Rubbing my fingers softly against the smooth feel of the
mound, pressing tentatively at first and then with a little pressure on it, my
heart curls with thrill and as it softly compresses in, dimpling a little and
then going further in ….I sigh!! Each and every time
The pleasure that courses through me via the satiny surfaces
touches my joyous chords.
And each and every time, it bursts with a little phutt!!,
(Now what did you think I was talking about?) I sing with every compression, I
dance up and down with the sensations of pure unadulterated joy!!
I will one day hunt down who coined the line…for Lays and
award him with a ream of bubble wrap.. “No one can eat just one.” Sheer brilliance
hides in those lines.
Perfectly describing the greed that lurks under all our
skins, and easily pointing out to all those who open a packet of chips, look
around and if they see no one,quickly stuff three four more in their,
lubricated mouths, noisily crunching away. Racing against time, and using
their keen hunting prowess to train their ears to the audible signs of human
presence. Quickly returning to the slow polite chew, a soft munch and a dainty
pick at the first sign of company.
Will I ever tell you if I do that???From my own mouth???
Guilty only when proven, I say.
But moving back to packing.
I should tell you the idea of moving my scattered books, and
the compacting of those peaks that keep getting restructured in my cupboard
owing to my daily quest for clothes beginning at base camp,..Ahhh!!holds very
little appeal.
My last move saw the packers form a Human chain from me at
the head of the peaks down to the little unassuming shapeless, sorry square is
a shape(we live in a politically correct world, god forbid I am held responsible
for hurting the box’s feelings), so Yes square brown box. (There… I used the
word BROWN)
Our Human chain kept feeding the box till the poor things
stomach could just about manage to close its lips, and still manage to look
overstuffed.
And so we moved from clothes, to shoes, to dressing table.Each
time,I hopped around ignoring the rounded eyes of the packers, which were
saucers due to their lack of grasping the capacity of absorbing a girls things,
one tiny little room has.
I can tell you if there was a cranny I had it stacked and that
day we got it packed.
I resist change in life, I am a comfort hogger,a sofa
sloucher, I love watching one scenery out of my kitchen window, And when I
leave a house, I say bye to the window that saw me grow up a little bit more, I
cry at train stations for the thoughts I thought framed against the window,
sipping hot milk now graduated to hot tea. Mostly it was all about boys I would
miss, but who is counting the depth of emotions of a ten year old or a
thirteen.(Though even now after fifteen years it’s still mostly about boys.
extrapolate the emotional graph.)
I get attached to the dip in the mattress; I also get attached
to the ritual of bathing according to particular peculiarities that are unique
to each bathroom.
Surprising, but I left a house every two years, for the
first 18 years of my life.
Thankfully we took our dogs with us every time or maybe I
would have just planted roots and sunk them down the very same window.
I should be used to moving, but I am like I said a change
resistor and what gets me through it, is the excitement awaiting at the other
end.
And in all these years of moving around I have figured, if
there is none at the other end, and you are just packing to move on. Move on in
life, move on without your dogs, move on without the things that anchor you.
Move on without the promise of an exciting day next day.Then the mundane
madness, the slow boring murderous chaos of packing will effectively
therapeutically, numb you top to bottom, but just, until you find the Bubble
wrap beneath your fingers again.
