now, fat is beautiful, apparently, and we mustn't body-shame anyone — least of all, ourselves.

So I've finally stopped, in the last maybe three or four years, and accepted myself — wobbly bits and all. The jiggles and the imperfections make us whole.

So, just like most things in my life that I can't control — people's opinions, the weather and my son — I've decided to make peace with my weight.

Here I am, a reformed fattie, who will always be "Gundu Bedalam" in my heart