If you thought I have just turned 26, well... you are off your rockers fellows. How I wish you guys were still perched perilously on those rockers, and I would have still been that young bloke bouncing around the block.
But that's not to be. It's been a couple of years since I saw my 25th winter and the day I tripped over the psychological border seems like a long way off. What's changed? Well, the inevitable change has made my belly softer and my midriff more visible from under my shirt. Small wonder that I bear a striking resemblance to the lard entrepreneur Paprizzio from the the Heath Ledger-starrer Casanova. But he was in luck with Andrea Bruni having a thing for large men. Sadly, they don't make women like her any longer. The result, I wear a lot of black these days to paper over those layers of lard tugging at my tummy.
And then of course, there's that scary bit on my lost crowning glory...oh dash it! I am talking about my receding hairline. Well, even that last bit is couched in diplomatic niceties...an understatement really. To put things in perspective, I have been enlightened by my fellow sufferer and dear friend (my lips are sealed about his identity) that my sprawling bald empire belongs to Hamilton's Grade 6 territory which really means, in a nutshell, the point of no return. I am resigned to my pate.
However, there's a glimmer of hope...literally. If I put the real estate at my disposal to good effect and if someone makes the effort to capture and harness the sunlight reflected from my pate, that could revolutionise the alternative energy situation in our country. I am willing to negotiate a price for every square milimitre. Sounds like a good trade-off.
Which reminds me that I have traded my jeans for formals. At 25, I was a jeans-clad hack making pages for my living. At 27, I am a consultant who edits financial documents wearing a tie. And there's plenty to be said about tie-wearing editor consultants (mind you, this is a whole different ball game than the ones played by consultant editors like Vir Sanghvi). They mainly belong to the following categories: failed academics, failed journalists, successful trash content writers, authors without plots, thinkers without thoughts, philosophers without vision and, if I may add, men with brains but without a girlfriend. Ah, but that was a crude effort at fitting myself in...and shamelessly asking for attention. Fie! You can jolly well figure out that I qualify under multiple categories.
So here I am, radarless at 27, sailing towards 30, merrily typing away wearing a tie and feeling tongue-tied enough to come up with such trash. But senility has its own brand of humour and its own cult following. Cheers to that!