Mrs Goody Two Shoes - III

Living in adland

My eyes fill up with tears when these ads show the wives washing, cleaning, caring all day. How well they know my life. Except I can't do all that with their robotic smiles

7 a.m. Lights, camera, action. I wake up, slip on my milk white silk gown, run my fingers through my hair in this indolent, sensuous sort of way, and head for the bathroom for the early morning beautification process.
Cut to Scene II. My lustrous hair is tied neatly in a bun and I splash water on my face in slow motion, and then look up in all splendour, smiling at the mirror as if to brighten up the whole world.
Scene III. I have strolled into the kitchen with my gown swishing in an early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight falls angularly on my face as I put the water on boil, dip Tetley green tea in it and then, with the tray in my hand, lovingly wake up my husband with a mint-fresh kiss. I smile at the world (again) and say, "I make sure that my husband begins his day in a healthy way. Do you?"

7 a.m. The alarm goes off. I am all groggy but there's no way out. There's no real Tetley in my kitchen, I look a mess from last night's movie marathon and drinking binge (yes, I do that, although the neighbours don't quite know), I feel pretty much like scum, the sun actually never peeps through my tiny kitchen window... but my life still feels like an ad film.
Come on, we know the kinds. It is a world where shiny, happy wives wear lipstick at home, are dressed in their wardrobe best and are running around to make sure the husband stays healthy and happy. When the husband fails to run the race in the son's school, it is time to change the oil she uses, of course. (Or was it the sugar? Or the cereal?). Then comes sorting and cleaning piles of laundry, making sure that the cuffs and collars of the husbands are squeaky clean (is that an expression the wife is allowed to use with reference to clothing?) or vacuuming and cooking.
And I stare at them with bewilderment. How do these guys know my life so well? When I'd rather be manicuring my nails, I am stirring the soup. Then I am scurrying to wash, dry, iron, arrange in neat stacks.
After all this, chachiji next door gives the husband a sympathetic look, throws me a lovingly admonishing look, "Look at the boy [she calls him a BOY for heaven's sake... ugh!]. He's looking so dry [chachiji, that's because he isn't drunk] and thin [you mean, not overweight, right?]. Feed him properly beta."
That's not where it ends. She has a dose intended specifically for me. "And you look so dark. What is that, a pimple? Arrey apply some cream-shreem. How haggard you look beside this young boy."
My temper had hit the skies by then. "Sure chachiji, I will do that," I give a saccharine smile. And loathe myself for doing that.