Help! They Know What's Good for Me!

This has been a year of learning. First, it began with the pregnancy. It appears that absolutely everyone is an expert on absolutely everything. They’d kindly dole out all sorts of advice on how I was carrying my baby to whether it was a boy or a girl to what I should and shouldn’t be eating to how my delivery would go (we’ll call those the psychic lot who could look into the future and predict my childbirth experience). Then came the baby and with it experts on child rearing. In our day we didn’t do this, here’s why your baby’s crying, here’s why he isn’t crying, here’s what you’re doing wrong, etc. I’ve been told to ignore these words of wisdom but it’s fairly difficult to rise above it all and be patient, especially when I’m so severely sleep deprived. So instead I’ve decided to write about it in feeble hopes of getting it out of my system. That, and I have seven minutes to kill before my much-talked about baby wakes up again.

Help! There's an Alien Growing in Your Belly!

One of the many things I know I won't miss about being pregnant is the
endless commenting about the size of my belly. I've been told the
comments are mostly harmless, but harmless things can also get to be
annoying.

Needless to say, this isn't OK. If a person looks ready to pop,
explode, blast into space, or self-destruct, chances are she already
knows. The same goes for the way she's carrying her baby: low, high,
on her head, or in her thighs- again, she's aware of it. If you're
doing this just to be congratulated on your astute observation skills,
well then well done! Now take those keen talents elsewhere.

Fe Fi Feline Fum

Lately, the cat’s been bothering me. He’s a tuxedo cat, about four years old, friendly and cute—qualities that can get to be quite bothersome. Consider this, for example: Every day, I’ll come home from work around 5 p.m. and he’ll give me the warmest welcome, rubbing himself against my legs, following me around, waiting to be picked up so he can nuzzle his nose in my hair. It’s just too much for someone to have to endure on a daily basis, but here I am quietly putting up with this affection day in and day out with no respite in sight.

Happy times are behind us.

Happiness, where you at?

Ruth Whippman’s on to something. In a recent article she talks about America’s desperate pursuit of happiness, which quite often seems to end up in a large pile of dissatisfaction. After comparing the ever-positive Americans to the perpetually disgruntled Brits and revealing statistics that claim Americans rank lower than Brits on the happy scale, she wraps up with a simple, “So they may as well stop trying so hard.”

Easier said than done. Ever since I’ve come to the United States, it’s largely the pursuit of happiness and perfection that’s driven every one of my decisions. I’m constantly looking to improve on life, find “true” happiness (as opposed to the fraudulent kind), and “real” success. I’m pretty sure I have a version of all of these wondrous things, but still, one can’t be too sure.

And so, I keep at it. Working, slogging, struggling to be happy. Ignoring the fact that I’m already there, because it just can’t be this easy. Happiness can’t lie in simplicity, surely not. There’s got to be more to happiness and I refuse to rest until I find it.

A Writing Exercise Among Friends

OK so I’m writing. I’m writing because I promised Rhitu I’d write and if I don’t write I’d owe her royalties for my unpublished (and as life would have it, as yet unwritten) book. So I’m writing.

I don’t have a topic per se, so I’m going to have to make one up. I just read Colin Nissan’s diary of a woman trapped inside a man’s body trapped inside a beaver’s body, so that topic’s out (terribly unfortunate). I've chosen this very moment to write about nothing, because in my mind, I haven’t spent enough time procrastinating today. I’m not panicked enough about the rapidly approaching deadline, but I’m pretty sure a wasted day will tackle that feeling head on.

Rhitu and I plan to write everyday. A pointless line, a rogue thought, unrelated words of imperfection—we’ve told each other anything will do (we’re very considerate that way). I’ve decided to post our (or at least, my) ramblings online, so my dedicated subscribers (shoutout to Ashish and Michael) might consider hitting the unsubscribe button. On to more promising pastures then …
Divya, 04.10.12

Today I sneezed up a storm. Spring allergies, or hay fever, they say. There’s pollen all over the place. There’s pollen in the air, pollen on cars, pollen on your hair, forming a light fluffy, dusty layer, a little like dandruff but slightly more friendly in appearance. Only it isn’t. Friendly, that is. Breathe in these harmless-looking, fluffy particles, and your immune system will mount a sudden battle against them, as did mine today. And you know what’s in store next.

To be fair, it isn’t the pollen’s fault. It didn’t ask to be breathed in. In fact, a trip up my nasal passages and down the rest of my respiratory system is for all practical purposes, a dead end for it. Its sole purpose in life—to pollinate—will now forever remain unfulfilled. All it wanted (and is meant to do) was to find a pretty flower of its own species and travel down its stigma, and fertilize an ovule, patiently waiting in the ovary for the pollen’s arrival. All of this just to ensure that the plant bears fruits/seeds and there is a next generation for its species.

Instead, it's ended up in my body, along with millions of other doomed pollen grains of goodness knows how many species. Now, they and my immune system are at battle with each other. And until my body can win the battle or just calm down, realizing that these are benign pollen particles meaning no harm to my body, I will continue to sneeze endlessly. And each time I sneeze, my friendly colleagues will patiently continue to bless me, as they did today.
Rhitu, 04.10.12

Breathe Easy

It’s amazing how much an overactive immune system can slow you down. For the last three weeks now, I’ve been plagued with allergies so bad, there are moments I can’t breathe, can’t swallow, and really can’t do much else. I’m now feeling very sorry for myself in a first-world sort of way.

Allergies are the result of an oversensitive immune system that misidentifies harmless organisms (think pollen, ragweed, mold) as terribly evil and sends out its armed forces to fight them. Non-allergy victims tasked with describing the condition will refer to symptoms as mostly inconvenient, but otherwise harmless. Mostly inconvenient is what happens when you put a slice of bread in a toaster and it pops back less brown than you’d hoped. Allergies are more than mostly inconvenient—they’re energy-draining, misery-inducing, life-sucking bastards. And they’re turning me into a very angry person—not at all a good look for me, in the spring or otherwise.

::growl::

Earth, Air, Fire, Water

Every week, for the last four weeks, I’ve come away from a three-hour pottery class feeling down and out. Pottery’s a difficult hobby and I’m reminded of my lack of knack every seven days. But oddly enough, at the end of every class, I’ve also come away with some sort of lesson that’s revealed itself so trepidatiously that it’s only the next morning that I fully understand what I learned the previous night.

The first night my instructor told me that I seemed unsure of myself and suggested I try things out on my own first rather than turning to him for help. On the drive back home I dove into a deep hole of self-doubt and finally decided that people just didn’t get me. The next morning it dawned on me that his advice was, in fact, useful not only to pottery class but everyday life. The second week I learned that staying relaxed almost guaranteed a good pot and doubting one’s hand, one’s ability, and oneself would leave me with chunks of clay that simply refused to take shape. Week three reminded me that comparing my non-existent pot to those of my fellow potters would only lead to perfectly crafted feelings of jealousy and week four—in all its imperfection—scorned my attempts to create a perfect pot.

Still, at the end of every class, while waiting for the evening to wind down, I’ve snuck upstairs to a room with nothing but pots, books, and music and sat quietly soaking in the irony of the evening: So then here’s to a hobby gone wrong and an experience better than I could ever imagine.