After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sneaking around
After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Monday, August 10, 2009
If life was a beach…
(Published yesterday...)
…I would have dry towels. Blame it on the monsoon, but my towels never dry fully. Neither does anything else, not unless it is almost pure polyester or some other drip dry fabric that practically repels water and seems like manna from the gods of mercy against mildew. So doing laundry during the three-odd months that it rains in Mumbai can be a nightmarish experience. Things tend to get dirty easily, what with all the mud around, and need to be washed regularly, but never seem to dry completely so that they can be stored. Towels, especially, since they need to be used more, are constantly made damp after baths, hand washes, drying dishes, whatever. And since they are part of the hygiene process, they need to be clean, both visibly and otherwise.
So just before the monsoon every year I have a good scrabble through the linen closet. With Small Cat burrowing into piles of sheets, ambushing me from under heaps of sandalwood-scented blankets and leaping over stacks of pillowcases, I work hard to sort the towels-that-dry from towels-that-never-dry-enough. The first to make the latter type are the new acquisitions; like new handkerchiefs, new towels seem to be waterproofed in some way, perhaps with starch or some kind of fabric softener that makes them appealingly fluffy and soft, just what you always want in a towel that you will wrap yourself in. Be it various Turkish towel offerings from Bombay Dyeing, Welspun, store brands and more esoteric ware from high-street boutique home-stores, all priced between about Rs 99 to Rs 2,500, it is only after a couple of washes, and vigorous ones at that, that the fabric becomes truly absorbent, mopping up whatever moisture it is required to mop up, be it just-washed dishes or bodies. And gradually, the older they get, the rougher they tend to become, providing a delicious scouring of skin as they wipe away all those beads of water. Just when you have them at that perfect consistency, when they wipe, rub and then line-dry without too much aggravation, it is time to turn them into dusters or use them to line the linen closet where they once occupied pride of place. Some towels have a synthetic component. They dry fast. But they do not feel like they mop up quite as well as the real thing.
But tradition – as is often the case – has the answer to this problem, at least for me. The thorthamundus, thin cotton bath sheets that are used in south India (often seen in Malayalam movies wrapped around the women’s freshly washed hair), are perfect for this time of year, or any time that there actually is rain. They vary in quality from loosely woven roughness that has raw edges and uneven texture, to more fine pieces that have a neat ‘temple’ style motif at each corner, usually in red or green, are nicely finished at the hems and thicker, finer and more regular in the weave. These useful swathes are generally found in stores in the south Indian strongholds of the city, like Venkateshwara Stores and Mahalakshmi Stores in Matunga, branches of Cooptex, and various other outlets. They are now also available at Fabindia outlets. They may seem inadequate or not very chic, but serve their purpose well, as they have done for generations, mop up moisture, dry off quickly in a gentle breeze and can double up as a mini-mundu, mini-lungi or lower body covering, at a pinch. Maybe Ranbir Kapoor should have used one of these when he had his big towel moment.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Blood letting
I had to go for a blood test this morning. Which meant that for the last few days, ever since my doctor demanded that a undergo a series of analyses to figure out just why whatever happened to me keeps happening to me, I have been so stressed that my allergies have been acting up big time, which has been making it all such a delightful experience. All that apart, I headed out, Father in tow for moral support, at the crack of dawn this morning to be perforated and donate much of my hard-earned corpuscles to the cause of science and, hopefully, a solution to my various problems, none of which are of any major importance, but all of which are niggling irritants.
So there I was at the hospital, waiting for the process to begin. I started with the pathology department, which to me seemed logical. There I was directed, with a friendly smile, to the accounts department, which is where it all happens – pay and you get what you need, as the mantra goes anywhere in the world. I beamed happily at the lady behind the counter (choose the most intelligent looking person, Father instructed) and she whizzed about clacking keys on her computer and looking bright eyed on whatever she managed to pull up on the screen. Things were moving along briskly and seemingly efficiently. And then we hit a snag. A fairly major one, considering the look on the lady’s face. She looked up at me, smiled sweetly, leaned over and asked her neighbour something, then looked at me again, a tint of apology in her smile, and clacked at more keys, this time a little faster. And then shrugged to herself, looked at me, smiled once more and launched into her explanation.
It turned out that her computer did not list the tests my doctor had indicated I needed to have done. Well, not all of them, at least. So she had to ask around until she figured out what she had to do, during which I had to please sit down on the alarmingly squashy sofa placed against the wall over there, she waved her arm. Obediently, I did, Father close behind me. We waited, smiled occasionally at the still confused lady and waited some more. Finally, inspiration seemed to waft over the telephone connection and some oracle gave her the information she needed. The smile was relieved this time and we trotted over to pay and then continue on our quest. All the requisite papers signed, we walked back to the pathology section, handed in the forms and waited. Finally, when it was my turn, I sat down on the little desk-chair, closed the flap, stretched out my arm and waited, feeling like a prisoner asking for her last meal of, I devoutly hoped, the best chocolate money could buy.
But it was not to be that simple. The lady at the computer found that the cashier’s receipt and the list of tests I needed to have done did not match. We went through a series of smiles, ranging from the friendly to the curious to the apologetic to the resigned. Finally, she gave me another slip of paper that detailed the omissions, told me I had to go back to the accounts department once the blood collection was done, and then I could send the receipt for that further payment back to her while I trotted off to wherever I was headed thereafter. I smiled once more, this time with a certain generous dose of trepidation attached, since it was at last the moment of truth for me: would the needle, the technician and my usually uncooperative vein behave themselves or cause me undue discomfort…once again?
It was a cinch, literally and otherwise. The smiling – why do people who are associated with anything bloody have such sweet smiles? – technician pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt, tied his band around my upper arm, cinched it tight and patted the vein that pulsed blue in the bend of my elbow. He inserted a needle so deftly that I barely felt more than a little and very gently cold point against my skin. Then he proceeded to fill many tubes with richly deeply dark red liquid that was my lifeblood, smiling all the while, but with no vestige of that dire Dracula-like show of teeth that the breed of blood-workers often delight in. I had been most apprehensive for no reason. Pulling the needle out of my arm was a process that I felt quite sharply, but not overly painfully, and it was done. Perhaps the most adverse reaction I had was that the skin of my inner elbow did not like the sticky tape that was placed on the spot the needle had gone in, but that is nothing new. I am allergic to almost everything. Which is why I went through this morning at all!
So there I was at the hospital, waiting for the process to begin. I started with the pathology department, which to me seemed logical. There I was directed, with a friendly smile, to the accounts department, which is where it all happens – pay and you get what you need, as the mantra goes anywhere in the world. I beamed happily at the lady behind the counter (choose the most intelligent looking person, Father instructed) and she whizzed about clacking keys on her computer and looking bright eyed on whatever she managed to pull up on the screen. Things were moving along briskly and seemingly efficiently. And then we hit a snag. A fairly major one, considering the look on the lady’s face. She looked up at me, smiled sweetly, leaned over and asked her neighbour something, then looked at me again, a tint of apology in her smile, and clacked at more keys, this time a little faster. And then shrugged to herself, looked at me, smiled once more and launched into her explanation.
It turned out that her computer did not list the tests my doctor had indicated I needed to have done. Well, not all of them, at least. So she had to ask around until she figured out what she had to do, during which I had to please sit down on the alarmingly squashy sofa placed against the wall over there, she waved her arm. Obediently, I did, Father close behind me. We waited, smiled occasionally at the still confused lady and waited some more. Finally, inspiration seemed to waft over the telephone connection and some oracle gave her the information she needed. The smile was relieved this time and we trotted over to pay and then continue on our quest. All the requisite papers signed, we walked back to the pathology section, handed in the forms and waited. Finally, when it was my turn, I sat down on the little desk-chair, closed the flap, stretched out my arm and waited, feeling like a prisoner asking for her last meal of, I devoutly hoped, the best chocolate money could buy.
But it was not to be that simple. The lady at the computer found that the cashier’s receipt and the list of tests I needed to have done did not match. We went through a series of smiles, ranging from the friendly to the curious to the apologetic to the resigned. Finally, she gave me another slip of paper that detailed the omissions, told me I had to go back to the accounts department once the blood collection was done, and then I could send the receipt for that further payment back to her while I trotted off to wherever I was headed thereafter. I smiled once more, this time with a certain generous dose of trepidation attached, since it was at last the moment of truth for me: would the needle, the technician and my usually uncooperative vein behave themselves or cause me undue discomfort…once again?
It was a cinch, literally and otherwise. The smiling – why do people who are associated with anything bloody have such sweet smiles? – technician pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt, tied his band around my upper arm, cinched it tight and patted the vein that pulsed blue in the bend of my elbow. He inserted a needle so deftly that I barely felt more than a little and very gently cold point against my skin. Then he proceeded to fill many tubes with richly deeply dark red liquid that was my lifeblood, smiling all the while, but with no vestige of that dire Dracula-like show of teeth that the breed of blood-workers often delight in. I had been most apprehensive for no reason. Pulling the needle out of my arm was a process that I felt quite sharply, but not overly painfully, and it was done. Perhaps the most adverse reaction I had was that the skin of my inner elbow did not like the sticky tape that was placed on the spot the needle had gone in, but that is nothing new. I am allergic to almost everything. Which is why I went through this morning at all!
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