I got together with 4 guys I went to college with last Friday. We holed up in a guest house on Calangute beach and talked till our tongues fell out of our mouths, we also drank ourselves blotto then slithered off into a corner to sleep like a pile of contented slugs.
Wait. I forgot the exciting part. Just as we were really winding down around 1 a.m., there was the loudest bang in the history of the middle ear. The restaurant next door had a fire in their kitchen and a couple of LPG cylinders launched themselves through the tin roof. We got to go stand outside in our various styles of underwear for 45 minutes. Well, mostly we were in Sunil’s SUV. I rammed a seat belt into my butt so hard that it made my nose run. (That was Friday night. Even now I still have a deep purple plum-sized bruise on my left cheek that looks like I've been on a date with one of the bulls from the dhirio.)
What does any of this have to do with mysorepak? Nothing. Nothing at all. It has to do with indulgence. Sunil’s mysorepak. Although he saved my pals and I from the elements by housing us in his SUV (the only one smart enough to bring his keys outside), he tried to kill me with the mysorepak he brought from Chennai. I hadn't seen mysorepak in a very long time. Having done my best to avoid such things, I tranced out like a Yogi when he opened the steel tiffin-carrier with the delectable golden-brown delicacy inside. It was like I was a prisoner serving a life sentence, and suddenly I was getting a conjugal visit from Scarlett Johansson.
Over the course of the evening, I gorged on seven delicious mysorepak cubes, washed down with vodkatinis. I knew that my blood sugar was doing the pole vault. I knew that my behavior was not exactly aiming at self-preservation. I willingly jumped off the ship and let the ocean waves close over me.
I'm back on board now, with fond memories of that mysorepak. And about those 4 guys; I love every one of them. You rarely make friends ever again like the blokes you passed gas next to in the dorm bathroom.
Come Jan. ’10 is another Reunion; my High School Reunion, and my old classmates and I have been rapping reminiscences over e mail and blogs about years gone by :One of us has a daughter getting married soon, one of us has a son married a year ago. One of us has grandkids. One of us needs a hip replacement, one of us just adopted a Malawian baby girl ... was Madonna from the SHY Class of ‘68? Not sure given my failing memory. One of us is a professional computer geek. One is a Doctor. One of us will retire in 2 years. All of us were talking about health problems and realized that we'd probably talk more about those every year. I don't want to be talking about high blood sugar or cholesterol this time next year. I want to be talking about the new acrobatically challenging sex acts in my life.
Gotta go for my Salsa Gymnastic lesson.
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