I have wept a bit this week. I attribute part of the reason to hormones. Apparently, hormones rage during the 2nd trimester. I'd like to know, when do hormones not rage? Teenagers, menstruating women, menopausal women, pregnant women, lactating women- everyone appears to have hormones that rage. Why don't hormones just do their thing quietly and leave?
And really, why haven't more hormonal studies been done in men? I'll bet my bottom dollar that men in their 30's, men in their 40's, men with 2 kids, men with no kids, men who are bald, men with big bottoms and men with sweaty handshakes are also afflicted with indiscreetly fuming hormones.
Other possible reasons for my general state of weepiness:
a) Lack of support from that esteemed spouse of mine in the specific area of housework: really, my man, could you PLEASE, for crying out loud, move that ass away from that computer and help me a bit? Or at least, spend some time while I am doing housework so I don't feel alone?
b) Incredible support from my lovely little son: the more Ani spends time with me and tries to help with whatever I am doing, the more weepy I get, because really, what a big heart on such a small kid!
c) Lack of sleep: thanks to those indiscriminate hormones, I suppose. Am too big to sleep on my tummy, too nasally-obstructed to breathe easily, and too prone to vivid dreams in which I have to eat the frogs that come out of Ani's nose.
What I need is an escape from my real life. Romance novels don't cut it anymore. I'm like the druggie who needs coke, and not marijuana, for a real fix. What I really need is...
....a Hindi movie, luridly romantic, incredibly silly, laugh-out-aloud funny, with a heart-stoppingly handsome hero and a stunningly beautiful heroine.
There's a scene at the end of the song "Bol Na Halke" where Preity Zinta (who satisfies my criterion for a beautiful heroine) and Abhishek Bachchan (Yuck. Double yuck.) walk in front of the Taj Mahal with their grown-up kids. The sun is setting behind them, everyone is dressed simply but oh so elegantly, and you can't see Bachchan's face (thankfully), but his physique is perfectly hero-material. The music is splendid, the evening is indescribably beautiful and the scene is perfect. Zinta and Bachchan have done their jobs of bringing up their kids and now can spend time gazing at the Taj Mahal without a care in the world.
Wow.
They probably have a couple of maidservants to take care of the house and a cook for their meals.
That is where I want to be.
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