It is hard for me to make up my mind. Should I go bonkers, cooped up at home during the pandemic or risk getting infected by stepping out and living a little? Should I work harder on losing the weight I piled on during the lockdown or encourage myself to love my own self even if the said self is dangerously close to bursting at the seams?
Should I follow through on my occasional urge to leave home with nothing more than my backpack (and all the credit cards and cash I can stuff into it) to explore the furthermost contours of the world or stay put and continue to cope with the humdrum monotony of the daily grind?
Shaking my head like a Bollywood heroine in the utmost throes of theatrical despair, I scold myself a little for being obsessed with pathetic non-issues that are of little consequence to anyone other than me.
Then I turn my attention to whatever is trending on Twitter, figuring it has to be better than Instagram and Facebook, which have perfected the art of packaging envy incited by filtered images that give the impression of perfect bodies and lives, and using it to sell overpriced products which will supposedly give us the superficial satisfaction that only pretend perfection can.
Twitter is always interesting for those who thrive on chaos or depend on it for stimulating ideas that can be worked into columns. It can also be conflicting as hell.
Is the HBO documentary Allen vs Farrow a scathing indictment of a predator who groomed and married his stepdaughter in addition to molesting his own daughter or is it PR/activism on behalf of Farrow given how much key information has been omitted that may have exonerated Allen?
Is Meghan Markle a poor little rich girl who is a victim of racism and violation of privacy or is she merely playing the victim and bemoaning the loss of her privacy while revealing intimate details about the sex of her unborn child to the entire world? Did Kamaraj, a Zomato delivery executive, punch Hitesha and break her nose or did she whack him with a slipper and injure herself to grab some sympathy likes for herself?
Perhaps, it would be simpler to fixate on my own stuff. Should I humbly brag about an award I have been nominated for? Or acknowledge that I don’t have a shot against my brilliant fellow nominees and forget about begging everyone I know and don’t to cast their votes for me?
I could always listen to my mother and disappear into a weight loss facility. Or stock up on Patanjali products that promise solutions for everything from obesity to finding inner peace and making up one’s mind.
(The writer is an author and a new age classicist. She can be reached at email@example.com)