Maybe I should start worrying. Maybe I really should. It's the done thing; afterall my life's headed God 'lone knows where and I'm just sitting pretty letting the brazen tide ride me. All because to laze is to be so conveniently resigned to what they say is preordained. (fingers crossed) Look at Garfield; lasagne's just flying at him out of nowhere. No connection, just inspiration, and envy. I can't bring myself to fret too much, which is probably a good thing, from a blood pressure point of view. I mean it better be a huge deal if I'm going to shrug off complacence, and start getting myself worked up about any teensy weensy problem that comes ambling in through the cat flap. Especially when they harp on life being choked with hiccups, and spread over speed breakers like nobody's business. Why then, I ask, shall I allow myself to get tired coping with life, and have bags under my eyes this early on in my youth, why, why why? Which is of course not to say I have the hide of a useless hippo, like we were talking about the other evening while eating cold, canteen dal chawal in the dusty outdoors. Hippos are cute though; always wanted a hippo soap dish. Sigh. To return to whatever it was that took up mind space before my hippo digression, this non worrying numb state of affairs is very obviously my father's gene. What a man -- an insufficient ode -- but what a man!; even as it is a borrowed phrase from an ape boyfriend who doubts his intelligence. [Possessive, defensive, all serious, and outright indignation!] But then my gaadi ka bumper fell off at IIT -- smack in the middle of busy traffic intersection -- and daddy's li'l girl cried, and ape swung to the rescue, so all is forgiven. And that is that. Those are the margins that have to be made; we women have these phases, often once a month for days at a stretch; rabid mood swings, PMS, frustration, waking up at unearthly hours with a want to chop eight inches off my gorgeous hair and do exactly that the next day (it's looking good), then feel lighter, but go back to being frustrated -- all this shrill yet good hearted flibbertigibbet-ness is the mother's gene, and in all fairness and quite unequivocally so: what a woman. Never a dull moment. (Yet another insufficient ode by a lazy ass, cum deluded hippo.) On top of which my stomach muscles have decided to become pouches. Kangaroos, I don't think have these petty worries. To be a lazy marsupial and have nothing to for the whole day but bounce; the apt background score for their bouncing would be the fancy Motorola's camera click -- boiiinnggg, and it reverberates like Mr Saucepan man if he ever fell on his wares.