How to become a middle-aged babe. The books inviting white and pink jacket and the illustration of a decidedly delectable she-devil with nary a wrinkle on her face or bag under her eye,attracted me like everything else does these days,that promises to provide me a fix-it for the above-mentioned afflictions. In addition to woes about mousy hair,sun spots on the face and laugh lines that make you look permanently depressed. So,I set out some months ago,firmly tucking my double chin under and pulling in sagging tummy so much I feared it would pop out from the rear side. I was out looking for the stuff that the pink book promised would give me deliverance from my frumpy self,mousy hair et al. So was I looking for the elixir of life? Nah! All I wanted was a pair of killer indigo jeans that flared out at the bottom,balancing and distracting distract from my rather heavy middle. And,I wanted a fitted white shirt which,combined with killer heels or shoes and appropriate hair,would make sure I am the cynosure of all eyes every time I walk into a party or business meeting,just as the book promised it would. Did I get the aforementioned goodies? No! Why not? Will somebody please tell me why half a dozen premium malls in this city between them cant get a middle-aged,not-so-bad-looking woman with money to spend,a pair of flared/boot-cut jeans? Ma'am,we have this great pair of skinny jeans which will be perfect for you, a rather pimply sales boy at a large foreign brand store that sells a dizzying variety of jeans said to me. No,I only want my boot cuts,waist size 32 or 34 please, I said,glossing over the cringe-inducing stats. I was not about to let a young man still wet behind the ears,dissuade me from Mission Boot-Cut . Ma'am,Im sorry we dont stock 34 waist sizes in our store, the young man says,with that look at the vast expanse of my middle. Why not? I snap at what I thought was a personal insult. Maam,most people who buy here ask for size 26 to a maximum of 32, he says tentatively,possibly detecting the manic glint in my eyes. I walk out at that point,tucking in the tummy some more. By the time I am at jeans store number 12,I am tired,hungry and desperate for my jeans,not to mention,angry. On the horizon I am seeing for myself a non-babe like middle-aged existence,banished to what a certain young woman once labeled behenji-types. This time it is an even younger looking man and he has been trained to be very customer friendly. I understand you are upset maam,but Im sorry to say flared jeans are completely out of fashion these days. No one wears them anymore and no one makes them anymore. Can I show you some low-rise skinny jeans instead? Or some jeggings? Those are really cool just now. What? And show some unsuspecting soul the jelly on my belly and worse still,the tyres on my rear side? No,thanks. I flee. And this time,I dont bother to hold my trembling tummy in. Why bother? And as for the fitted white shirt,I have abandoned that idea,now that I am condemned to my jean-less existence. Instead ,Im currently looking for a discreet place I can go for a couple of jabs of poison that will fix the scowl marks and the lines on the forehead acquired in the quest for my babe-licious pair of jeans . So what if my money cant buy me flared jeans? Going by my sightings of hundreds of wrinkle-free women who sneer down their perfect noses at their less fortunate sisters,Im convinced it can buy me a ticket to a scowl-free face! Hallelujah. (Author of inspirational book,Leading Ladies: Women Who Inspire India.)
