These Small Wonders

We all want to cultivate an image.  Not caring about an image is one of the most carefully cultivated images around.  I wouldn't wanna come off as classless, pedestrian, blaise, cheesy.  Unless the cheesiness is supposed to be ironical.  Hipster style.  Yeah, you know what I am talking about.  You wish you didn't.  Hell, I wish I didn't.  But we all know it.  So we have special friends for special times and occassions (I swear, if anyone so much as mentions that ridiculous Airtel jingle, I will go apeshit).  We are who we are with each one, but there is hardly ever an opportunity to deposit all your eggs in one basket.  It looks mean, it sounds mean, confiding in one, hanging out with the other, frivolity with the third, discussing hobbies with the fourth, dabbling in the "dark arts" (tsk, i meant dark humour, meanness, backbiting, bitching etc people.  Get your minds out of the gutter you call your social networking wall stream) with someone else.  

  But you love each aspect and each moment.  In general, you dare not come off as anything except one whos been there, done that, outgrown that.  He who knoweth all.  Ironic isn't it.  Ignorance is bliss, blissful contentment is something that should be evident to all, yet this is one bliss that we want to hide.  We need to appear as smart alecs, wise ass know it alls.  We desperately hide our guilty pleasures to create a more restrained refined self.  

And the beautiful irony is, that wherever you are, whoever you meet, the other person is doing the exact same thing.  Its like Mr. and Mrs. Smith without the gorgeous, chiselled actors, stylized violence and the fancy guns.  OK, so its nothing like Mr. and Mrs. Smith but you get the point.  Its all about the games we play, the social contract and what not.  Except, apparently no one read it through before signing on the dotted line.  

  And when you do get the chance to break free, to indulge into the guilty pleasures, it feels awesome.  The lewd songs, the superficially popcornesque movies, the downright crass, break-your-head-on-a-wall frustrating PJs where the inevitable grin escapes your lips even as you're beating your forehead.  Jay and me chatting the other day, talk about the paltry take home.  He hears mine and immediately quips - Hafta Chup Chaap Time to Time Pohochaa Dena Ghar Pe.   Almost before my mind has processed it, the retort is being typed by my fingers - Hafta Le Le Tu, But WEEKENDS Main Mere Paas Hi Rakhunga.  Crass.  Devoid of Meaning.  Lacking in tact, character or class.  But I'll be damned if I didn't have the biggest most retard like grin (oops, you're not supposed to use that word now.  It's politically incorrect) on my face.  And I bet it was likewise for him.

  

  Its ironic on another level too.  I just realised.  Being accepting, showing acceptance is a good thing.  The more you can tolerate and accept, the more magnanimous, mature you are.  That makes you the bigger person.  But in our heads, it makes more sense to come across as selective, disapproving people with only the most refined pursuits on our minds.  Soon you lose track of what you like and what you hate and what you pretend to hate and what you like ironically, whats real and whats a guilty pleasure, why you need to feel guilty in the first place.  You seal your fate when you look down your nose.  Its the ironies, the sarcasms, the snarkiness and the take downs I tell you.  We are so hung up in having fun at the expense of things, we leave no room to like them later.  Our hypocrisy leads us to hide our likes and dislikes, lest we come across as HYPOCRITES.  Like I said.  Ironic.