Yes, so since we are on the subject of ladies, I’m going to tell you how someone very dear to me said that I’m a lady. Well, that’s all fine and wonderful, but needless to say there is a catch.
Ladylike behaviour is inclusive of not using fs and bs as often as I do. I can’t help it, I began to swear effectively and well when I was in Class 6. I used “fuck you” at home during an argument the same year and my dad slapped me and no one at home would speak to me for over two weeks. Now even my parents are used to the language. It’s all about the conditioning.
My practice of cussing has just intensified. I never swore in a training room. But I did, on occasion like when there was a smart ass or someone who was trying to rile me, say things like, “Darling, if we weren’t in a training room, you know what I would say to that, don’t you?” and smile a smug smile. It shut the so-called smart one up or allied them with me. Everyone loves a trainer who talks their talk. The trainees, I discovered, were always very attentive in my class because I used to seduce them by not saying it.
Seduction is all about subtle hints anyway. A woman in dishabille curled up on the bed is so much hotter than a naked, spread-eagled one.
My best memory at work was when on my second or third day after some error appeared on the site, my reviewer rushed to my system, opened the site, showed it to me and said, “Oh fuck, now we are in for it.” That’s when I first fell in love with Pushpalee, I think. Infosys has been home since then.
And on a Bangalore road in the traffic with all the maniacs around, it’s hard sometimes even with the ipod on, to not hurl abuse. It’s so satisfying. Your anger is forgotten as soon as it’s expressed. I love that about cursing.
Now they are saying that statistics prove that using swear words show your sincerity. Like duh… I mean, try this:
“That’s fucking awesome.”
"You are really getting married tomorrow!"
“Holy shit! Mother of the fucking God, you are really getting married tomorrow!”
“Go away, mister.”
“Fuck you, bastard.”
“You wicked woman.”
The other day some guy who “made friendship with me” on Orkut turned out to be from the same institution as Arun and so I was like, “Oh fuck, what a coincidence! Oh fuck, oh my God, oh fuck, small world, this is awesome” and stuff. So he said something laugh out loud funny and weird. He said, “Hey look, I hope you don’t mean it the way you are saying it, cursing for me is a sign of intimacy. I curse only when I’m with intimate people.” As if I’d used a pick-up line. Or wait a minute, was he using one?
And it’s fun to use bawdy language when around holier-than-thou souls and go on with that body language (sort of include them with the emotion and you, as it were) that says, ‘Sure, you know, what I mean… and actually say, “How frustrating for you, they really are such a fuck-all good for nothing bunch of assholes…” It annoys them so much and entertains you no less.
And now apparently, since I am a lady, I must curb this tendency of mine to shout obscenities irrespective of the provocation. I haven’t been able to convince this soul no matter how much I said, “Yes, I’m a lady, but the kind who wears a turban and red nails and glossy lipstick and guzzles whiskey on the rocks and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow when amused…” He just said, “Yes, but a lady never swears.” And moved on to other topics.
So despite my two years of gender studies, I’m going to try turning onto a new leaf, starting Monday.
You know what this is like. It’s like placing someone on a pedestal and shackling them with the responsibilities that come with being on a pedestal. The whole woman = mother or woman = prostitute debate. A woman can never be both, she’s necessarily one or the other and as either one she is a victim.
And I succumb because?
I have a mind to. It seems like a fun thing to try. Not swear bloody murder each time I’m pissed.
Although I am an intelligent woman and fully cognizant of the gender debate, I’m going to do this for ah the noble emotion – love. And if you detected a trace of mockery in that tone, then it’s self directed. I haven’t been asked to give it up so I probably will try to.
Nobody knows it more than I do (and those who found out are so out of my life and shivering still in some desert) that when I’m really and truly pissed; I get cold and unbelievably articulate, and speak immaculate English in Brit tones. So this doesn’t seem so fucking tragic anymore. Monday, I said. It ain’t Monday yet.
One thing I am not going to do is substitute fish when I mean fuck. I hate that sort of hypocritical evasiveness. So that I will not do.
And of course, since I am my own moral police I stand as my own jury and judge.
Then again, darling nag will probably be amused by this new torture I’m inflicting on myself and count all the misses and ignore all the hits.
Tan-na-na-tan-na-na… what a funky lady… At least these parts of the song seem to fit. :)
(I do hope you realize, baby. Muah.)