22 and the catch

72 days (I need a calculator these days!) into my twenty-third year on this planet(ah! the cosmic touch), and I've started to realize the ephemerality of life...ok, even though I'd like to sound like some Tantric guru who's discovered the meaning of life - you know the type, the ones who keep saying "Shaaaanti"(Mandira Bedi??) - the reason for this blog is something that happens to all of us. At some time or the other.

Growing old (jeez! do I hate that three letter word or what?). Your metabolism slows down, your hair starts thinning(What wouldn't I do to have Colin Farell's genes!) , and a whole lot of changes happen, some of which I don't wanna put in words.

Everywhere I turn these days, there's only one fact that stares at me in the face, screaming its lungs out, stubbornly refusing to just lay down and die. The unrelenting truth is that I'm more than 2 years into my third decade of this current life (there's the Tantric touch again; must be all these Spiritual books that I keep reading), and that I possibly no longer fit the term 'young'. Why you ask? Ok, I present my case:

You-are-old-dumbass!-Incident 1: Was watching Maria Sharapova (what legs maan!!) playing at the ...err...umm...never mind (need to start taking those memory tablets again), playing at some goddamn Open sponsored by some goddamn bank in some goddamn country. And as it happens with me quite often (especially after watching a member of that divine species Homo Womano Longo Legens), that night I dreamt I was playing with Maria herself (just a harmless match; nothing else I swear!). And I was getting whipped badly - err guess 'whipped' is a misleading verb, but you get the 'picture'. And out of the blue...kaRAAASH, woke up to reality and a really sore head. And amidst all the throbbing pain and the regrets of an unfinished match, it dawned on me that she was too young!! Yeah, she's a wonderful, leggy 18 now, but for a guy like me, 18 is just too young (ha! this is where Maria Sharapova gets stood up by me). And if you are as poor a judge of age as I am, that takes a lot of fun out of the little "Bird Watching" that one indulges in - you are never sure how old she is.

Girls just keep getting younger...sheesh, and prettier;). And adding to that list of eligible-but-young are a whole trove of 'ilam' actresses who are (to put it mildly) heart-wrenchingly-soul-shatteringly-sleep-deprivingly beautiful. Just too young. Ain't that a pity?

Can't-turn-back-time- Incident 2: Next come the little buggers on the street playing cricket. Damn them! Damn them all to hell! They call out, "Unnnnnncle! Ball Uncle! please Unclllllllle! Unccccccccle." Arrrgh. Gaaahh. I pretend not to hear. But it rings out again:"UNCCCCLE." There's no mistaking its meaning or the subject in question. I turn around slowly. Uncle?? UNCLE??! who? me?? UNNCLE?? Naa, you must be mistaken, but the kid looks at me in the eye, grinning menacingly, I'll say that which must not be said if you don't throw the ball. I sigh. This surely must be my day of reckoning, I start to think, stroll over to where the ball has rolled dead to a stop, pick it up and vent all my frustration and anger in a searing throw back to the kid, Take that, Now who's the Uncle huh? But he catches it effortlessly, Is that all you've got?, smirks, and calls out,"Thanks UNCLLE! Good throw!" Gaaaaaaaaaaaah. Thanks kid. Thanks a lot. I needed that. Every bit of that. What goes around comes around. Karma I guess (here I go again!).

Down-the-hill-from-now-on-Incident 3: "What in God's name am I doing here?" I wonder, as I stand barefooted in the depressingly damp confines of my bathroom. Especially as I'd set out for the kitchen to grab some grub. Evidently the kitchen and the bathroom had switched places. Elementary(did I hear someone say "absent-minded"?).

"Now why doesn't the frikkin radio work?" I say out aloud, fiddling with the remote, pressing the buttons on the panel into their sockets until there's nothing left to press. I curse the Korean manufacturer, questioning his parentage, doubting his sexual proclivities, until I look up...Damn, dammmmmn, Why does this have to happen to me? How would the radio work? Especially when the remote is the TV's??

Brute Fact 1 : Nobody holds 'Summer camps' for people over twenty. Is there any chance I can sue for discrimination/emotional trauma?

Brute Fact 2: The body becomes an alarm clock. It's disgusting, especially when your visits to the loo start following a time table.

Last-nail-in-the-coffin: Nothing else is more enlightening about my age than nosy relatives asking pointed questions about my "eligibility". And to top it all, Ma begins,"There's this girl...", and the rest dies away as I take to my heels. Spare me, I'm outttta here!! Jesus! Give a guy a break will you??

There. I have it off my chest. Feels better to let it out once in a while. Now I'm at peace with myself. Shaaaanti.

But being "old" does have its benefits -ahem- but that I'll save for a future blog.

Until then, Happy Aging my fellow beings.