The day I turned 45, it hit me that my middle-age was characterized by middle-class mediocrity.
Was this going to be the blueprint of my boring life? Or, did I still have time to try out new things and make memories to reflect upon in my old age?
The same evening, in a TV program, I saw actor Kajol do the salsa with Shiamak Davar. If that fatso can learn at her age, surely I can too, I thought checking out my obtuse form from an acutely complementary angle. Hmm…not too bad!
Next morning …
‘I have decided that we’ll do salsa,’ I informed my better-half, a consummate foodie.
Unexpectedly, he perked up. ‘Sounds good. How about some nachos too?’
I rolled my eyes. I abhor nachos. ‘Not that salsa,’ I retorted. ‘I’m talking about Shiamak Davar’s salsa classes.’
His jaw dropped to his two left feet.
Before he could recover, I decreed, ‘Today onwards we’ll eat only healthy food.’ I swiped away his Amul butter-fried paranthas and placed a bowl of fruit on his plate. ‘Shyama, no greasy, oily food for us from today,’ I instructed the cook. ‘Only cook healthy things.’
My better-half scowled at me but acquiesced under my glare. He is a wise man.
Two days later…
A reluctant husband in tow, an overly excited me arrived at the studio clad in spanking new designer attire and stilettos. Quite unlike a newbie, my confidence was at its peak. One week and a svelte I am going to sashay home.
At the end of the week, I hobbled home with a severely bruised ankle. My bitter-half lent no support. Even though in pain, how could I complain?
A week later…
My ankle healed, with renewed determination, I waltzed back into the studio. My wary-half dragged his feet in with me, having failed to convince me to give up my new hobby.
‘Feel the music flow through you. Don’t try to dance, let the body dictate the moves,’ a handsome underling of Shiamak’s preached, his body bending and gyrating at impossible angles. He extended a hand and said, ‘Come, join me.’
Oh, how could I not!
My relieved-half expelled a thankful breath and plonked his soft tush on a hard bench.
Wrapped in the man’s arms, I ceded control and twirled. I bent to his touch. I straightened to his grip. He made a newbie feel like a seasoned dancer. It was magical.
He yelped. Horrified I looked down at my heel stabbing his foot. His face lost colour. My face flushed red. As the poor guy limped away, my amused-half sniggered. In a rare gesture he extended his hand and said, ‘Come, my dear, leave these absurd, new-fangled desires of yours. Let’s go home and focus on another salsa.’
‘With nachos?’ I shot back and grinned. Surprisingly, that night the nachos with the salsa tasted delicious.
Tell me, isn’t ageing akin to trying out a new age each year? Wouldn’t you agree?
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