So this morning while I’m having breakfast and staying up-to-date on my Facebook stalkees (don’t act like you don’t do it), I come across pictures of this girl I knew a long time ago. She was the girl I had my first ever crush on. We met when we were 10 and I knew her for five long years before my family moved to the suburbs and that broke my fragile adolescent heart. Sigh. Fortunately for the creep in me, she hadn’t changed the settings on her albums, making my job as stalker extraordinaire´, a cakewalk. I saw that she had posted her wedding pictures online. And after giving them a cursory glance, the first thought that came to my mind was, “Ugh! That’s the d-bag you’re married to!? Dooood, you should have totally married me. In addition to the perks that being Mrs. Ray can fetch, our kids would look unbelievably awesome since we’re both, well, TOTAL FUCKING KNOCKOUTS. They’d be blessed with superior intellect given that our combined IQ is like twenty-two thousand. This world is in desperate need of first-rate genetic material that only you and I can provide. WE OWE THAT MUCH TO THE WORLD.” Except that it wasn’t the first thought that came to my mind. I was all, “Hmm, he looks like he’s a nice guy and you guys look TOTALLY in love and the pictures look super awesome and you two look insanely cute together and if he ever breaks your heart, I’m going to hunt him down and whoop his sorry Sindhi ass all the way back to Ulhasnagar.”
And then at work, I’m talking to Lil’ m about the gazillion weddings, engagements, hookups and one night stands taking place around me and I suddenly start freaking out. I go like, “Yo m, what if I end up spending the rest of my fucking life completely alone! What if I never find someone? What if I’m the creepy 65 year old with a grey ponytail and cheap sunglasses that buys your kids candy floss, lives with 3 cats and shows up in pictures like this? Sure I could also be a badass oldie like Gandalf or one of these guys. But lets face it, the odds are slim.” And then I decide to take matters in my own hands. BOOM. Just like that. I know that Lil’ m has a boyfriend so, OBVIOUSLY, I decide to make her my plan B. You know plan B? The one where if neither of us are married by the time we’re 30 (or 35 or 40), we marry each other.
But I was still in panic mode. I needed a plan A. Like yesterday. So I decide to con(vince) Big M into marrying me. Except that it wasn’t going to work. Because she works out like every fucking day, and the last time I stepped into a gym was back when MSFT traded at nearly 60 bucks. I wasn’t always like this though. Back in the day, my prowess at tomato racing was rather legendary. Tomato race no comprende? The one where your hands are tied behind your back and you race to the middle of the track, grab the tomato with JUST your mouth (twss!) and sprint to the finish line. However, my moment in the spotlight came to a crashing halt a few years later. I was participating in a 400m relay and comfortably cruising to the finish line. And in true Bollywood fashion, the world around me slows down. Everything and everyone begins moving in super-slow motion. I can hear people chanting my name! And I’m thinking, “Wow! People just love me. I’m quite the superstar here. The crowd just can’t get enough of me.” Except that it wasn’t the crowd yelling my name. It was another runner hollering and swearing and cursing at me because I was in his fucking lane. And as I stealthily move to my own lane, he promptly overtakes me and subsequently wins the race. Yes. Not my proudest moment on the track. And that fall from grace was directly responsible for the end of my career as an athlete and resulted in me embarking on a new career as a crackerjack slouch.
I thought of putting this up on the blog as I was walking back towards Grand Central Station this evening. But I was rudely interrupted by my coworker N who yells out loud that SOMETHING in her bag is vibrating. This would have been funnier AND infinitely more awkward for her had I not known apriori that she was carrying her boyfriend’s electric razor in her bag.
Wasn't the tomato and spoon race more like a lemon and spoon race Mr Ray?
the tomato race is just plain unfair……wt if the doosh who put the tomatoes out didnt get the mouth size to tomato ratio right? and wt happens if the tomato is like the cute petite one and u accidently swallow it? does it still count if u finish it first..cause technically u still hv the tomato…just tht nobody can see it!
In addition to the empirical data in my possession and results from experiments conducted on an adhoc track in my living room, the size of the tomato is irrelevant to the result of the race. Besides, in the world of competitive tomato racing, minor details like the mouth to tomato ratio fade into oblivion when compared to things like passion for the sport.
nice post…
the picture of the creepy old man is sooo funny!
Nope, there is no spoon involved in the tomato race. The lemon and spoon race is different. I was awesome at that too.
This post is how my brain works all the time except faster. Don't worry. Your brain probably has washboard abs.