It drives me nuts – being called ‘Aunty’. I wear my 42 quite happily so don’t go there.
I live in a country where everyone is Aunty. Or Uncle. Or Bhaiyya. Or Didi. Apparently, it implies respect.
An acquaintance’s daughter insists on calling me, Aunty. Her mum knows it drives me crazy but she insists too. I’ve suggested she call me ‘Ms Varma’ if ‘Karina’ is too avant-garde. No dice. She wants her daughter to be ‘respectful’.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand what’s respectful about a refusal to respect my preference.
This post has been a long time in the making. I’ve stopped and started many times. I’ve trashed it. Started over. Edited. It’s been the most difficult to write. THIS IS WHAT A HIATUS WILL DO TO YOU, K!
I’ve been moping around for a couple of weeks. I have a birthday coming up. I’m always morose around birthdays. Any one’s birthday. And when I have one just around the corner, I get all quiet and sullen and sarcastic. For days now I’ve been making really terrible jokes, telling V he should start referring to me as “The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything”. Hey if you can call someone “The artist formerly known as Prince”, this shouldn’t be a stretch. Right? Right.
Before you assume, incorrectly, this is not a rant about growing old – I don’t really care about growing old. I know I’ll like me-at-42 way better than me-at-32. Let’s not even talk about me-at-22 (shudders theatrically). And I’m quite sure if I get to 52 I’ll be a self-loving, self-adoring, self-indulgent mass of amazing – wrinkles, thinning curls and all. So no, not really about birthdays or growing old.
I just wanted to say ‘Hello’. I have missed writing about things I can’t not write about.
I have missed you.