Mango Marshmallow, Strawberry Shortcake!

                            

What Ayesha Thought 4

      

I should hang myself with a few strands of my own hair. Or pour rat poison in my cereal, or even better, drown in a couple of sissy Mills and Boons. I wore lipstick today and a nauseatingly sweet lavender perfume before meeting him for movie. What am I trying to do? Woo him, like some lusty, pouty lipped, pink princess of the pacific? Oh god, I’m barely making sense to myself anymore!

Seriously, why am I being bothered by what he likes and what he doesn’t? I shouldn’t be giving a flying crocodile’s wrinkled arse about if he likes Biryani or if Pizza suits him like the rest of us low lives. But I care, and it’s driving me insane. Since when did I get considerate enough to care what someone else liked for dinner? The restaurant always had to be my pick. I like Chinese, so Chinese it should be. But it’s not, it’s Biryani now, because Omar likes BriyanI. No correction – He louuuves ‘The Biryani’ (louves as in with the toungue rolling inward, yes that’s how much he loves it). And ironically, back in the hour I didn’t seem to have much of a problem with it.

The issue isn’t what we ordered , or where we went, or whose choice it was. The whole hullabaloo is about this newly found ‘care’ and affection that I’ve developed over the last few days. I’m not the loving, caring sorts. I’m the mean, spoilt, My way-or-the-Highway kind of a person and I’m comfortable being just that. This new improved me is like a clone of me that is an inch-to-inch exact replica, just better behaved. Like really better behaved.  I’m not kidding, I didn’t curse a single time this evening, not even under my breathe. It’s scary.

What’s all the more infuriating is this new association I have developed with Bolly songs. I swear there’s a song each for every occasion. They just trigger off when I see him, or when he gives me a ‘dude hug’ or when he leaves. Creepy! Everything’s started to feel so ‘Yash Raj Films’. There’s the classic breeze that comes out of nowhere to randomly blow my hair (even though I’m just left looking like a caveman after the fifteen seconds of sexiness pass), and then there is rain that adds to monotony. I swear I sang in London’s sticky drizzle.

I feel so Mango Marshmallow and Strawberry Shortcake. Really, I feel all gooey and swampy and diabetically sweet these days. The tone I talk to him, have I ever been that nice to myself? Where’d the chick with phenol on her tongue go?

I’m losing it. Not just hating the fact that I’m turning into The Pinky Peachy Princess, but also the fact that it makes me smile- at an arbitrary change.