Thursday, February 18, 2010

Saga of The Permanent Chaddi

So I live in a girl’s hostel. My guy friends outside the university seem to have an unduly glamorous picture of this place. They imagine us girls walking around in sexy little numbers, taking our clothes off all the time, and having regular pillow fights and oil massages. Little do they know what actually transpires here. The wonder that is the “dad's tshirt” and loose pyjamas, which is what most people wear here. Except for the occasional odd character who, just for the fun of it, will wear a cocktail dress, heels and makeup and strut her stuff in the corridor. (You know who you are.) But that's not the point of this blog post.

In our lovely graffiti-ed bathroom, there is of course, graffiti. There are also a couple of post-its stuck on the loo doors, reminding people to please take their underwear with them when they leave the place. Someone clearly disregarded this piece of advice. Around 3 weeks ago, someone left their undies hanging in one of the stalls. No one knows who it belongs to, and obviously no one wants to touch it. The owner flat out refuses to claim it, clearly. So it just remains there balefully, abandoned, outcast, labeled "The Permanent Chaddi". It’s even become a landmark of sorts. When someone had to leave me their keys while going out of town, she left me a message that she would leave it hanging next to The Permanent Chaddi. Someone else suggested immortalising it by making a paper mache cast of it.

Ah, the joys of hostel life.

Hey guys... Sexy, ain’t it?

Thursday, February 11, 2010

What would MacGyver do?

Today morning, I had a test. Hence, I thought I would get up early and study. I dutifully set an alarm for 6 am on my cellphone and fell asleep.

6 am and my alarm rings. Snooze. Rings again. Snooze.

In the depths of my barely-there consciousness, I convinced myself that there were mysterious happenings underfoot. Why else would Shipping up to Boston be played right at me very loudly every 5 minutes? Adopting a proper MacGyver style, I made it my mission to hit the snooze button as soon as the alarm rang, so as to thwart The Enemy's plan of destroying the world, which my timely action would definitely resolve. Every time I jabbed that button, I felt a sense of accomplishment. Of getting the best of someone who was trying to bring me down. I single-mindedly focused on my Very Important Mission which would serve humankind. They would thank me later for my heroic deed. Or I would die a heroes death, unlamented. Unacclaimed. Sigh...

Needless to say, my test sucked.

The really sad part? I'm not exaggerating in the least about any of this.

I need help.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Hello boys

How times have changed. I've reached a point in life where I'm confident of myself, I'm trying new things, discovering I'm quite good at them to boot, my ego is nice and happy having been treated to a spa weekend, and I'm actually considering taking first steps, something I never thought I would do. No one could be more surprised that I am.

On the other hand, people think I'm a boy. Just so we're all clear, I'm not. A boy. To be precise. Three times this past month I have been told I look like a guy. A hot athletic guy. But a guy, nonetheless.

Gah. If actual straight (added for all you wise asses out there) bona fide boys did not attempt to hit on me from time to time, I might get some odd sort of complex.