Item Number: Confessions of a fat diary

Showing posts with label Confessions of a fat diary. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Who let the bitch out?

Dear diary,

A man may look at another man from a fitness perspective, a level he’d aspire to achieve, but the centre of his focus lies largely in checking out women. Women on the other hand do check out men, but the centre of their focus lies largely in checking out women too! Unexplainable.

What about women brings out this strange behaviour I’m still trying to understand? If the women walking in front of you is well groomed, a size 6 or below, you almost want to hide her in an Abaya or lock her up inside. In my case want to throw a sack over her head and beat her blue for existing.

The feeling is rarely inspirational and is always drowned by first reactions of ‘bitch’ or ‘slut’. What’s worse is watching a size 4 with a new born in a stroller who makes it look like she’s just delivered, walked out of the maternity ward into the mall way, in her Gucci or Cavalli (from before the delivery), with hair all done up, the right make up, shoes and handbag, doing the ‘wicked mamma’ routine, just makes me cringe. I want to stuff a finger down my throat and puke in her general direction. The ones that I see on my evening jog, running faster than me and with a stroller in tow, I just want to trip and then run over.
It is my personal belief that if you have a body like that, the toddler aint yours. You’re either the mistress who is forced into strolling for other pay offs or a nanny hired from ‘make them look bad’ agency. I’m not falling for that shit!

Thursday, June 5, 2008

The scaling issue

Dear diary,
It did it again! The damn thing did it again! Just when I thought there was no further scope, the needle on the weighing scale, bend rightwards again!

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

The pigeon syndrome

Dear Diary,

Why is it that even today, sometimes, if I see a cute guy walking in my general direction, the ‘pigeon syndrome’* seems to overwhelm my personality? I look away, avoid eye contact, or start shuffling my skirt to ensure it doesn’t sit on top of ‘the’ belly. I have to remind my self that the high school dance & frizzy hair season was over 10 years ago! For those of you girls who don’t identify with the above, you belong to another planet and …YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST STAYED THERE!

* if a pigeon sees a cat coming towards it, instead of flying away it just shuts its eyes and sits tight. Believing, that if it cant the see the cat the cat cant see it either!

About Me

Ok, so I’m 5ft 9, about 139 pounds, big greenish brown eyes, long curvy lashes, a curvier body, soft curly hair and an electrifying smile. This impression exists in my head…and now in yours.

It’s not because what I look like makes me uneasy, but this is the number that I’d like to turn up in, someday.

Hence, the ‘Item Number’. A lot many maybe familiar with the term and all that it implies but for the ignorant read on…

I’ve always associated myself with the term ‘Item Number’ which however until recently was a phrase loosely used in Bollywood to describe a filler, a foreplay before the formidable act, a thesaurus for sleazy dance, an excuse for skin show (not always attractive).

All that is now the past. With cinemas growing sensibilities, the stigma attached to the phrase no longer exists and in fact, is now glorified by a list of A grade celebrities gracing the screen with their special performance, adding glam value to an otherwise submissive script.

However in spite of the recent but growing respect, the meaning of the phrase ‘Item Number’ has never changed for me. An item number is an exhibit out of the ordinary plot line, sometimes provocative yet necessary, it sometimes lends itself to the situation but other times it’s forced. It’s long enough to make you smile, but short enough leaving you longing for more. Sometimes special. Sometimes over the top. But never subtle.

I believe, if we search deep inside, we all yearn to be an item number (yes even you!)

It’s the longing to be special. To be provocative. To be able to tease ones boundaries. To be different. To be the one. To make people sit up and notice.

If only for an hour, if only for a minute or even a second.

When you hear the crowds cheer (even if it’s just in your head), respond to every appreciative/envious glare with a radiating smile from within, when you know the stars are shinning in this moment, only to make you look brighter, and you almost throw your hands up to the universe miming a big ‘Thank You’ that’s when you know you’re an Item Number.