Chuck it

After reading about something twice, you start to wonder how it would really like to be, as it is described in it. Sometimes it is difficult to find the reason behind the seeming madness described, and it is very easy to dismiss all of it as mindless rantings of a sick mind. Or a very, very depressed one. And then again, some times, the reasons stare at you stark naked and your mind immediately flashes passages where the exact same thing was described. Epiphany.

Evening. A famous sweet shop, in a very prominent location in the city. The place is filled to bursting, and then some. There are guys, I can’t say men, because they are wandering about in shorts and sunglasses, and looking absolutely lost. ‘US returned’. Tag them thus, and indulge them for what they really are. Strangers in their own land. But it’s not like nature let them loose in the grime and sweat of Chennai without any help. Oh no, she wouldn’t do that. She created the Wife.

The female of the species, to give credit where it’s due, knows the modus operandi of any kind of shop almost by instinct. So, Sunday evening, everyone’s tired of having cooked stuff at home, and it’s time for the holiday for the kitchen.

Maybe we’ll go out for dinner tonight, to a nice quiet restaurant.
Yes Dear.
And if we leave a bit early, maybe we could pick up something at the Sweets’. For the rest of the week, something for the momentary hunger.
Yes Dear.

It was a generation of men brought up by women.

Or, for women.

So let’s have half a kg of this, and another half of that, and a half of what-not.
Yes Dear… Wait, the last one… half a kg of…
What-not.
Right, What-not.

Trained thus in the workings of the inner worlds of sweet-making and its delivery, the guy is no ready to tackle the final frontier standing between him and cholesterol heaven. The serpentine queue. So the guy, shorts and all, waddles up to the counter, places the order, seems extremely amused by the whole token system, flashes the MasterCard or Visa or whatever and collects the goodies. And of course chivalry demands that the lady just stand and watch all this. The above procedure takes nearly thirty minutes. Not the three lines as described here. Serpentine queues don’t just disappear in three sentences of process description. Resulting in quite a sweaty ‘US return’ at the end of the whole thing. Summers in Texas aren’t so hot.

And then, it’s a drive to the restaurant. Nice, decent place, which offers good food and a quiet atmosphere. Along with the small problem of a hundred other families who figured the same way about the place. So, drop the lady off, and go in search of the parking spot. Up and down the road, with growing frustration. Hands clenching the steering harder, legs cramping up because of the incessant switching between clutch and brake. That, and all other obstacles such as cross-parked bikes and annoying auto guys later, the car finally slots home, rather awkwardly, but it’s parked. Then it’s off smiling towards the lady, who, again, to give credit where it’s due, has secured a nice, quiet table when seemingly none was available.

Because, it’s her holiday, and she has worked all week.

Of course, it’s his holiday too. And there was a Cup Final that evening. Maybe someone will message him the result.

That old saying, about how you always kill the one you love, well look, it works both ways.