For the love of cheap puns: Insight, my foot

Revlon has a nail paint shade called Earthquake. I have earthquake on my toes. I badly wanted Earthquake on my toes to be the subject of this post, but I pulled back, concerned about how it would look on your feed reader and what you would think (of me, etc).

So, anyway, back to my feet. Pay attention. I don't have nice feet. They look like bhaturas, like, ‘dough flattened to be fried’, if you will. I have said this before. But in those blingy sandals, bought last Monday from Hide Out, right after that coffee oreo shake at the BIG Big Chill in Khan Market (because, digression: at the small Big Chill, my friend -- soon to start a cooking blog, watch this space -- has put into my head that for all you know they may not be using oreo-oreo cookies, instead passing off sunfeast biscuits as oreos)

Digression over. Where was I? Yes, right after that coffee oreo shake at the BIG Big Chill, and incidental cheesy food, my feet, even in their not-pedicured state, are a happy lot.

I felt this was important for you to know, so that we can really connect on a one to one vain level.

Later last week, I caved. I bought another, pinchingly more expensive pair. But when three of your male colleagues comment on their own (or with only marginal coaxing) on the newer-still pair, you know it's a good buy. "They'll go well with your Julia Roberts pants,” said one divine gentleman who sits two elbows from my work station. I love him. Thank you, sweet P, for being insightful, and a complete cut above the rest.

I was talking about this with my friend Y, over very bad cold coffee (not a patch on the coffee Oreo, sun feast or not). He’s gay, and that’s a stereotype – us, sitting, coffee, bitching, animated -- sure sure, but why, why can men not be more, there's no other word, insightful?! How difficult is it to be only a little brave and move away from the obvious?

This is my new thing: hating cliche of thought. Well maybe not new, but look how cool it sounds. Trite is bad. It's very bad. You may as well say take care before you put the phone down. I mean, I get it. Sometimes, 'take care' is a gap-filler. It has to be said. But every time, Take Care? YOU take care, asshole! I'll do what I want. Don't tell me to take care.

Please Sir, if this is coming across as a hormonal rant, know that this is not the time of the month. I just feel strongly about not taking care.

On the other hand, I quite like How Are You. It's polite. And has potential for a conversation to be built around it, providing, again, you be be honest and avoid, Fine, thank you, and you?

A compliment as run of the mill as 'Nice shoes, babe' is lame. I will still preen and say thanks ya, because saying even that much makes you sweet, but buck up, you slothful bags of testosterone. Say something that a girl likes to hear. Refer Sweet P’s Julia Roberts line. It's true. I have Julia Roberts pants. They're not hers. They're mine, named after her. And in them, I feel like a goddess on stilts.

I have to say,
the heel is my favourite part.
And also that at the time of the photograph,
there was no Earthquake on my toes, more like a beige Free Spirit

I texted my boyfriend after buying those stilts. Something like, can you please say something that will make me feel better about spending so much on this divine pair of shoes, which truth be told, is pinching me just a leeetle bit near my toes? I wait for a reply. It comes in one shrill beep – “can't think of anything”. Ladies and gentleman, for anyone who wanted the slightest insight into my love life, this is it.

This, by the way, is also what my boss and I were talking about over coffee and dosa yesterday. But that is for another time. Let this be the post about insight, and the important matter of footwear, ladies ka, size 39.