Enjoying my old age.


I have now begun learning Belly Dance. I go with Father A's partner's wife, J. Actually I don't know why I describe her this way. After all, she used to be a pretty good friend before she reminded me that my inner sex-pot is embedded so deep within, that close friends have called it my sex-potty. Not sex-bomb but sex-bum. You get the picture.


So as J sensuously runs her long fingers along her 22 yr-old arms as if every millimetre of that body is melted silk woven by fairy-princesses who live in the baby cotton pods of the crystal kingdom of the Satin Queen, I do the backward-arm-sweep like I'm dusting off a whole colony of mother-in-law ants who are doing group salsa on my body. I think it looks extremely sensuous.

And my oversize Winnie-the-Pooh who sits next to my bed seems to like it well enough. I mean, I have seen that glazed smile on many men's faces.

Funny thing Belly Dance. One would think it involves the belly. If so, my friend's dad is highly employable. We're doing things like camel walks and undulations and some moves that would be highly useful if I were ever constipated. In fact, we're learning everything I would never do in public. Unless Father A was running from the law and I had to distract the cops.


Right now, Father A does seem to be doing a lot of running. And it seems to happen when I try to demonstrate what I've learnt in class. I think he gets scared when I do that step where I have to contract my belly to such an extent that I'm wearing my knees like earrings. It can't be healthy to watch one's wife transform into something out of a Sigourney Weaver movie. But seeing as I'm paying 1,000 Rs to ensure that my knees will not be with me in another 3 years and that my self esteem is slush under J's and the other 17 year-old's unwrinkled toes, I think it's pretty fair to give my husband nightmares. Because my daddy did teach me that marriage is about sharing. Everything.