Let's talk about bleeding. Chhaupaudi: (from Wikipedia) is a tradition in Nepal for Hindu women which prohibits a woman from participating in normal family activities during menstruation because they are considered impure. The women are kept out of the house and have to live in a shed. During this time, women are forbidden to touch men or even to enter the courtyard of their own homes. They are barred from consuming milk, yogurt, butter, meat, and other nutritious foods, for fear they will forever mar those goods. The women must survive on a diet of dry foods, salt, and rice. They cannot use warm blankets, and are allowed only a small rug. This system comes from the superstition of impurity during the menstruation period. In this superstitious logic, if a menstruating woman touches a tree it will never again bear fruit; if she consumes milk the cow will not give any more milk; if she touches a man, he will be ill.
I'm opening this post with this thought because, whilst I don't want to live in a shed for 7 days or be banned from eating KiwiYo (perish the thought), I definitely think there is something to be said for keeping those women On The Blob separate from the rest of society. It would benefit everyone. Speaking for myself, I could get all my crying and thoughts of suicide done in peace. I wouldn't feel homicidal when my colleague crunches their apple too loudly. For everyone else, they would be spared an angry little raincloud who spends the first 48 hours of menstruation scowling and wishing that everyone, including herself, would hurry up and die.
Just a thought. (Happy Easter).
In other non-menstrual news, I'm a bit concerned that I have propelled myself from early-30s straight into what could be classed as 'pre-death'. This discovery is based on the last 48 hours: instead of playing 'Shag/ Marry/ Kill', Deepthi and I spent a quiet Tuesday afternoon playing Soduko and discussing the merits of the apostrophe; my evening companion of choice is BBC Radio 4 ('Book of the Week'); I opted to buy Time magazine over NW at the airport. Most damning is this - on the plane to Queenstown, I happened to glance over at the magazine being read by the white-haired gentleman beside me. The first article I saw was all about the new headquarters of the BBC and how they are very similar to the Gates of Hell. "Ooooh" I thought, "fascinating" craning to see what the magazine was called. It was only when he was reading a different article on the history of Spitting Image (another article I would decidedly like to have read) that I managed to see the title of the magazine. Down on the left-hand bottom of the page - Oldies.
That's right. Whilst I may appear for all purposes to be in the mid-morning of my life - let's call it elevenses - I am, in fact, in the twilight/ evening/ very-close-to-pub-lock-in-hour.
I think this crisis of age has been aggravated by my 23 year old flatmate's recent pre-parties at our flat. I came home last Saturday to find, at 5pm, she was already passed out in bed. Her friends, meanwhile, were playing drinking games in the lounge - 2 girls and a boy. The girls ignored me, the boy (very generously) invited me to join in. Then he asked me if I had enjoyed my run. "I've not been for a run". "But you're going, right?" No, no. I just like wearing short shorts, thanks. Meanwhile one of the girls started shrieking, berating the boy "WHY AREN'T YOU GETTING WASTED? I FEEL LIKE YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO GET WASTED!!! COME ON!! DRINK SOME MORE!!!!"
I made my chamomile tea and trotted downstairs, trying to remind myself that, at 23, my friends and I were drinking Snakebite and Black and vomiting down ourselves in Bar Risa. Ah, come back 2004, all is forgiven.
In other news, I visited 'Spookers' a few weeks ago, have you heard of it? I was invited for a friend's birthday and thought, oooh yes, I've always enjoyed the Haunted House at Alton Towers, that sounds like a lark. Well. It was only on the way there, in Queer as Folk in a car, that I was informed that the venue used to be an actual mental asylum that had been converted into a tourist attraction, and that actors were playing the parts of 'Scary People'. I still didn't quite get it until we started walking round said mental asylum and actual people were coming up, touching us, screaming in our faces, and following us from room to room. We had been given the instruction that, if you didn't want to be touched, you simply had to hold up your hand and say "stop". Clearly, I forgot this as soon as we got in, and thus spent a very freaked out 2 hours being chased around the haunted house and pitch-black cornfield by adrenaline-pumped actors wielding prop chainsaws. I managed the first 2 attractions. Then we got to Disturbia. Full of Clowns. I took one look at the darkened entrance and said "THAT'S IT! I've had it. I'm going to get a pizza by myself". And thus missed out on both Disturbia and Clautrophobia.
Which I'm totally alright with.
Overheard at The Mill
CHOREOGRAPHER: If I told you to teach a track 3 like a track 8 how would you teach it?
ME: Er, like a blow-out?
CHOREOGRAPHER: You'd teach it like a journey, right?
ME: OK...
CHOREOGRAPHER: And how do you think it'd make the rest of the class feel?
ME: Really flat cause you'd peaked in track 3.
CHOREOGRAPHER: I think it'd make the rest of the class EPIC!!
Oh right. Yeah. Epic.
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