Get me more Choglet

Is my life good or is my life bad?

I gave two stories in the last two weeks and both were done while struggling maniacally to balance pages. I was a little glad of being able to pull both off.
And then there was today. Of course, remember dog, beautiful black, silky length of her, curling up beside you every night and looking up with soulful eyes, always. Which made me so content with the present that I didn’t feel the need to make vacation plans.
Yes, today. Harrowing, harrowing nightmare, of endless complaints, accusation, and I felt rage coursing through me like a living thing that could influence me in a way that seemed most tempting to give in to. I know, I now know what makes good people behave in ways that seem horrifying even to them, of ways of being that wasn’t a part of their images of themselves in the toughest of situations. ‘I am my father’s daughter’ is a phrase that resonates with me for all the non-praiseworthy reasons. I understand often these days what made him act the way he did all that time, what must life have been for him and what it must have taken for him to not drop it all and go away somewhere where there was not this.
And then again, perhaps we do not. Perhaps that is our culture. Perhaps we are quieter, in a very Buddha-like way, perhaps we accept that things will be a certain way and rework our worlds to accommodate it.

Uh, long talk break
Life doesn’t seem so bad now. Even though you have to demand that for your birthday you want a strawberry studded cake with dinner and boyfriend’s closest friends on the list of invitees, beaming for having been invited. Or at least I would like to meet them casually too. Though I don’t really mind for the most part. Being a giant extended family is eminently avoidable. Mane, I know what’s happening at their end and vice versa, I think.

So it’s ended for today, I think. What occasioned this lekha, ie. Will probably start again tomorrow.

I gave in two churidar kurta pieces to the tailor to be made. It’s a bad world out there, where churidar wearers are at the mercy of tailors. If you are very lucky, your tailor will get your design and fit approximately right. If you are not, you might lose the material (as it happened last time), you might get a completely different design (even though the tailor notes down the cuts and measurements on his part of the bill) or get clothes double/ half your style. I was outraged at this recently, till I found that this is de rigueur. And boyfriend agrees, and he comes from a, er, vintage tailoring family.

See, how all problems in life are solved not by taking steps to correct what’s not working, but by adopting a Zen-like calm, as Bridget Jones would say, to take everything in your stride. Crazy family, insidious tailors.

Edited to add: eeeeyuk, is this a smarmy post. Door how beyadob!