prada and past lives

shortly after concluding my third half assed workout of the day (i'm training for the himalayas), i squatted, wearing my sweaty walmart sports bra and old navy zebra panties, in front of the minifridge to assess its contents. dinner tonight composed of a melody of thrice ransacked leftovers; some green sauce that once contained vegetables of a yellow persuasion, a tablespoon of dahl, and a cup of biriyani (muslim fried rice) that i made a friend pack and give to me when he didn't finish it at lunch saturday afternoon (i'm turning into my cheap-ass grandma). the crowning majesty of the whole affair was some slightly overripe yogurt, eaten out of the plastic tub and sloshed with honey.

you know how some people feel like they are one age their entire life? the 50 year old kid syndrome? the "cool" mom who thinks she's her teenager's friend? they frat boy who never made it past 7th grade in the school of maturation?

yeah, well i'm doomed to be 35 for the rest of my life. not the sapient and settled prada-clad portent of modern success, but the frazzled and slightly overweight single who has changed professions four times, still struggles to make rent, and feels her biological clock ticking like a stack of distaff dynamite.

there is something intensely unholy inside of me.

there is this guy, "Kumar," who guides people through meditation and sometimes regress them into "past lives". Now, people have called me many things in my life, but one thing they have never been able to legitimately label me as is a hippie. yes, i do yoga, but i also relish ribeye steak and worship at the house of Marc Jacobs. i'm not really into all this new age shit, but i have an acquaintance (also a skeptic) who went on saturday and had more than a trippy time. she said that she was able to remember her past life and the number and names of her kids, that she died at 42 of throat cancer, and all these other fantastic details.

freaky.

i think i'll make an appointment for sometime this week. maybe i'll figure out why i feel like those thirty somethings who star in novels like Confessions of a Shopaholic. maybe i'll waste 1500 rupees.

here is something else unholy: a man in deveraj market who sells human hair.