Too Explicit

So, I recently signed up for Tinder. And when I say recently, I mean it has been 6 days. But of course, being the person I am, apparently the universe cannot resist messing with me.

I matched with a bloke’s profile, because it had uproariously funny pictures; none of which was actually of the guy himself. Also, his profile said ‘married’ and he was clear that a relationship and booty calls were off the table. So I thought – because apparently no alarms were ringing in my head – why not, and swiped right.

At first, conversation was great. He was witty and played off being chauvinistic (I presume) and I enjoyed the whole back and forth. He then asked me for my Whatsapp number, which I figured was an easier app to use for communication and I gave it to him.

Somehow, the conversation suddenly became very creepy. There was a lot more suggestiveness and raciness in the messaging, and again, not knowing where to draw the line, I started feeling mighty uncomfortable. And apparently my go-to line for this sort of situation is: “I’m sleepy. Good night.”

Except, just before calling off, he messaged me: “Do you enjoy explicit stuff?” I replied saying: “Jokes only. And then too, the tamer ones.”

“Videos?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Ok,” he said.

The next morning, I wake up to a clip on my phone. I press play, and it was thankfully on mute, because it was a video of a huge group of people clapping. The camera moves in towards the centre, and you then see what the people are clapping for.

A relatively nude woman on her back, legs in the air, being boned by a dude in just a t-shirt and his jeans around his ankles.

I recoiled a bit, because while I don’t object to porn, I do object to people sending me clips of it! Then it struck me that there must be a joke, like that picture of a buxom woman in white crossing the road is actually about a dog driving the car. So I watched a little bit, started feeling sick, and fast forwarded to the end. The end, where the guys ‘ends’ all over this woman’s face.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t a joke; it was porn.

*Block*

 

Midnight Awkwardness

During the first few months of us being together, I confided in my ex about being plagued by importunate men, who refused to back with just hints. I had to choose between bombarded with constant messages and hints, or choose to be brutally honest and block the guy. There was no middle ground, and for me, it was hard to shut down someone who wasn’t really doing anything heinous. [Just sexist and uncomfortable, but since that is a gradual scale, it is hard to find a concrete point to say STOP.]

I loved (still love?) my boyfriend at the time very much, and well he knew it. He didn’t try and interfere with any of these ridiculous situations, until I asked him to. I wanted my word to be respected, regardless if there was a man in the background. But he did offer me a tip: Don’t entertain calls or messages from these guys post-9 pm. Friends and like, family: all fine. Just not these guys.

Hm.

I did that, and lo and behold, it worked wonders. No lonely boys after work, who pleaded for a little time to chat. No midnight messages. Nothing. Just zip. And for 5 years [4 in the relationship + 1 getting over the relationship], I lived in this blissful realm of no encroachment.

Until yesterday.

Of course, being me, I had forgotten how it felt to be on this receiving end again. So I reply to messages when I receive them, unless I am otherwise occupied. I also signed up with Tinder, and well that requires a certain flexibility. And last but not least, I had lived in the comforting embrace of a relationship for so long, I forgot how little my refusal counted for anything with these romeos, with the lack of a supporting boyfriend/husband.

That’s the background. The second bit of background is: remember this guy? He messages me at 1 am; after two years of radio silence and removing me off all his social accounts, here is the highlight reel of the cringe-fest he sent me on Whatsapp:

KD: Looking out for someone
KD: Was scrolling through my contact today when I got to see u
KD: Feeling awesome to get in touch with u again
KD: Let’s be in chats until then
KD: Would love to know u more
KD: I mean things u like and all
KD: Shall wait for ur ping then
KD: And well please let me know if you have a nick name
KD: Really sleepy or can spend some time with me here
KD: I was feeling alone
KD: Let’s date if u r ok with it
KD: Let’s give it a try
KD: I find u romantic
KD: Especially love ur nose ring
KD: I use to observe u a lot

NO. OMG. I said no 4 times. And yet, I get a ‘I find you so romantic’. *shudder*

Must Be Famous

There is a new moniker I’ve earned from my frequent Facebook about the crazy people I meet on a practically daily basis. I’ve shared once before about a Romeo and Juliet cab ride, so this is an episode 2 to the ongoing hilarity that is shared cab land.

Yesterday, I had the misfortune to be stuck in a cab with a driver who knew very little about the city’s roads. He was following the navigation on the dashboard, and therefore came to a standstill near a pickup. The following conversation ensued:

Driver calls the passenger: “Sir, where are you? I am at the pickup point.”

Customer evidently asks for a landmark; not an unreasonable request.

Driver, ignoring a huge bank, a large shopping complex, a few branded restaurants, and much more, says: “Sahara airconditioner repair. I am on the opposite side.”

In sheer amazement, I turn to look for this repair shop, only to see a tiny tin shack with a flimsy board, without a door, on the opposite side. This is what he chose as a landmark?

Surprisingly, the customer was not familiar with this tiny, blink-and-miss tin shack. Shocking, I know.

Then the customer says something, which I can’t hear, to which the driver says:

“No sir, I don’t know the plot number.”

The two clearly deserve each other.

Epilogue: The driver tsk-tsk’ed at a passerby, who came up to his door. He then handed the phone to the passerby, who took it bemusedly, and said: “Who is on the other line?”

The driver then said that it was a passenger who was lost. That’s right folks, the PASSENGER was lost, not the driver.

Moron magnet, someone called me. Of course.

Drinking Habits

I sometimes wonder where I get my idiotic sense of humour from, but then I remember some of the things my mother says to me (and some of the things my father has done) and I am no longer surprised. Case in point:

I was chatting with mom about a container of soup I have ordered for lunch, but can’t finish. She suggests I bring it home, to which I demurred, because the container is of the flimsy plastic variety, and there are good chances that it will spill. To which my brilliant mother says:

“Why will it spill? Are you drunk?”

Right. 3 reasons why this is crazy:

  1. I am a teetotaller; a fact she knows very well, being one herself.
  2. It is the middle of the afternoon.
  3. I am at WORK. In an OFFICE. With OTHER people.

Yep.

Feeling a Long Way Off

When I broke up with my significant other, I expected to miss a lot of things: the comfort, the familiarity, the physical, emotional, and mental closeness, the support, and a million other things, both vague and specific. I also dreaded the thought of trying to start anew, and having loved so deeply, I was under the first impression that it wasn’t even possible. Not that that impression has changed. I still feel uncomfortable of falling in love with someone.

I also harboured the (mis?)conception that I could not be intimate with someone I didn’t love. Perhaps this was a part of my Indian psyche and the layers of conditioning that seep through cultural mores. Now, this part I am not to sure about.

I am not a person that is driven by pure desire, but I’ve started to think about dating for the sake of physical intimacy. I am still dead against the thought of a relationship though.

Basically, what I am trying to say without sounding like the ultimate despo, is that I have the strongest urge to grab the unsuspecting cute boy (who appears to be at least 5 years younger than me) and kiss him.

What. The. Hell.

Movie Review: Outsourced

Coming from the land of the perennially outraged, I was prepared to be extremely open-minded about this movie. And so I was, so perhaps my review is more balanced that it perhaps deserves.

Story: Todd Anderson works in the call centre for an American company, churning out American gimmicky products, for the American public, in America. The stuff is made in China though, and, to cut costs, his department is being outsourced. To where? India.

If the injury of losing his job wasn’t bad enough, the indignity of having to train his replacement and the team is also heaped on his plate. His manager inveigles him with the threat of losing stock options in a bad economy.

So Todd flies to India.

Review: The movie was very funny, but very superficially. I did laugh at the Indian accent turning ‘Todd’ to ‘Toad’. I laughed at the cow in the office. The half-finished office. I laughed when he did a Salman Khan dance too.

Jolly good! *head wobble*

But it is a glaring example of poverty porn. The guy lands in Mumbai, the commercial capital of the country, and see only shacks and shanties lining the road. He gets down to catch a ferry near the Gateway of India, which happens to be cheek by jowl with Taj and Oberoi. All three edifices are kept out of the frame, possibly to reinforce the rundown-ness of this mosquito-infested, cow-ridden country. It is sad, because right now I am typing this post on a MacBook Air, seated under a Daikin airconditioner, in a glitzy office, in Mumbai. [Let’s ignore the fact that I am meant to be working.] And the impression people have of India is that it is a bunch of yokels, chasing after cows.

Story: There is a story. That’s about the extent to which it is gotten right. The rest is a mad mix of romance, comedy, and drama. And not in a good way. There are no surprises, everything is a trope, and everything is exaggerated. Case in point: a guy wants to put up pictures of his family in his cubicle, so he wallpapers every conceivable surface at his disposal with the photographs. Unless he has a 1000 family members, this is unnecessary and excessive.

Characters: One-dimensional, nonsensical, and stereotypical.

Acting: Awful, hammy performances.

What I liked: It was funny in parts. But that’s because of the afore-mentioned open-minded approach, and my idiotic sense of humour.

What I disliked: Everything.

Rating:

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The Second Biggest Challenge

There are a number of things that trip up my progress with the whole weight loss gig. First, it is my lack of resolution and staying power. I have staying power for a lot of things, unless they are wholly in my control. Then, I tend to take the easy way out. With my new combat fitness class, I am going to be shelling out a substantial sum, and that will goad me into being regular.

But this post isn’t about how I battle my lack of resolution, but the second biggest demon: embarrassment.

In this wonderful class, with an amazing coach, and a fantastic trainer, I am in the worst shape. [I kinda love this sentence, with all the superlatives. hehe.] I am the fattest, not the oldest (but those guys are fitter), and the one with the least ability. And therein lies the rub.

It would be awesome to go into something like this with some sort of pre-existing ability. Like I did with my French classes in Goa. I had already been through levels of French in Pune, and I found the course a breeze. It enabled me to stop feeling nervous and to really grasp the nuances of language that has escaped me the first time. That sort of leg up can make it for me. And it is a tremendous confidence boost, although I wasn’t in competition with anyone else.

Right now, I’ve been to two fitness classes. And it is a struggle not to want to collapse into a heap because everyone else is [literally] running laps around me. In short, I feel utterly humiliated and embarrassed.

Stupidly though, and I know this because I have a functioning brain, all this is purely in my head. Not by a word or glance have any of the others, least of all the trainer, betrayed disgust or disdain for my lack of ability.

So I tell myself, everyone has to start somewhere. Everyone had a first day once. At least I am here trying to get to the next day, the next month, the next year: the next level.

I cannot also myself to be discouraged with lack of immediate progress, because that’s not how physiology works. I have to focus on doing one more rep, being a little less breathless, kicking a little bit higher, and tweaking my form a little more each time. That is going to be enough, but I have to keep telling myself that.

Ultimately, I want to enjoy this process. And focusing on the result isn’t going to get me there any faster or happier, which is more important.