Saturday night fever and the game of stayin’ alive

9.30am
I
want
to
sit
on
the
balcony
with
my
coffee
and
continue
staring
at
a
boat
cutting
across
the
still
ocean
with
a
plume
of
shimmering
ripples
and
scavenging
birds,
but
I
have
an
urgent
to-do
list.
It
starts
with
managing
my
portfolio
which,
thanks
to
Trump’s
tariffs,
is
making
me
see
red
figuratively,
and
on
the
trading
app.
I
call
my
accountant
and
while
waiting
for
her
to
pick
up
the
phone,
I
start
jotting
down
a
weekly
menu
for
the
family.
I
can’t
cook
nor
do
I
have
an
avid
interest
in
food
besides
soya
chaklis.
Yet,
this
menu
planning
is
by
default
my
department
until
I
die,
or
if
I
am
lucky,
get
dementia
and
can’t
recall
anyone’s
favourite
dishes.
The
cheeriest
thing
this
morning
was
a
thoughtful
email
from
the
kind
folks
at
Myntra
informing
me
that
I
can
avail
of
their
46%
Happy
Women’s
Day
discount
on
a
black
seamless
tummy
&
thigh
shaper.
While
there
is
merit
in
acknowledging
the
progress
women
have
made
by
having
a
dedicated
day
to
celebrate
our
wins,
sometimes
it
does
feel
like
a
relay
race.
Every
generation
passes
the
baton
forward,
only
to
find
the
next
leg
of
the
race
is
also
uphill;
we
are
dressed
in
shaping
underwear
and
stilettos
and
are
still
underpaid.

Credit:
Chad
Crowe

1pm
At
lunch
with
my
sister,
I
decline
dessert.
‘I
don’t
want
Saturday
night
me
short-changing
the
Sunday
morning
me,’
I
tell
her.

She
frowns.
‘Are
you
stoned?
What
the
hell
does
that
even
mean?’
‘We
indulge
our
Saturday
night
versions,
by
which
I
mean
our
present
selves,
and
leave
our
future
or
Sunday
morning
versions
to
clean
up
the
mess,’
I
reply.
‘One
drinks,
the
other
suffers.
One
binges,
the
other
repents.’
When
she
looks
puzzled,
I
tell
her
about
‘The
Substance’,
the
Demi
Moore
horror
movie
that
changed
my
perspective.
A
washed-up
ageing
actress
injects
herself
with
a
green
serum
that
spawns
a
younger,
better
version
of
herself.
They
are
supposed
to
time-share
their
existence,
seven
days
in
each
body.
‘Remember
you
are
one,’
the
serum
dealer
warns
them.
But
the
younger
one
keeps
overstaying,
partying,
and
draining
the
other
older
body,
which
rapidly
decays.
The
film
is
about
ageing
and
the
societal
pressure
on
women’s
bodies
and
self-worth.
The
absolute
horror
for
me
was
seeing
the
two
bodies
side
by
side
and
the
immediate
effects
of
what
we
do
to
our
future
selves
daily:
the
extra
drink,
the
midnight
cake,
the
‘just
one
more
episode’
binge.
‘Whenever
temptation
strikes,
I
tell
myself
that
the
Saturday
night
me
and
Sunday
morning
me
are
one.
It
stops
me
in
my
tracks.’
‘Can
I
tell
you
the
truth?’
my
sister
says,
‘Every
version
of
you,
including
this
Friday
afternoon
one,
is
a
big
bore.’

3pm
On
my
way
to
a
Women’s
Day
event,
I
catch
up
on
the
Trump
and
Zelensky
showdown.
The
Ukrainian
president
found
himself
in
an
uncomfortable
situation
at
the
White
House
where
he
was
grilled
on
his
lack
of
a
suit,
talked
down
to
like
a
preschooler,
and
expected
to
show
the
same
level
of
gratitude
that
Trump
saves
for
his
beloved
hairspray
which,
fittingly,
is
called
CHI
Helmet
Hair.
As
women,
we
are
often
in
rooms
with
uneven
power
dynamics.
If
Zelensky
had
asked
for
advice,
I
would
have
told
him
the
first
rule
of
survival
in
a
lopsided
negotiation:
Always
state
your
case
like
you’re
threading
a
needle
—
steady
and
careful,
trying
not
to
prick
any
pricks
in
the
process.

6pm
I
coax
my
little
one
into
playing
football
at
a
neighbouring
compound.
She
returns
earlier
than
expected,
stating
that
the
older
kids
were
cheating.
I
try
explaining
that
sometimes
things
may
not
be
to
our
liking,
but
the
game
goes
on,
and
so
do
we.
When
she
continues
whining,
I
threaten
to
ground
her.
‘I
will
ground
you
instead,’
she
says
and
orders
me
to
go
and
stand
on
our
garden
stoop.
Trying
to
lighten
the
mood,
I
climb
up
and
say,
‘It’s
cool
because
I
am
used
to
being
on
a
pedestal.’
She
replies,
‘If
you
want
to
be
on
a
higher
pedestal,
then
just
climb
up
your
ego.’
Her
sarcastic
retort
both
dismays
and
amazes
me.
Unlike
in
the
movies,
I
suppose
you
don’t
need
to
inject
a
green
serum
into
your
veins
to
spawn
a
younger,
better
version
of
yourself.

9pm
I
scroll
through
the
photo
library
on
my
phone
and
see
pictures
from
my
recent
trip
to
Kolkata.
Some
are
taken
at
Kumartuli,
where
artisans
craft
stunning
idols
for
Durga
Puja.
It’s
a
fascinating
process
that
starts
with
a
wooden
and
straw
skeleton
before
adding
layers
of
clay.
The
guide
who
took
me
to
see
the
artisans
at
work
said
that
traditionally,
women
were
restricted
from
practising
this
craft.
An
irony
that
women,
despite
being
the
embodiment
of
Goddess
Durga,
are
now
fighting
for
their
place
in
crafting
her
image.
I
suppose
life’s
scales
have
always
been
rigged.
A
fortunate
few
get
to
choose
how
to
live;
others
have
to
choose
what
they
can
live
with.
Whether
you
are
a
president
fighting
for
your
country’s
survival,
a
kid
on
a
playground,
or
a
woman
looking
at
equality
that
lasts
beyond
a
perfunctory
celebration,
this
holds
true.
We
don’t
have
control
over
the
outcome
of
any
of
these
games
besides
the
one
we
play
with
ourselves
daily.
The
tug
of
war
between
our
present
and
future
selves
—
between
impulse
and
restraint,
indulgence
and
wisdom.
Well,
unless
you
are
an
anomaly
like
Donald
Trump,
whose
Saturday
night
avatar
revels
in
junk
food,
lawsuits,
temper
tantrums,
and
yet
his
Sunday
morning
version
—
defying
Newton’s
third
law
of
motion
that
for
every
action
there
is
an
opposite
and
equal
reaction
—pats
him
on
his
head
and
even
fixes
his
hair
in
place
as
he
keeps
stomping
on.