Notes to my younger self

Things I wish I had known when I was a teenager…

In the unlikely event of time travel becoming a reality, I really would not want to be a teenager again. Yes, I know this has become a bit of a cliché, for middle-aged folks to claim that we have never been happier and more content now that our younger days are behind us. But behind every cliché lurks an eternal truth. And in this case it is that youth is wasted on the young (oh dear, there I go with the clichés again!)

It was certainly wasted on me. When I wasn’t fretting about the numbers on my report cards I was moaning about the ones on the weighing scales. I was constantly worried about fitting in rather than focused on standing out. And then, I went effortlessly from worrying about how I would fare at a job interview to obsessing about how I would interview all those larger-than-life celebrities once I had landed a job with the most popular newsmagazine of the day.

Only now that my youth is oh-so-definitely behind me, do I realize that I really did not have very much to worry about at all – if only I had the sense, and the perspective, to see that at the time.

So here, for the benefit of my younger readers (and maybe the odd older one), are some notes that I scribbled down for my younger self. Read on…they may stand you in good stead for the next 20 years.

* Don't envy the cool kids in school/college. They may seem very with it now, with their designer clothes, their dewy complexions, their overweening confidence on the sports field, their talent on the stage. But fast forward 25 years and you won't be envying them at all. Believe me, I've seen the pictures. And suffice it to say, they're not pretty.

* Don’t obsess over your grades. The difference between a first-class and a second-class degree seems insurmountable now. And it seems that your life will end if you don't score that magic 60 per cent (what would now be a magic 98 per cent). Trust me, it won't. In fact, in another five years or so, when you're finally excelling in the job of your dreams nobody will even ask you what you scored in our graduation papers. In fact, most people won’t even care if you graduated at all.

* Don’t knock the way you look. Yes, I know, when you stand in front of the mirror now, you feel as if a) you could stand to lose a few pounds b) zap those inflamed pimples on your chain that no amount of concealer could camouflage c) gain a few more inches in height and d) get a brand-new wardrobe. But when you gaze at pictures of your younger self, 20 years down the line, you will be astounded by just how amazing you looked. And you will wonder why that never occurred to you at the time.

* Don’t be too focused on putting money aside for a runny day. A bit of cash stashed away is always useful. But don’t shy away from spending money on experiences that will give you a lifetime of memories. Backpack through Asia. Take a rail trip through Europe. Climb a mountain. Go deep-sea diving. The memories will be priceless; the money, if saved, will only be a fraction of what it was worth when you earned it.

* Don’t ignore your emotional life because you are too busy focusing on your professional one. Reach out and make friends. Make time for family. Spend time nurturing your bonds with those whom you love and cherish. Stay in touch with your feelings. It is relationships that will sustain you in the long run; not that bright, glittering career you are so proud of.

Urban tribes

They are quite easy to spot; and each one has its own distinctive look

Having lunch with my girlfriends is always an excuse to indulge in our favourite group activity: people watching. Which is, of course, followed by a little gentle bitching about the people being watched. (Now, don’t get all judgemental on me; you know you do that too.)

Last Saturday, as we fetched up to eat at our favourite restaurant, we were particularly intrigued by a group of young women – all in their early to late 30s – who had taken over the private dining room to celebrate some sort of special occasion, judging by the champagne resting nicely on ice. As they trooped past our table and into their glass-encased bubble – decorated with balloons and streamers; and an oversized cake occupying pride of place – we couldn’t help but notice just how similar they all looked.

They all had suspiciously smooth skin, with bright, shiny foreheads, with nary a wrinkle in sight. They all had blonde highlights in their hair, which they all wore down below their shoulders. They all had their slim, exfoliated legs on display, wearing either short dresses or short skirts. All of them sported skinny belts around their impossibly-tiny waists, which were nicely set off by their oversized (and overpriced) designer handbags. Hell, they even had the exact same pout (or, as one of my friends sniggered, the exact same plastic surgeon).

It was almost as if they had come straight out of Central Casting: ladies who lunched a lot; and then threw up promptly afterwards so that they could fit into their size zero wardrobes (which were so alike as to be virtually interchangeable).

I would have liked to scoff at them, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the ladies on my table were also dressed in a manner that was strikingly similar to one another. We were all in the regulation journo-wear of blue jeans paired with Anokhi or Fabindia style kurtas. We all had on chunky platform heels to give us height with minimum discomfort and were carrying totes large enough to lug our laptops/Ipads around in. Okay, we didn’t have identikit hair, with lengths varying from crop-top to below the waist, but nonetheless there was a strong common aesthetic binding our look together.

All of which got me thinking: so, which comes first? As in, do women who have the same aesthetic tend to bind together? Or do women who stick together tend to develop the same aesthetic sense?

Or, to put it more simply: do the blue-jean ladies come together because of their love of denim? Or do they infect one another with their love of casual chic as time goes on? Ditto, the short-dress brigade.

I haven’t quite figured that one out as yet, but there is no denying that no matter where we go, we are surrounded by urban tribes, who stand out because of their shared tastes. And that these tribes come in all ages, shapes, sizes and genders.

There are the stroppy teenagers who skulk about in oversized jeans that reveal their knickers (and sometimes, a generous dose of bum-cleavage as well). There are the gym rats (both male and female) who squeeze themselves into body-con clothes to show off the pectoral muscles honed over months of diligently working weights. There are the young professionals who wear their tailored suits like a badge of pride. There are the middle-aged ladies who personify the phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. And then, there are the men who cope with their mid-life crises by dressing like their teenage sons (think lots of denim, leather and sneakers).

In offices, everyone seems to follow the non-verbal cues sent out by the bosses. So, if the man or woman in charge has a relaxed, casual vibe, then everyone else down the food chain tends to adopt that as well in their style of dressing. And if the boss lady or man is a stickler for formality, then even without being explicitly asked to do so, everyone else dresses very ‘proper’ too. When it comes to the professional world, discretion is the better part of valour. And what could be more discreet than following in the footsteps of the boss (you know what they say about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery).

But then, almost every profession itself has its own default look. The NGO sector can be recognised by the profusion of khadi kurtas, handloom saris, large maroon bindis and the oversized jholas that have spawned the phrase ‘jholawallah types’. The banking sector has made the boring grey suit its own. And media people have become known for a certain innate scruffiness, turning up defiantly in jeans and T-shirts even when attending formal functions.  

That said, quite the best place to observe the phenomenon of urban tribes is a university campus, where every clique and gang has its own uniform, so to speak. There are the ‘artistic’ lot, who tend to wear a lot of block-print and vegetable dye, teamed with cloth bags and scuffed kohlapuris. There is the ‘nerd’ corner, where everyone wears loose, faded jeans and T-shirts and the accessory of choice is a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. There are the ‘cool’ kids, who flaunt all the latest designer labels, right from their trendy sunglasses to their leather loafers. And so on.

Actually if you think about it, the university campus is like a metaphor for the world itself, with its collection of urban tribes who band together on the strength of both shared interests and a shared aesthetic – no matter which one comes first.

Tweet your children well...

Sometimes Twitter resembles nothing more than a schoolyard: bullies, cool kids, class monitors, et al

Growing up we were told that school was the perfect training ground for life. This is where we would begin to socialise with other kids; learn to rub along even though we often couldn’t bear to be in the same room. This is where we would learn to share our stuff so that we became a tad less selfish. This is where we would form friendships to sustain us in the future. And this is where we would learn the life skills that would help us survive once we left the safety of the classroom: the ability to stand up for ourselves; the sense to distinguish between right and wrong; and the desire to fight the good fight.

Well, at least, that was the way it was supposed to work in an ideal world. But now that my school-days are but a distant memory – but still have the power to traumatise me deeply when I’m least expecting it – I have realised that while all that time in school helps you cope with Real Life, it is also great training for when you finally bite the bullet and get on Twitter.

Because when you think about it, there’s nothing that Twitter resembles more than a disorderly school-yard (and that’s on a good day) with everyone jostling for space and attention and not worrying too much about whom they hurt in the process. And if you care to look closely, you will see the same dramatis personae on Twitter as you would see in your average school – except they are now all grown up and with the potential to wreck much greater damage.

In fact, the social pecking order here is also frighteningly similar. At the top of the heap are the Cool Kids (celebrities, mostly) whom everyone wants to be friends with. These people know their worth, though, and don’t bother to engage with the unwashed masses, unless they are responding to fulsome compliments and may deign to throw back a ‘Tks’ (apparently when you are famous it’s too much of a drag to type out a whole word). They prefer to engage with the other Cool Kids, being all witty and charming with one another, in the certain knowledge that their every tweet is being lapped up by their massive fan base.

Where there are Cool Kids, there are bound to be Suck-Ups (or Teacher’s Pets as we called them back in school). These people spend all their time tweeting to their idols, praising them for their recent exploits, telling them how wonderful they are, and asking for validation in the form of a tweet back. And you’d be surprised how often this strategy works. While flattery may not get you everywhere, it often does get you a follow-back.

At the other end of the spectrum are the Cyber Bullies, who hide behind the safety of anonymous twitter ids to shower abuse on whoever takes their fancy. These function like those feral gangs in school who would form a posse to bully those who were most vulnerable. They would trip them up on the driveway, punch them in the nose, shove them in the back when they are standing at the top of the stairs, spread vile rumours about them (or their mothers).

Just as it was in the schoolyard, so it is on Twitter (even if the wounds are only psychic). And when things get particularly contentious on Twitter, these Cyber Bullies tend to transform into Lynch Mobs, where anyone who doesn’t agree with them is fair target for vile abuse. Those of us who have experienced being heckled at the school play or at the sports day know exactly how this works (and feels).

But while you can cope with these types by blanking – not to mention, blocking – them out, the ones that really irritate me are the Gosh-Aren’t-I-Wonderful types. These are the kids who always had their hands up with the right answer in class, who always topped every exam – and then said how they simply couldn’t understand it, given that they hadn’t even studied for the damn thing. (Grrrrr...) On Twitter these people content themselves with RTing every bit of praise ever flung in their direction, by telling us how wonderfully their movie/play/music album/book is doing, and giving us little glimpses of their wonderful life.

Fortunately, these Over-Achievers just restrict themselves to sharing their highs, higher and highest. The Over-Sharers, on the other hand, want you to know every detail of their life: when they woke up; what they ate for breakfast; how they made their way to work; what they are wearing; what they are thinking of eating for lunch...You can imagine the interminable essays they wrote after the summer vacations: “What I did in my school holidays”. I feel for their teachers, I truly do.

And then, bringing up the rear – and trying to bring about some sort of order – you have the Class Monitors. In school these kids were assigned the thankless task of keeping a few hundred kids quiet while the principal addressed the school assembly. And even now, they can’t bear it if someone speaks out of turn. That old childhood conditioning kicks in and they butt in with well-meaning attempts to restore order. Don’t use bad words. Treat a lady with respect. Don’t intrude in conversations that have nothing to do with you. Don’t be racist. Don’t be communal.

Of course, just as it was in school, nobody pays a blind bit of attention to anything they have to say. But I still love them for making the effort.