I was secretly pleased when the last date for a certain blogging event passed us by, since the missus had written a post that she wanted me to enter for it. The post was not very flattering to me, so I dilly-dallied in the name of being busy with the anti-rape protests and let the last date go past. But as is the fate of all married men, such pleasures are only temporal. The last date got extended and I got bombarded. So, for the sake of family harmony and world peace, here is the post. Please do not read it, do not share it on your networks, and do not vote for it. And please, please, please - do not make the same mistake that I have made � of asking your better half (strike out) dearest spouse to bare his or her soul on your blog!
*****
When I met you first, you were living in a men�s hostel, and I would not be allowed to come inside. Most days when I would come to pick you up on my bike, you would still not be ready, and I would wait outside. Your room had a back door that led down to the bath, and you would stand on the landing, wearing a towel and shave yourself, hanging your mirror on the window grill. You would use a double-edged safety razor and lather up with a brush and a round of shaving soap. I would be sitting on my bike on the other side of the wall and watch you as you lathered up a second time and carefully ran your razor along the contours of your scarred jaw, and wait as you disappeared down the stairs to wash your face. I actually looked forward to this quiet, voyeuristic and almost erotic experience. I might have never told you this but it was quite a turn on.
A couple of years later, we set up home in a two room studio apartment, and though we were still hard up, you graduated to shaving cream and a twin-blade. You would gush after each shave about its swivel head while I would rush to get breakfast ready in time for you to leave for work. On evenings when we would have the energy to go out (yes, there was such a time) you would wait till the last moment and then announce that you wanted to shave. You would point out that it was not a female prerogative to keep the man waiting and then purposely adopt a snail�s pace and explain the nuances of shaving to me as you let the razor glide down your throat, spooning up the lather lovingly and into sensuous mounds. I would sulk and pout, but I loved the clean and smooth look that you would wear when we finally went out. When our cheeks would touch, it was magic. I loved the fact that you wanted to look good and attractive when you would be seen with me.
Your mother used to tell me that you were middle-aged by the time you were in your teens. I realized what she had meant as we moved into our present home three years back, and you showed no interest in doing the place up. Minimalism � that is what you called it. Frugality was your standard response to my choices when we went shopping for furniture or upholstery. There I was all excited to do all the things I had dreamed of, and there you were, a boring bum with a book cover for a face.
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