This is dedicated to some of the most remarkably happy women (touch wood) I am acquainted with.

For all the energy you apply in pumping those dumb-bells (Is that the right phrase?), for all the fretting over diets and weight, for all the beauty in those hurriedly put together work-out clothes, for all the little tarnishes of bangles, rings and watches, for all the fascination with each other’s clothes, shoes, embellishments and culture, for all the competitiveness over the usage of the tread-mill, for all the bold and vigorous attempts at exercising on hard floors and those dirty yoga mats, for all the rigor applied in stretching and moving, for all those happy hi’s and hello’s, for all the conversation and debates over food, exercises and life, for all those efforts applied in getting a stuck-up girl to open up if only slightly, for all the compliments tainted with a tinge of sarcasm, for all the clandestine complaints, for all the criticism of heavy metal and confined spaces, for the desire of air-conditioners and fans every two steps, for bemoaning the several woes of life… but most importantly, for the beautiful stories and happy laughter, for that very hard-to-come-by acceptance of good fortune and some misfortunes, that revelry of life in all its colour which many a scared and scarred person has ceased to enjoy, that headiness of being  in that kind of love – the true, eternal, forever, married kinds which very few are lucky to find, that patience and understanding of savouring the ‘right kind of food’, the steadiness and strength of dealing with life, the very many in-laws and relationships, the grace, maturity and joviality…

Of having been there and done that yet of being able to be happy. Oh Lord, how I envy you. And to think, I believed that middle-age is a yawn.


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