I've not hit a quarter century yet, so I think, perhaps not. That is, of course, assuming that there is a statute of limitation on angst. The only reason I'd think so is because I wouldn't want to be judged. Then again, I am writing on a platform open to all 7 billion plus people on this planet, but more scarily, my family, future employers and future......
Also, it's important to document this part of my personality; the 2 AM tragic diva who revels in negativity, insomnia, procrastination and warped pop-psychology.
Now that I have discredited myself adequately enough for my audience to know with utmost certainty that the following is all inanity, I can write the truth.
I am laying here, laptop in bed, hair oiled and wrapped in an old dupatta while I think of the things that bother me when I let them.
Like this whole marriage thing for instance and the fact that now that I'm in my 20s and socially obligated to fulfill my reproductive potential, I am no longer treated as the gender neutral, achievement hoarding happy little pack rat that I was. I'm suddenly a woman and must accept my role as one, complete with pain inducing heels and accident inducing saris.
Traditionally brought up Indian girls should not hit 23 without thinking about marriage, without welcoming the pressure, the onslaught of the circling MBA holders from good-families, preferably foreign-educated. We should welcome the zombie-horde, whether in the form of an actual 'match' or hypothetical situations, because well, it's just that time in our lives. Imagine that, 23 is the time in my life to welcome the idea of marrying a member of a hypothetical herd of suitably matched zombie men. Or since in my case, the discussion has only gone as far as theory with no actual frightening apparition on the horizon, perhaps we should call these elusive men ghosts, of a sort.
23 years of hard work, I’m at a crucial point in my fledgling career – unemployed and done with my Bachelor’s degree – and ‘the elders’ tell me that this is something I need to think seriously about. The kind of man I would want in my life. Hell, I don’t even know what kind of Shampoo and Conditioner works for my hair yet, how do I figure out what kind of man fits into my life? Assuming of course that they can be typed and sorted so easily into neat categories. (Not in my experience, excepting certain universalities).
So, if I were my sensible USMLEing day self, I would say, what’s the problem. It’s just a matter of timing. You want the same thing, so just do your own thing and wait it out and this way or that, a suitable bakra will surely come along lay his head on the chopping block.
But my crazy night self rages at the injustice of it all.
Oh to be demeaned by these paltry considerations! When I have put my sweat and blood into my work these 23 years, am I now to be denied the fruit of all that learning - the ability to make and revel in my choices and decisions?! When I get married, shouldn't the man and moment be of my choice? But no - and all for the sake of diminutive man and obsolete custom. Biologically, I have no need for anything more than a sperm sample from a donor of vaguely Indian origin. To be pushed and prodded to think of that which has no place in my life, the yielding to destiny, the falling into my traditionally ascribed gender role. When all I want to do is be a great doctor and travel the world and live in an apartment in
"UNSEX ME HERE!" I'd much rather say.
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
