Self-loathing and despair

10 AM - time for me to go from my bed to my chair a few feet away - a.k.a. going to work in 2021. Brushing and washing can be on hold, just like our lives have been for a year and a half.

10 minutes into me checking my mails and slack messages, my mom enters my room to make a royal decree - a wedding reception for a close family member, long delayed due to lockdowns, is being held this weekend. The entire Srivastava family is to attend.

W h a t .

My mind immediately went to the image of Indian wedding receptions as I knew them - crowds without masks, tons of bling, nosy relatives, and unhealthy food. I’ve already started feeling queasy, but wait, there’s another problem.

I dig up my suitcase buried behind our house and take out the 3 pairs of jeans I owned from before the apocalypse. I don’t even need to try them on to know that none of them will fit anymore.

Having briefly considered going to the reception in pajamas (even joggers feel too suave to me now), I log in to Myntra to find the cheapest pair of Levi’s that can be delivered in time.

“We recommend waist size 30 based on your previous purchases.”

32, thank you.

Slim fit or Regular?

Regular fit, and make it a bit extra regular please?

I hated the whole process, but ordered a jeans whose fit and size I would never have purchased back in 2019. It’s just a stopgap for the next 6 months, I tell myself, before I would be back to my previous self, and maybe even better. Maybe I’ll even have abs after this.

Yeah, I like that idea. You know what, I’ll have abs once this plague is over. I’ll be guzzling down protein shakes and doing deadlifts in the gym like there’s no tomorrow, and I’ll have abs.

Just then, I hear my mom calling me to take my breakfast from the kitchen. A bit drunk with my latest thought, I float into the kitchen to see my breakfast on the counter - a plate of kachori with jalebis, staring right back at me.